Steffany

As all of us piled into a newfound friend’s dorm room, I began to understand the value in making the best of an unwanted situation. Everyone in that room went in circles to introduce themselves, their majors, and their disdain for the state school we’d all landed at. The most refreshing part of the conversation was hearing about other people’s failed attempts to enter the golden gates of Ivy League institutions, about weighing options based on financial aid packages, and having to defer acceptances at dream schools because of money.

It was a weird conversation to veer into after a night of dancing. I had just left a Halloween party and my search for an after-party landed me meeting new people. I was happy to, as I need new friends to help the time go by before I transfer away. The last few weeks have consisted of me consoling old friends about their mental health and an inability to stay on campus. The campus was designed by an architect who previously built women’s prisons; it has a certain Bedford Hills vibe about it. All the brown, drab, brick buildings are connected underground and the hallways feel seedy (like a ’70s exploitation movie about women in prison—you know the ones).

I have to give the school credit for effort. They invest a lot in creating an environment fertile for creativity. As a fan of music, I have access to so many new sounds, since the school pays bands to perform here. They got extra cool points with me for having Zadie Smith swing by. But, in the grand scheme of things, NYU’s artist in residence is Pharrell Williams, so I’m no longer impressed. My school has all kinds of progressive programs and seminars on consent and seems to root its curricula in social justice. Although this often translates as Tumblresque feminism—and by that I mean, not intersectional at all—the effort doesn’t go unnoticed.

But, in class, much like on the internet, people hop on the bandwagon of thought, and in an attempt to satisfy everyone, nothing goes challenged. New ideas aren’t presented if they challenge a dominant narrative already deemed radical and “inclusive” to everyone (they aren’t). As a result, things become stagnant and there is a repetitiveness to our topics of discussion.

I signed up for a liberal arts education, but what even is the value of that in 2015? I could change my area of study, but the STEM programs here aren’t great. Soon, I’ll meet with my advisor to enroll in classes for next semester and there is still the possibility that I won’t be able to take classes pertaining to the things I like. I could give a fuck about seniors getting first choice in class enrollment when I’m paying my money like everyone else. College was supposed to be different from high school—a place of refuge. And it is very different while also maintaining enough sameness for me to oppose it.

And don’t even get me started on my College Writing professor. His self-absorbed bullshit is borderline unbearable. Not to mention that he actively seeks to undermine my accomplishments or over-explain things to me as if I can’t grasp them. I constantly have to prove myself and it’s literally the most frustrating thing ever. If I were to go off about it, the angry black woman trope would rear its head to further diminish my feelings, and I’m depleted of energy to fight. I recognize that this is only the beginning. I’ve already built a tolerance to certain things, and I feel empowered by that. You have to chose your battles to win your wars, meaning I can’t call people out on every single microaggression. Besides, if I wanna be like my girl Mellody Hobson one day, suffice it to say, all this comes with the territory.

This entry has no concrete point, but it’s a reflection of my life right now. I’m not going anywhere. I haven’t advanced to the next level of anything. I’m sitting on my hands and taking bullshit classes that make me want to rip my eyebrows out. To have to do busy work like worksheets or watch an animated video explaining what an academic journal is feels like an insult to my intelligence. I’m not arrogant I just want and expect more from my educators.

I have been actively trying to transfer to other schools. The last time I went through the college application process, I was knocked on my ass. I didn’t meet my own expectations, and I had to bear the burden of not being the genius child I’d been made out to be. Dissatisfaction with yourself is even more crushing than disappointing others. I wrote about that feeling extensively because I knew, even then, that that part of my life wasn’t over. And now, when I look up transfer requirements, and see that housing isn’t guaranteed or that you need a 4.0 GPA, I clam up in fear that I’ll be knocked down yet again. Maybe, I’ll come out hardened and capable to take on this experience. That’s what I hope, that I’m prepared to do this again. But I’m a bit of a masochist. I work myself into the same frenzy as before and wonder, What do they want in a transfer student? Then scramble to deliver when there’s no surefire way to know what it is they want. I know better. I know better than to do this to myself, but alas. Immense stress is a small price to pay in the long run. If I don’t get in, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to recover this time; it feels as if there’s a lot on the line.

All I can do is hope Jesus guides the hand of whomever comes across my transfer application, because I’m on the verge of losing my mind. Some days, when I feel like going out of my way to find the good in everything, the idea that I might lose my mind seems like an exaggeration. The day of that dorm room conversation was a good day. I could get OK with this situation, I thought. As soon as everyone started airing the same grievances, I was so relieved! I’m not crazy, some spoiled brat who wants just what she wants. But, you know what? To a certain degree, I am. I want the world, Chico, and everything in it. I will not apologize for that. This place is a stepping stone, but if I want my dreams to come true? I have to know when to leave a situation that isn’t conducive to that. Wish me luck. ♦