COLUMN The First Year Can Be the Toughest Year

From Sonja Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '95 From Sonja Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '95Hindsight provides a certain wisdom, an ember glowing dimly in the obscure depths of the past. If you crane your neck around and look back at the footsteps sinking into the ground of yesterday's journey, you may discern the remnants of an old path, a piece of earth upon which you once stood and walked. The insight absorbed from this backward vision is both expansive and narrow, creating an enlightening distance from the trodden trail while simultaneously rooting all knowledge to your present viewpoint. In honor of my own slightly hellish first year in West Philadelphia, I congratulate all freshmen on the completion of their initial experience at Penn and acknowledge their survival of these nine months. Say what you will, I still contend that the first semesters at Penn are undeniably the most challenging, in every possible respect. Without a doubt, everyone constructs different impressions of college during their first year. Some thrive in Penn's immediate environment, while others expand outward, explore beyond the limits of campus, find distant places where the city breathes and stirs separately from the University. You might easily forget how you felt about Penn when you first got here?how you arrived in West Philly ready to experience the "Best Four Years Of Your Life," how you looked forward to discovering the campus, meeting intriguing individuals, crossing the paths of amazing professors and inspiring courses. How you hoped to stamp your impression on this University, make your mark, leave your tracks in the ground. I remember how I felt. I filled out six transfer applications in November of that year -- to six schools that could not be more different from Penn: small, alternative, individualized, outdoorsy and in the middle of nowhere. I was sick of feeling as though my whole existence revolved around my social security number, I was tired of huge introductory classes, of unqualified teaching assistants. I was depressed by drunken people pretending to have fun, by freshmen herds, by people who forget your name, by concrete and asphalt. I was exhausted from seeing poverty and feeling at a loss to help, from sparing change, from staying up late every single night, from the garbage man emptying the dumpster under my window every morning at 6 o'clock. I kept waiting to figure out my place at Penn. Everything seemed so arbitrary -- I felt as though an autonomous computer had whimsically arranged my entire existence behind my back. Even the people who lived on my floor were just random chance acquaintances, names routinely spit out by some master coordinator data base program. These were the only things I remembered when I went home in December of that year. I was accepted as a transfer into all my schools. I was ready to start again, clean slated, somewhere else. Then I stopped and looked around, tried to catch my breath between long-winded sentences filled with strangling words about college. I realized my patience with Penn had worn thin before I even knew where I was or how I got there. Maybe I was being too hasty, maybe I needed to give it another shot, maybe I was addicted to clean slates and new beginnings. When you look misery straight in the face, it begins to lose some of its power. You might realize that pain sustains itself mostly on your unswerving attention. I accepted my unhappiness and decided to return to its source: Penn. Oddly enough, my second semester improved immensely. I came back knowing what to expect and focused on what I wanted to accomplish. I discovered a few astonishingly brilliant professors, found the Bio Pond, ran at Boathouse Row on sunny afternoons, went to orchestra concerts downtown. It dawned on me that while I wasn't looking, my neighbors and the people I lived with had become cherished friends. At the close of the second semester I finally understood that Penn did not have to be perfect in order to be bearable, that perfection was not even the point. I managed to etch a spot for myself, just a small corner, a base from which to grow and thrive when I returned. I decided to stay. Sometimes you feel so removed from the first year of college that you forget to look back, to note the tracks left behind, the footprints stamping out your first impressions of higher education. From where I stand, I am able to feel glad to have stayed at Penn. I have even managed to foster a sentimental attachment to the University, it has become a second home of sorts. So who knows? I think I made the right decision, but I will never know for sure. I will have to settle with that uncertainty. To those freshmen who barely survived this year and cannot wait to leave, I am sorry to see you go. To those of you who will return, especially one in particular, I am proud of your decision and I look forward to seeing you next year! Believe me, it does get better.