Newly minted sophomore remembers adapting to life on the Farm as a freshman

I don’t have a photographic memory, but I don’t need one to remember move-in day, the first step along my college journey: the ring of shocked eardrums, the personalized greetings, the surprised cries of delight upon meeting roommates.

It was one of the busiest weeks I had ever gone through. Socializing was not only rapid, but rampant. Everyone seemed to want to make friends with everyone else. Every freshman was quick to take advantage of the dining halls’ all-you-can-eat meals. If that weren’t enough, every minute of NSO was filled with assemblies, workshops, social mixers, you name it.

Overwhelming? It was just the beginning.

At first, classes seemed easy. Instead of the old high school 8-a.m.-to-2-p.m. routine with seven to eight classes, there were four classes dispersed throughout the week. But many students, including me, quickly found the sentiment of ease was only an illusion. Maybe Chem31X lecture met for 50 minutes three times a week, but those “free” hours in the afternoon, when we might rather be playing video games or hanging out with friends, came with a hefty price. There were simply not enough hours in the day to get everything done. Sleep deprivation became a chronic ailment.

Too much excitement can be dangerous. I wanted to take 19 units and four classes. I signed up for 15 clubs. I even planned time in my schedule to indulge in my fantasy-books fetish. In short, it was a year-long ban on proper sleep.

Then, the third week of fall quarter, I got a generous dose of swine flu.

Some called it misfortune. Others called it a failure to wash hands with running water for at least 20 seconds. I called it bullheaded, “I-should-have-seen-this-coming” stupidity.

It was the worst week I had at Stanford. I couldn’t go to classes. (Heaven knows I tried to get to chem lecture, but the ground spun wildly on my feet, preventing me from leaving the building.) My throat stabbed with hot miniature sabers, those aching chills and that stuffed-up nose–the whole nine yards.

During those agonizing hours, the same delirious thoughts kept repeating themselves in disjointed, abrupt jolts: “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

I couldn’t go home. Instead, Stanford ended up bringing home to me.

My roommate helped out with errands, running the risk of illness by being in the same room. The RAs checked on me regularly to ask if I was ok.

These were small gestures, but they meant so much to me. It was then that I realized I was not alone. There were helping hands every step of the way.

As the weeks flew by, I slowly began to learn not only the names of everyone in Alondra, but about their pasts, their interests and their families. Gradually, I crept out from my shell, like a waking tortoise as it tentatively tests the air, inching out to see what all the commotion is about. The dorm had become a second home.

I did things I never dared to do before. Band run was painfully wild, and was the first time I had stayed up past midnight. Secret Snowflake was a polarizing experience; in some of the dares, I have learned more about my fellow Alondrans than I had originally cared to know. Best of all, doors were always open. People ambled around the hallways, their heads poking into rooms for no other reason other than to just hang out.

My dorm mates agreed with what I came to feel. “I couldn’t have asked for a more awesome group of people to share freshman year with,” said Maria Dogero ’13.

“I am positive that my summers will be spent reminiscing on the days when I was watching epic movies [and] getting to know some truly amazing people,” Scott Thao ‘13 wrote in an e-mail to the Alondra chat list that year.

“The Alondra that we made will always be in my mind and heart,” said Dominique Dabija ’13

As summer draws to a close, the real fun begins. But as I learned, activities alone don’t complete the Stanford experience. It’s the accompanying bubbly sensation in the stomach, the anticipation of seeing those familiar faces.