COLUMN: Our friends and neighbors

From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '98 From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '98Looking out a window of Van Pelt library at 4:28 on a cloudy Tuesday afternoon, the faces of the people on Locust Walk can still be made out. Outside, the the last few days of fall linger on quietly. I remember clearly my first day at the University of Pennsylvania. After a long hug from my mother, a brisk hug from my father and a sad look from my little brother, my family got back into the car and headed home. Installed into my new room, I quickly unpacked my things, made my bed and plugged in my stereo. When I finally got settled, I turned on my music and laid down on the bed with a long sigh of contentment. I had made it. Outside the dorm window, the sounds of moving in could be heard. Plastic carts with squeaking wheels rolled by, car doors opened and slammed shut, little brothers and sisters squealed and ran around excitedly and the high-pitched beeps of moving trucks going backwards all reminded you of what was going on. Here at the end of summer, the weather was still very warm. There were events planned for later that night. School wouldn't start for another four days. To be a freshman is to be in possession of a wonderful thing: time. There is time to figure out what you want to do with your life, time to figure out what classes you want to take, what books you want to read. There is time to make friends. You could do poorly in a class and know you had time to improve. You could mess up in your relationship and have time to make things better. With four promising years ahead of you, time sat around like huge clumps of clay, waiting for you to shape them in whatever way you pleased. For almost everyone, there will never be another experience like college. Never again will you be among 10,000 people living within a 20-block radius of each other who share such similar goals. Our lives are intertwined around the space between 33rd and 37th streets, and even if you never venture outside of your own circle of friends and associates, you are affected indirectly by the actions of everyone else. As I look out of the window and see person after person I don't know go by, I know that somewhere along the line we have shared some kind of similar experience. We all want to make it out of this place successfully, and we all want to enjoy ourselves in the process. Chances are, if you aren't in Wharton or don't want to be a (fill in the blank) trader, consultant, investment banker, loan shark, etc., then at one point or another you have probably sang the what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do for the rest of my life blues. At least we seniors can take comfort in the fact that everyone is equally stressed out, as demonstrated by the low gurgle in our voices that comes from having too much to do with too little sleep. When you leave Penn, there are people who you will always remember. There are people who will always remember you. But there are also those people who will form the periphery of your experience. That person you liked but never really got to know. That friend you won't keep in contact with after you graduate. That girl that you always wanted to talk to. That guy you thought was cute. They are the extras, the minor characters, and the reoccurring faces that add depth and substance to your story. And you will do the same for them. They make their cameo appearances in your life and then continue along their way. Some of them may prove to be more influential later on, but most of them will fade into your permanent background, lost in the echoes of memory. It's later now. The bodies going by on Locust Walk are huddled in their coats and scarves, their gazes locked on the ground in front of them. I see that funny Indian guy from my junior year English class walk by. He once told a joke that I still remember today. Something about Shakespeare and Milton sounding like Medieval European ebonics. I wonder if he remembers saying that. I wonder if he remembers me. 4:52. The faces on Locust Walk are harder to make out now. In the last few minutes of gray light, the people almost seem to slow down, protesting the night. A friend of mine walks into the library. She comes over to me and smiles and asks me what I'm doing. I tell her I am working on my column, and we have a short conversation. She says goodbye and walks downstairs to start studying. When I turn back to the window, it's dark outside. Instead of bodies going by on the Walk, my own sleepy-looking reflection gazes back. At 4:58 on a cloudy Tuesday night, I gather my things and get ready to re-enter the intertwined world, wondering who will be watching me as I go along my way.