Illustration: Erin Annick
The irony was not lost on me. Everyone—my mom, sisters, cousins, aunts, the Internet—had imparted on me one crucial piece of advice: “keep your door open,” they said, with eyes wide and fingers wagging with importance. “It’s how you make friends with your floor.” And here I was, literally unable to open the door. Because I’m an idiot. I lost my key.
This experience set the precedent of the first four days of my time at New Student Orientation. After arriving at Georgetown, directed by hordes of energetic sign-wielders and seated next to my uncle who wondered aloud what they were on and where he could get some, I began NSO, a remarkable rite of passage designed to incorporate freshmen into the Georgetown tradition of having no free time.
After saying goodbye to my mother while simultaneously trying to keep it together in front of my roommate, I was paraded into McDonough Arena, a place that I’ll probably never see again unless I grow a foot in height, lose all my body fat, and magically become a varsity athlete. Encircled by about one hundred student orientation leaders who, on account of their unwavering energy, would make for some of the world’s best door-to-door missionaries, I met fellow members of my Harbin floor and was left wondering if everybody in this entire school had hit the genetic lottery.
The first mistake of my time at Georgetown was being a skeptic. Instead of being excited to be a part of such an accomplished class, I was terrified. I felt like I didn’t belong. I was weak, unconfident, and out of my depth. Just how many people in this school were trilingual? How had they set foot on every continent when the farthest I had been from suburban Maryland was Disney World? And just how many times would I hear the godforsaken “Whip?”
Like every good cynic, I was determined to tear it all down. I rolled my eyes, chanted “Hoya Saxa!” halfheartedly, toed the line lamely during inter-hall Capture the Flag, and scoffed as people were thrown off the bull in Wild, Wild West. (On a side note, I totally don’t regret that last part.)
I relied on my cynicism to mask that I missed my mom, my friends, and familiarity. Conversations flowed naturally back home, but here, they dried up and evaporated after one question. Much like my dorm room back in Harbin 7, my door was very much closed. To friends, to conversations, and to me, actually enjoying myself.
As I woke up on my second day of New Student Orientation, I expected to feel differently—to suddenly remember how excited I was when I proudly wore Georgetown tees to school, or how I pinned a picture of the campus above my bed in sophomore year of high school. But instead, when other people assured me how prestigious my chosen school was during Convocation, I felt intimidated. Rather than telling me I was a special little snowflake, speakers bluntly guaranteed that I was going to crash and burn, collect myself, and crash and burn again about thirty seven more times. I was left discouraged, scared, and, most importantly, really wishing that they put a cap on the number of metaphors one can use in a speech.
[pullquote align=”right” cite=”” link=”” color=”” class=”” size=””]When it comes down to it, I don’t think any of us got into Georgetown by skipping school events or rolling our eyes at people pouring their hearts out.[/pullquote]
But somewhere between standing in a long line of wok enthusiasts at Leo’s and sitting under the shade of a giant Jack the Bulldog balloon with my floormates, my jaded façade started to melt away. If I had to pinpoint it, I would guess that it started with Pluralism in Action. Instead of cowering at the strength revealed by such gripping application essays, I marveled at the power of people brave enough to submit them, let alone live them. I allowed myself to be present in conversations, rather than allowing my face to glow with the blue-white screen of my iPhone. And when somebody posed a question—“What is something about you that I never would have guessed?”—I gave them a real, honest answer about who I am, and where I come from.
Soon, the neverending breakout sessions held relevance to me. I listened to people’s stories, and posed questions of my own. I made friends by wondering what hair product Marino workshop author Romesh Gunesekera used, and played ninja as an icebreaker with unabashed enthusiasm, and won shamelessly, thank you very much.
Crucially, I had missed what drew me to the school in the first place. Yes, the students were intimidating and accomplished, but they were also genuine, interesting, and devoted. Simple acts by my orientation advisor, like buying Chipotle for ten people, making sure everybody was engaged in conversation, and, yes, looking for my lost key by flashlight at midnight, defeated a negative, pessimistic persona that wasn’t really me to begin with.
When it comes down to it, I don’t think any of us got into Georgetown by skipping school events or rolling our eyes at people pouring their hearts out. Thankfully, New Student Orientation gave me the chance to remember this, and ensured it by pulling me out of my shell.
Laughing and chatting with an orientation group of people I’m proud to know, let alone call my classmates and even friends, I walked back to campus from an Explore DC trip, and felt a twinge of sorrow that I quickly shook off.
Why should I be sad? Nothing was ending. This is only the beginning.
Julia Usiak is a freshman in the College.
