Students reflect on their keys to the campus

Two years ago, maybe, there was a male student who lost his PennCard not once, not three times, but twenty six times. The PennCard people not only knew him, they loved the guy, using his picture in a PennCard brochure. This is how the legend goes as it flies around in Stacy Ugras' head. The Wharton junior attempts to explain, metaphysically, her relationship to the University's plastic identification, access and entry card. It's a part of her. "I was one of those freshmen who thought you had to send it in by mail. Would I change it now? Yeah, so it actually looks like me," Ugras says. She's only lost her card once -- so far. According to the PennCard office's director Lynn Horner, there are 50,000 PennCards currently active. Perhaps the power of the card is overlooked. In the florescent-lit PennCard office on the first floor of the Franklin Building, Horner explains, "Having one card with all links makes it very good and efficient...until you lose the card." Though Horner, who manages the daily functioning of the office and its financial and technical concerns, has been around only for six months, she knows the card's increased versatility. Over the past ten years, the PennCard -- modeled in part after Harvard's system of Crimson Cash -- matured from simply dining-hall, dormitory and library entry into PennCash, used at the library photocopying and laundry-room machines. Penncard charging's now common at the Bookstore and Houston Marketplace. Recently, the University eliminated the PennCash chip from the cards -- leaving some students complaining of inconvenience. Students had to translate chip-cash from older cards onto a separate card last semester. "The chip system is gone now and 'copies' work off the mag-strip," Horner says. "Also, we are supported by the University's Information System and Computing Group, which has brought us into line with University regulations and state-of-the-art technologies. The work has mostly been behind-the-scenes." Aside from its always evolving functions, it is the visual of the card that students recognize most readily. PennCard office employee Shavonne Smith takes care of printing and picturing new cards. She estimates that the office produces about fifty cards on a busy day, usually due to loss or wear and tear. Smith has her stories. "One student was kind of upset about getting a new card -- his was torn -- because he wanted to keep the card for memories. But at the end, he was alright. And yes, you can tell a whole big difference from people's pictures after four years. Hair, weight, size, they look more mature. No one looks the same." Senior class president Ray Valerio echoes the sentiment. "I look different, slightly different facial hair, a different style," Valerio says. Unlike Ugras, though, Valerio has held on to the card issued to him in 1997. "I haven't really thought on a deep level about the PennCard," he admits, "but I guess it says I haven't lost touch with Penn all four years, and the card is a representation of that." Valerio is confident that despite some frayed lamentation, his card "is in pretty good shape" and can "definitely make it for two more months." Back in Horner's office, there is a sixteen-inch box full of blank card, waiting to be printed and distributed to the next generation of card holders. The PennCard seems both a passage into place and a passage of time, with the user scattering and leaving a trace of himself everywhere he goes. Outside campus boundaries, the card is powerless. And, on campus, it may seem nothing more than necessity. Yet for Ugras and others, there are stories and remembrances of losing a PennCard that verge on apocalyptic. "Have you ever lost it? It's like hell. You're like a virus until you get a new one. No one let me in, and I realized I was only as good as my PennCard. My identity was based on it."