COLUMN: Getting off the sidelines

From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '00 From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '00I was always picked last for kickball teams in the third grade. Always. After years of therapy and electric shock treatment, I've somehow made it through that tough time -- but just barely. Day in, day out, I would create various injuries to avoid being chosen last at recess, even as I desperately wanted to play on the team. Tissues I had made "bloody" by red markers would prove to my gym teacher I had canker sores and was in so much pain that the very prospect of playing kickball might kill me. Splints that I brought from home provided useful props for daily "sprained wrists." My weekly performances of seizures began to grow so convincing that for a day I was sure that I actually was epileptic. Sure, the other kids wanted me on their side for the spelling bee. But on the kickball field I was nothing but a washout. A no-show. An 8-year-old desperately in need of glasses and orthodontic attention. The last kid picked. And so began my life trying to get things that I thought I could never have. If one were to be optimistic, one could say, "Sure, it was third-grade kickball, get over it!" Sadly, though, third-grade kickball sets the tone for life itself. After all, isn't life about competing with other people to get something you really want? Kickball is only a gateway to the beginning of a series of life events in which we have to compete with others to do something we really want to do. And sometimes, we get picked last. Or not picked at all. College is no stranger to the kickball phenomenon. Every year, freshmen come to Penn wide-eyed and excited about all that they sappily promised in their applications to accomplish while at Penn. At convocation, President Rodin encourages us by telling each class how they're "the smartest class yet" (which, although no one notices, has the effect of making the senior class each year the "dumbest class at the University"). President Rodin enumerates how many newspaper editors, valedictorians, salutatorians and stars from school plays are in the class. (Notably absent at convocation is the mention of how many serial killers, drug dealers and assholes are in the class.) We are encouraged to look at ourselves as demigods -- invincible, competent and capable of conquering the world. We are told that we will not only be picked for the kickball team, we will always be picked first. Then the real world -- in the form of a resume, a quick audition or an interview -- enters stage left. Application time floods Penn's campus like an angry mob of mothers at a PTA meeting. During both fall and spring semesters, there is a window of time when applications for just about every activity are due. Do you want to be on the UA? Do you want to join an a cappella group? Do you want to join SCUE? Do you want to be a tour guide? Do you need permission from a professor to get in a class? Do you want to join Greek life? Do you want to have a leadership position in Civic House? Do you want to get a scholarship? Suddenly, we become nervous third graders all over again standing in a line, hoping to be picked. The irony is that we've already been selected for Penn's kickball team; now we are trying to be picked within the team itself. We've all been accepted to Penn; now we just have to get out on the field. If you've applied for any activities on campus, you're probably not unfamiliar with at least one, "Thank you for applying this year, the applicant pool was so large we couldn't take everyone" letter. Or if you haven't received one (you liar), maybe you know someone who has. I know I have received more than my share and have felt like a depressed 8-year-old not picked for the team for days on end. It's not worth it. Instead of feeling aggravated and disappointed with yourself -- or plotting the evil destruction of the people with whom you competed (not that anyone would do that) -- stop and think for a minute. And don't give up. Remember, only noses sit around waiting to be picked.