On a campus of over 6,000 undergrads, packed like collar-popping sardines in a can, I had never felt more alone. I had been living at Georgetown for little more than a day and wishing my parents would leave and take me back with them, or at least just leave already. I pictured myself loading my gear—pop-up hamper, foot locker and all—into the car and simply repeating my senior year of high school. Even college applications seemed more attractive than living in a room that reminded me more of Scout camp than an actual residence.
I wasn’t the only new freshman who felt a tad overwhelmed. In order to transform nametag-wearing geeks into the hot, self-confident Georgetown students (personally, I airbrushed my admissions photo), the University chooses to further overwhelm us with New Student Orientation.
Over a few short days, we have experienced every possible sight, sound and activity known to college-kind: bands, henna tattoos, fight songs, pirate themes, people in orange shirts clapping, my reedy-voiced OA explaining how to GERM someone, almost GERMable dormmates barely finding their way back from some party in an undisclosed location. Because, according to the Village “Sea” West chantey: “Arr, no drinking here, me hearties.” In short, we have experienced everything except actual academics, which probably aren’t very important anyway, at least not during basketball season.
NSO’s goal seems to be infusing the incoming students with every bit as much school spirit as upperclassmen have; it’s safe to assume their planning sessions mainly consisted of singing the fight song until hoarse. I could more easily grow a third arm than develop even an iota of school spirit. Caught between mumbling about a “Boola-Boola” and sitting in silence, I only felt more out of place.
The brains behind NSO know one thing for sure: for every member of my class, the first few days at Georgetown are tremendously awkward. Virtually all conversations include “Where are you from?” even though it’s plain to see from the large color-coordinated nametag that your classmate hails from Plains Brush, Montana.
Eventually, they all degenerate into painful small talk, often about the weather: “So, does it get cold up in Minnesota?” In order to raise the level of conversation, NSO introduces icebreakers. Apparently the screen name is the window to the soul.
Time is allotted for small group discussion of “myths” and “facts” about campus life with all the narrow-minded certainty of Cold War publications about communism: “Myth or fact: DPS officers hate you, have no interest in protecting you and just want to break up your parties out of spite?”
Still, I think the most important thing about NSO is that my class all enjoyed it, or suffered through it (depending on individual perspective) together. We stood together in the shape of the word “Hoyas” while the wind blew out our candles and hot wax dripped onto our hands. We sat together and got grass stains and stiff backs while listening to yet another fat comic make fun of himself. We struggled to find the tray drop in the dining hall. I’m looking forward to spending four years with people who will commiserate with me about how long the water dispensers take to fill a glass at Leo’s.
