My First Day At College
A fish in the desert story
About thirty-five years ago I got the idea to write a college memoir. I started to catalogue memories while the memories still existed. And then life got in the way. The catalogue is stashed somewhere. Maybe I will review it someday — that day is not today. But one of those sleeping memories was disturbed from its slumber this week, and thinking about it made me laugh.
Before I share, I will answer the burning question of what disturbed the memory. I did some personal branding this week, as two new web sites went live. One is a new business that I am launching, XMS Audio Services. It is mainly but not exclusively aimed at podcasters who need audio support to improve their product. Feel free to check it out. The other is a personal site, which I hope will give folks who don’t know me (including potential customers) some idea of who I am. This site caused the disturbance in the force that led to this post.
The photo at the top of this post is the real culprit. The building is Lockhart Hall on the far west perimeter of the Princeton campus. It was the home of my freshman year dorm, which I shared with three other guys — all dear friends to this day. Our dorm was on the top floor, on the far left side of the photo.
So now I ask you to gaze at that photo. As your eyes grow heavy and your sight grows dim, with some dreamy harp music playing in the background, the image is becoming wavy… wavier… finally dissolving into a flashback. You know, like they do on bad sit-coms…
It is August, 1980. My 55 year-old saint of a mother finds herself in a quandary: An over-achieving sixth child somehow managed to insert himself into an elite university. Oh sure, some older siblings had gone to college. But they all did it the old-fashioned way — they worked for a living and commuted. This whole “go away to school” thing was new. I mean, who does that? That’s for rich kids, right?
These were not unreasonable questions for an exhausted parent to ask in 1980, particularly one who grew up in the Great Depression, and who spent her life figuring out how to keep food on the table and cigarettes in her purse. It is surely a discomfiting feeling when your young, socially clueless academic star wants to dip his toes into a forbidden cultural milieu.
Oddly, I had only two experiences with the campus to that point (I had not visited campus before applying — I will tell that story another time). The first was with my parents, at an admissions reception. A polite, WASPy gentlemen called me to extend a personal invitation to an event at a place that I heard as “The Clean House”. Except he actually said “MacLean House”. I felt like Emily Litella. So it took some time to find the place. Never mind…
That was an uncomfortable start to a nervous and uncomfortable evening — certainly a portent if nothing else. The second experience was a campus visit in the spring, courtesy of my chauffeur brother, as part of a “plebes visit campus” day. The visit involved a tour and lunch at one of the cafeterias where, ironically, I would later work for four years to avoid being penniless and beerless. The visit had the distinct feeling of landing on an alien world — scary but weirdly attractive. Like a car accident.
As the summer wore on, and news of my mysterious roommates arrived in the mail, I became nervous. Realistically, I didn’t know what to make of any of this. Neither did my mom. By this time, my dad had completely checked out on the process, having negotiated a mental accommodation with himself, along the lines of “Okay kid, I will not interfere, and I’ll pay a modest bill or two, but otherwise you’re on your own with this one.” It was a silent contract between the two of us, as all of our negotiated settlements had been for eighteen years. I was grateful for the financial support, as it was a first in the family, and, truth be told, a little unfair to my siblings. Fortunately, the aid package was beefy and the bills modest.
So my mother was left to sort it all out, like mid-90’s software developers stranded in the midst of an impossible corporate merger, engineered by MBAs high on vision but low on reality, tasked with somehow finding a synergy between Earth and Venus. Hey, they’re roughly the same size, what could go wrong? We’ll be landing there in three months. Make it work…
When left to survive in such situations, we tend to seek what we know, even if it seems like an odd bedfellow. Start from a known foundation. The trusted essentials. Bedrock.
For my mom, this would be corduroy.
Feeling obvious panic a week or so before D-Day, mom decided that it was time for some clothes shopping. This happened very rarely, as most of my clothing for eighteen years had been hand-me-downs. Anything direct from a store was likely polyester from Two Guys — a local deep discount retailer with cheap clothing and housewares co-existing symbiotically with pinball machines and the ne’er-do-wells who lurked around them.
Undoubtedly, a big part of her distress was a truth buried in her heart, one of her own unspoken accommodations. Some of my hand-me-downs were inherited from older brothers, but most came via an older cousin — whose mother, incidentally, was the godmother who figures heavily in Chapter 1 of my online book. As it happens, that beloved aunt had devoted her adult life to training competitive roller skaters. And part of that quirky vocation was ostentatious clothing worn by the competitors. Think “blue collar ice dancing”. And now you know why I spent high school wearing striped polyester, unable to summon a decent answer when kids asked me why I never wore jeans. Real Answer: Because fish don’t know they’re wet. I didn’t know any better. I embraced what I had.
But, deep down, my mother did know better. As deeply as she loved my aunt, she would not be sending me off to my rich kid holiday wearing striped polyester, even if her husband couldn’t give a rat’s behind if I left in a bathing suit with a moth-eaten fedora on my head. Still, there was that little issue of money. Two Guys was long gone by then. But who can afford a cart full of brand names at the mall? Certainly not us.
For years, there was a strange plot of real estate in Northeast Philly, roughly across from the sweet-smelling Nabisco factory on the infamous Roosevelt Boulevard. It was an enormous, sprawling warehouse that housed a kind of flea market for mostly undocumented retailers. You can still see these places in many population centers, with vibes ranging from seedy to quirky. They are the American equivalent of ethnic street markets in other parts of the world, places where Indiana Jones meets knife-wielding assassins.
This place was assassin-free, but few other details made any sense. I mean, Two Guys was nicer than this place. At least Two Guys had shelves rather than bins. But I suppose, in a weird way, this was better. For starters, most of the retailers in places like this probably never heard of polyester, let alone knew suppliers. And it was huge. Indescribably huge. Somewhere in this cornucopia of second world clothing and fabric had to be something a cut above striped polyester slacks, at prices my mother could afford.
Mom figured correctly. There were many options, including a pair of gray corduroy pants that I wore out over my freshman and sophomore years. And a sweet pair of docksiders, which my mom seemed particularly proud of. I think she had read somewhere that they were preppy. And I believe we might have found a stray Izod shirt somewhere too. She was relieved. I was set to face the world.
It was only much later in my college career that I learned how normal families handle things like children going off to Ivy League schools. For starters, they don’t fill out the application and write the essays off the top of their heads, in pen, with mistakes brazenly crossed out and corrected. If there ever was an application whose authenticity was not a concern to the Admissions people, it was mine. There were no mentors or advisors or favored teachers (let alone AI) to give it the once over, or to plead with me to rewrite this or that paragraph. It screamed “me and a pen”, at the kitchen table, one night after dinner. This should have been a clue that my cultural blood was fishy rather than mammalian. But I can be dim sometimes.
So the application and “The Clean House Incident” and the financial aid forms were all now in the deep past. It was less than a week to the big day, a time when I imagine all sorts of conversations between Senior VP of This or General Counsel to That or Secretary of Something, and their young protégés — who, ironically, have mostly spent the past few years away from home at Saint Important Preparatory School for the Privileged. I imagine these were mostly heady if emotionally distant conversations, designed to ensure that the young lad or lass understood the expected life trajectory and the deep responsibilities of leadership.
Whether any such conversations occur in certain social strata, or instead are the crudely unfair inventions of my humorously cynical psyche, I can say one thing for sure: They didn’t happen in the Edicarian substratum where I grew up. In fact, after we returned from the apparel outing at Third World Mart, it was radio silence until the night before leaving.
“Tom, I think you leave for college tomorrow.”
“Yes mom, I think I have to check in around 10 AM or something like that.”
“Are you packed?”
“I guess.”
“How are you getting there?”
“I don’t know.”
I have no idea if that conversation actually occurred. But something like it definitely occurred, because I know that nothing was said or planned in the prior days. I had my corduroys and docksiders — the rest was details.
Morning arrived. I learned that my father would not be joining us. In fairness, he had some health issues at that point that might have made it unwise. But I suspect that he either didn’t want to deal with it, or he didn’t want to create the impression that I was doing something important enough for him to acknowledge. Or, maybe most likely, he just viewed it as a necessary conveyance from Point A to Point B that was (a) someone else’s job and (b) my job to arrange. Others might know, but the circumstances remain a mystery to me. Living thirty minutes from campus (vs., say, flying in from Delhi) probably contributed to the general disinterest.
My mother wanted to accompany me. One of my brothers kindly offered to drive, not wanting her to deal with the drive home and shuffle of luggage by herself. After a couple waves and perfunctory goodbyes, we threw the bags in the massive trunk of our navy blue Olds Delta 88, and off we went. I remember the stale smell of old cigarettes in the car and thinking that this was one thing that I would not miss.
In those days, you entered at the south end of campus and drove north to Dillon Gym, where you checked in, got your keys and got the required tattoo. Okay, I made up the tattoo part.
I remember standing in line, my mom obviously dying for a cigarette (in more ways than one). I remember the cute young lady in front of me in line. Being from Wisconsin, she was friendly, but in the obligatory, distant Princeton kind of way. I only remember this because, a few years later, I learned that one of my best friends on campus had a crush on her that year. And I only mention it because these types of emotional details are scarce at places like this, where one’s general importance and mission in life are so much more weighty than trivial matters like feelings, which are to be concealed lest they derail one’s deeply significant Global Destiny. So the infrequent honest conversations about such matters tend to stick.
The line moved quickly. I retrieved my key and ID and a pile of papers, and it was time to find Lockhart Hall. My brother deftly maneuvered the Olds Delta 88 just to the left of the arch, but behind a couple other cars. One of those cars was a large, sparkly Mercedes sedan, which eventually conveyed one of the great lessons in my life, one that I have not forgotten.
The Mercedes had arrived shortly before we did. A small entourage buzzed around the car, as a beautiful young blonde woman directed traffic, instructing the obviously hired help about where boxes and other materiel were to be deployed. In reality, it was an impressive show of polite efficiency. But we didn’t see it that way. Instead, we were shaking our Edicarian heads inside the car, laughing derisively at the spectacle. I mean, her name had to be Muffy or something, right? She was obviously from a wealthy family. And probably a prissy, arrogant pain in the rear end. Was this really my destiny? Why am I here? I’m a fish among mammals. This can’t end well. I thought.
Unsurprisingly, Muffy was not her real name. It turned out that she and three other young ladies shared the top floor of the dorm with my roommates and I, our respective rooms on either side of the landing. She turned out to be one of the most decent and genuinely friendly people I met in those four years. Oh sure, she came from some status and money, and showed up in a Mercedes with assistants. That’s not a sin. There was a bathroom between the two dorms, designated for women. That meant that my roomies and I would have to schlep down a couple flights of steps all year for the men’s facilities. Except the ladies across the landing were okay with us using their bathroom, as long as we behaved ourselves and strictly observed the “Occupied” sign. We tried.
That was the first of a number of kind and decent gestures. The truth is, we were guys and we could be rude. But they put up with us, within limits. More than that, Muffy talked to me from time to time, despite my obvious roots in Edicarian Strata, and always had a smile and a kind word. Not a teasey, flirty smile — an “I’m a nice person and don’t feel the need to pretend I’m aloof, so please tell me how you’re doing” smile. That’s hard to pull off when you’re as attractive as that, living next to four hormonal guys. But she did. And I don’t know that I ever thanked her properly. Muffy, if you’re reading this, thank you. As an aside, she became a professional actor, and ended up with a real career in TV.
I belabored that point to make a point — no, not that you meet a lot of celebrities-to-be at Princeton. You do. So what? The point is that nice people are nice people, and jerks are jerks. Your stratum assigned at birth doesn’t matter. Your celebrity status doesn’t matter. I enjoy poking some fun at the stereotypes, particularly the ones that are richly earned. We will meet a couple more before I’m done here. But the stereotypes often don’t fit, despite all appearances. It is so easy to put people in boxes. I had to get over myself and debox a number of fine people in college. It wasn’t the boiling bag of egos that my cynical, frightened mind wanted to create. At least not entirely.
So my brother and I moved my modest set of belongings to the dorm. All of my roommates had moved in before me, but I don’t remember any being around when I arrived. Within a few minutes my mother, brother and I found ourselves staring at each other on the steps below the arch. In retrospect, it was like that awkward scene in Seinfeld where the doctor tells George that Susan is dead, and none of them know what to say or do. So they go to the coffee shop and get on with their lives. And the critics are appalled.
Nobody in my family had ever been dropped off at college. There was no deep reservoir of experience with this situation. And my mom was not a hugger, despite her deep devotion to her kids and willingness to sacrifice everything. But hugging my mom was like hugging a mannequin. So they wished me luck, and I’m sure my mom quickly found a cigarette.
I returned to my room, feeling completely lost. What do I do next? I don’t remember a whole lot from the rest of the afternoon. I probably unpacked. There was an agenda for Freshman Week, so I imagine that something was on the schedule. Also, it seemed like certain people somehow knew each other already. A few people had been away on an Outward Bound trip — and I wondered why I never got that memo over the summer, not that I was an Outward Bound type. I knew exactly no one. I was one lonely fish that day.
Dinner time rolled around, and I found myself solo, for reasons lost to history. So I wandered over to the dining hall and got in line. I remember comparing it to my visit to campus earlier in the spring, except this time I didn’t have my other brother as a security blanket. I retrieved some food in Rockefeller Hall — the name says it all, doesn’t it? Think Gothic church vibe. A cavernous, rectangular room. Old wood everywhere. Huge windows. But why describe it? Here it is in modern, nicer form:
As I strolled into the dining area, I had no way of knowing that I would mop this floor dozens of times in the coming years. I felt far more comfortable with that mop than I felt with that tray of food on this first tentative excursion into the herd. I was struck by social panic. Where to sit? Finding a table by myself seemed like a bad move. I spied an open seat at a populated table and asked if it was available. I got a “yes”, although not an overwhelmingly warm one. Whatever. I took it.
Within a few moments, a sick feeling descended on my brain and made its way through my digestive system. This was the table that actually did embody every stereotype of a Princeton undergraduate. There I was, the kid from a public high school, raised in a working class neighborhood, still sporting a deep, nasal Philly accent, wearing clothes from Third World Mart. And there they were — Biff, Reginald, Muffy 2 and a couple of their friends — adorned in pure prep regalia, freshly minted from Saint Important Preparatory School for the Privileged. As David Byrne would soon sing… My God, what have I done?
I sat down. Before I could say a word, an entranced and oblivious Biff raised a glass and spoke in a voice that invoked the stuffier characters in Trading Places: His words still ring:
Is this water potable?
Yes, those were his exact words. Full disclosure, I didn’t know what “potable” meant at that point in my life, but I could surmise. It was Biff’s way of soothing his deep frustration, his way of expressing “I can’t believe I have to withstand this demeaning public hazing before I get on with my charmed life as an investment banker or State Department lifer”. I suspect that the arrival of a barbarian at the table was the final straw.
Muffy 2 sat directly across the table from me. Thin, mousey hair, large glasses, adorned in plaid. I tried to engage in some friendly conversation. Her thin grin and well-concealed, quiet sarcasm flew right past me at first. It took some time to suspect and then confirm that she took me to be a fool, and was role-playing the cat rather than the mouse. I was the latter.
I finished my food and left, realizing that I had better find some sincere people soon, or I would soon drown. Fortunately, I was blessed with great roommates throughout my tenure, all of whom remain great friends, along with a small but cherished circle of other friends. I met many of them in those first few days on campus, sloshing beers before classes started the following week, at first tentatively revealing those parts of out past that one feels comfortable revealing, the trickle of information morphing into a river over the course of months. And you slowly find yourself part of a second family, not realizing that it too is for life.
I will always be a fish, but Princeton taught me how to flop around in deserts and somehow survive. It was awkward and emotionally taxing. Eventually, it was time to return to the water, embrace and savor the wet, and learn to swim. But just as Sponge Bob can visit his great pal Sandy Cheeks once in a while, I do look forward to taking a deep breath and engaging those occasional, strange dances in other worlds. When it comes to Princeton, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. In some sense, the tattoo is real.
Thanks for reading.
Great stuff...from a second fish in the desert.