COLUMN: The truth about OCRS: Only consulting, really sorry

From Emily Lieff's, "Sassy Peach," Fall '99 From Emily Lieff's, "Sassy Peach," Fall '99The long white business-size envelope arrives in the mail before each semester -- my bill for attending classes at the University of Pennsylvania. Most students don't actually write their tuition checks -- their parents do. That small layer of insulation means that they never realize they are making a choice. For me, that routine payment has been a kind of touchstone, a persistent little reminder to ask myself how much my time here means to me. Each time I transfer a significant portion of my savings account to the Penn, I make that choice again. The relatively simple act of signing over a few thousand dollars means that I have chosen Penn over and over in the past 5 1/2 years. And it prompts me to ask why; Why choose Penn, and why stay? Philosopher/fundraiser Lynne Twist argues that money is the language Americans use to signify commitment. Putting our money on the table is the ultimate indication of where we stand. When it comes to what's important, what we say matters less than where we actually put our dollars. You may say animal rights are important, but are you wearing leather shoes? When I drop that tuition check in the mail, I think about Lynne Twist. If money indicates what I value, what does my choice say? A psychology student would probably diagnose my strengthened ties to Penn as a resolution of cognitive dissonance: I have come to support something -- attending college -- as a result of an action already taken, paying a tuition bill. Yet I'd like to think that I wouldn't have continued with college if I hadn't truly felt that I was benefiting from being here, and I think that writing my own tuition checks for the last several semesters was an essential touchstone during that process. But it took me a while even to hear those questions. The first few semesters I simply passed the bills along to my mother. Aside from shuddering at the cost, I didn't really consider them. I had barely even considered whether to go to college. I didn't have a burning desire not to go to college, I didn't want to go far away from home and I didn't have any overwhelming interest in a particular school. I interviewed at a few places and ended up here. The process seemed much easier for my peers. They didn't ponder when they should go to college or if they should even go at all. They just went. Eventually, I did too. At first, I was preoccupied with settling into the school routine, learning the campus, buying my books. My parents paid the bill and I remained oblivious to the implicit decision -- to remain for another semester at Penn -- that they were making on my behalf. It was the foreign-language requirement that first solidified my connection to the school. The process of investing myself in a four-semester project, sharing giggles and homework and fiestas and oral exams with a couple dozen fellow students, gave me a piece of the Penn community. Now as I made copies in Rosengarten or looked out over College Green, I could spot familiar faces and wave them over for a chat. The course guide felt less alien; I recognized names and had jotted notes about which instructors shouldn't be missed. Even the goofy furor over Penn's yearly U.S. News ranking had become customary. As my bonds to Penn were strengthening, I moved to a full-time job and the healthy boost to my income allowed me to pay my own bills. I started to retain the long white envelopes instead of passing them along. Paying my own tuition bills is an affirmation to myself and my money is doing the talking: I do want to be here. This is valuable to me. And instead of paying for goods purchased, every check is a prepayment on the future. In some sense it's an expression of what I feel every time I go to class or complete an assignment. It's an acknowledgment that I care about this piece of my life. I'm not accidentally drifting into Urban Studies 405 or Sociology 250; I'm heading there with my eyes wide open.