Barnard College - Mortarboard Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 24 text:

Welcome to the Columbia-Barnard meat market, the graffiti scrawl read, A wry commentar y on the officially (and naively) sanctioned Freshman Orientation. Those who participate (those who sanction, too) agree that the butcher terminology Is an apt expression for the contrived situations, the stilted conversations. Friday: One thousand scared freshmen, similar expressions on pale faces. Pushed on the floors of unfamiliar dorms. Try to sleep in a stifling room and Oh, God, it ' s tough being a commuter, especially in this room, horrid totally primitive no other way to describe it the bed ' ll proba- bly break 1 think the closet door already has and it ' s so damn hot here I wish 1 had a roommate so stupid of them not to provide any and praise the Lord I am only a commuter hate to live here never survive it will 1 even survive the weekend the food alone is enough to kill wish I were still in high school still in Brooklyn should ' ve gone to Brooklyn like everybody else and and . . . And there are people here with whom I discuss Watergate, sprawled on the yellowed grass of South Field. People who comment on Eliot ' s intentional use of symbolism, on cummings ' lyric verse. As we stroll to John Jay for lunch. The floor parties are truly the sadistic notion of some confident upperclassman. Crammed on the eight floors of Hewitt, Brooks, or Reid, (did the girls really lock themselves in their rooms last year, as the rumor goes?) No one is comfortable, with the scent of mingled Schaeffer and sweat heavy in the air. The Sangria is warm, the conversation cold, but the air is clear in the shadow of Alma Mater. 1 catch myself saying words I ' ve never said before. Such terminology should be primarily reserved for the writing of scholarly dissertations and such, don ' t you agree? Not for the floors of Ferris Booth Hall, but we all see our pseudo-intellectual tendencies. We accept it, and we laugh. Idle talk on endless lines, and meaningless chatter at Mcin- tosh ' s Open House. What did 1 do in school today. Mommy? Finger paints and Spin-Art, and a pie eating contest that became a pie throwing contest. And guess who had a front seat? Apple pie on clothing and giggles in the dorm. Grin. A sponsor with a torn tee shirt and a crinkling smile. (Why are they all so much cuter than the freshies?) A guy from Boston who hates the Celtics, but kind of likes our Yankees, so I guess he ' s all right. And everyone sharing the Sunday Times in Carman ' s blessedly air-conditioned lounge. The band has a good beat (though their voices are flat) And 1 try to convince a cynic from Oregon that he ' s missing so much through his idealistic loss. 1 cannot find the words (not the right ones, anyway). Surrender in a hapless sigh, and it really doesn ' t matter. This room isn ' t so bad after all. And maybe this place isn ' t either. Monday: Suitcases packed, rooms vacated, the elevator down for the last time. With murmured good-byes, 1 think of going home. And yet, as 1 trip down the cobbled paths. My glance traveling from Milbank ' s sun-warmed marble to Mcintosh ' s cool plate glass. To linger on the aged ivy trailing the walls of Barnard Hall, I wonder if I ' m going home at all. — Jacqueline Laks 20