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When I watched “Good Will Hunting” for the first time as a high schooler, I marveled over how the professor in the movie not only helped Will cultivate a passion for mathematics but he also undertook Will’s personal strife and actively helped him overcome it. Although it’s a work of fiction, the movie sparked excitement within me as I looked forward to the day I’d receive a similar mentorship.
One of my favorite Youtubers once said, “College has become really all about the ‘college experience,’ rather than the college education, which is what you're there to get.” I immediately resonated, because during my first year at Penn, I focused much of my time on gaining the “college experience” — one that underscored my newfound freedom and resulted in many late nights spent with friends, spontaneous trips into the city, and a general imbalance of priorities. As for my “college education,” I skipped more classes than I can count.
It’s odd how my sense of time seems to be warped at Penn. In the moment, minutes seem to drag out for hours. Days pass by at the speed of a three-toed sloth. Yet, when I look back, I begin to ask myself, “Where has the time gone?”
One of my favorite things to watch on YouTube is college decision reaction videos. I find myself invested, hoping the person in the video gets accepted, whispering “it’s okay, it’s okay” when they don’t, and uncontrollably smiling once they do. Some of the wide-eyed adolescents who filmed their own Penn acceptance reaction video are now in University City for Quaker Days.
When I heard a fellow student say to his friend, “He made a living by cheating and taking standardized testing for other people,” I immediately thought, “Oh! Another Suits fan.” One of the protagonists in the legal drama television series did exactly that. Minutes later, I opened a link my editor had sent me. The headline wrote, "Actresses, Business Leaders and Other Wealthy Parents Charged in U.S. College Entry Fraud,” and I knew the pair of friends were talking about something much more serious than Suits.
5:20 p.m. It was time. My prospective roommates and I huddled around my computer, anxiously awaiting the launch of our room selection application. We sped through the questions, and less than a minute after, our collective silence transformed into collective celebration. A huge weight had been lifted off our chest — we had acquired the room of our choice.
I’m eighteen, and I haven’t had my first kiss. I haven’t held hands romantically — I’ve never even had a serious crush. Each year, Valentine’s Day feels like just another day.
My sister FaceTimed me this past weekend and asked, “Jiě, remember how you used to hate this?”
A dozen or so admissions officers are seated around a seminar room, each with an applicant’s documents held in front of them. One states, “accept,” and a number of hands shoot up. “Waitlist,” and up goes another number of hands. Repeat the process one last time for “deny,” beat the gavel, and a student’s future is decided. This is how I imagine the inside of a college admissions decision room.
Waiting for the walk sign to switch on at the intersection of 34th and Walnut streets, I took a breath of fresh air and inhaled a familiar essence of artificial fruit. The smell was coming from the guy standing next to me, specifically from his Juul.
Making friends — as a little kid, it was a breeze. Little me would spot another little girl or boy playing where I wanted to play. Maybe by the end of playtime, we'd dub each other best friends for life. Maybe we wouldn’t even remember each others’ names the next day. It didn’t matter. At the core, we were enjoying each other’s company and having fun.
On nights when I can’t fall asleep, I’ll lay on my side and look out my window. I have a panoramic view of University City, but right in front of me is the west face of Hill College House and its obliquely shaped windows. It surprises me how even at 4 or 5 a.m., a considerable number of windows are brightly lit.
I’m not the biggest partier. Growing up, I never went to any school dances, and only after my friends relentlessly pestered me, I agreed to go to senior year prom. I didn’t have anything against parties; I was simply uninterested. However, my interest began to grow after I committed to Penn, widely known as the “Social Ivy” and one of the best party schools in the country. I started telling my friends, “Catch me at the parties,” genuinely thinking that I’d soon be sending them Snapchats of me in dark basements holding red Solo cups.
As a first-generation student, I was the pride of my family when I got into Penn. Both my parents never graduated from middle school, and education was the last thing on my grandparents’ minds.
Between a collapsed ceiling and the discovery of illness-inducing mold, it’s been a long month for the Quad.