It’s that time of the year again. The signs abound, from terrified newbies trying to navigate their bikes around the Circle of Death to a campus recharged with enthusiasm and adventure. The freshmen are here.
I can feel their excitement radiating in waves all the way from Middle-of-Nowhere, Texas, and I cannot help but think of my first day on the Farm the year before. Sometimes when I look back on that day, I try to forget the cringe-worthy moments. But most of the time, I remember the experience with fondness.
Most people look forward to move-in day at Stanford. While I was indeed thrilled about moving in and finally counting myself among the Stanford student body, you could say I was a bit apprehensive.
And by that, I mean my palms were sweating and heart was beating out of my chest.
I had spent the better part of the past nine months excited about the adventures I would encounter at Stanford. Ever since I received that glorious letter of acceptance, I often pictured move-in day. In my head it went like this: arrive at Stanford, meet super-awesome roommate, unpack bags, send parents back to Texas, study hard and party on.
It went nothing like that.
For starters, I couldn’t sleep the night before. I knew that the next day, there would be no going back.
I was quiet the whole car ride to Stanford. My dad looked at me nervously through the rearview mirror. “Hey, cheer up, mija,” he said. “It feels like we’re dropping you off at juvie, not Stanford.”
As we pulled up to Roble Hall, there were students holding signs and blowing horns, just like the pictures in the Stanford information pamphlet. My jitters slowly started to dissipate.
Even before getting a chance to get my keys, there were people coming at me from all directions. Some offered to help with my luggage and one wanted to know my name so the DJ could shout it over the intercom alongside “Party in the USA.”
A redhead walked over and introduced himself. “Hey, you must be Helena,” he said. “I’m Red, your RA. Quack.”
No lie. He quacked. I immediately felt a bond of kinship because, much to the chagrin of my family, my ringtone was a quacking duck.
Red would later prove to be one of the quirkiest and most creative people I have met at Stanford, as well as the best RA any lost freshman could ask for. He explained how he built Versailles inside his dorm room. He even let us play with liquid nitrogen during hall meetings.
If the extensive decorations didn’t convey how serious Roble was about the Willy Wonka theme, the manmade chocolate waterfall situated in the main entrance did the trick. I was shocked at how many superlatives I had used to describe Stanford even before reaching my room.
My mom and I walked through the maze that is Roble Hall pretending to know where we were going. A friendly Asian man looking like a true Stanford tourist and proud parent, complete with a video camera around his neck, approached me like we were old buddies. I did what any other decent person would do: wave and act like I know him.
“Are you Helena?” he asked.
I hesitated, skeptical about who he was and how he knew me. Turns out he was my roommate’s dad, and he was just as lost as we were. After two rides up and down the elevator and another two trips via the stairs, we found my room.
The first thing that came to view was stuff–four girls’ worth of stuff. The beds were everywhere, the desks were everywhere, the clothes were everywhere and there was a Lil’ Wayne poster staring me directly in the eye.
Even though expectations had so far been completely off target, I was spot-on about one thing: I had the best roommates. Soon after the traditionally awkward first meeting, we started talking like we had known each other forever. Outwardly we were different, but we meshed well. Our cultural diversity prompted Anne, Jen, Alyssa and me to joke that our room looked like an advertisement for the United Nations.
Meeting my roommates put me at ease, but the pit of the day was saying goodbye to my parents on the Roble lawn. My family is kind of like the Mexican version of “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” so goodbyes are never easy. Not even the sight of my roommate’s John Goodman look-a-like father weeping and slobbering over his little girl was enough to cheer me up.
But there was no time to dwell. There were more people to meet, classes to pick and student groups to join. Stanford that day, full of whizzing bikes and “I love freshmen” pins, offered but a small taste of what would come next.