I came across an article this week detailing the efforts of Shenandoah University’s spiritual-life team to deepen the faith of Christian students by providing, what they call, “church speed-dating.” Basically, the director of church relations has been taking kids on road trips, visiting a different denomination’s church each week, for a ten week span, for the sake of religious exposure and exploration.
And I’m not quite sure what to make of that.
When I was younger, my mother used to take me and my three brothers to the Sussex County Fair. Every summer I’d convince everyone that I could handle the nausea-inducing, spinning teacups ride. But I was always mistaken. I would smile as I got on, but as soon as the twirls began, I would cling to the sides of my seat with whitened knuckles and scream. Yeah. I was that kid.
I no longer react that way on rides. But sometimes I still feel like I’m reeling. Like there was one summer, one ride, after which I never recovered. I kept on swirling, staggering through the too-quickly paced haze of an over-stimulated, over-programmed college-bound kid’s life.
We all spun through that haze. Sports teams, music lessons, student government, newspaper committee, college bowl, Russian tutor, blah, blah, blah. But now we’re here. We finally made it into Penn. So why are we still reeling?
What the hell is Saxby’s?
I used to have great lighting. Great space. Big comfy chairs. Luxurious couches. Good coffee.
Now, I’m sitting here holding an ugly, maroon, paper cup. It jeers at me with its mediocre contents. My ears are bleeding from the elevator music dribbling out of the speakers overhead. I hum to myself for comfort, borrowing Paula Cole and inserting where have all the good songs goooooonnnnneeee?
I watch a lot of TV.
Sure, I am more devoted to my shows than I am to my four looming term papers, all due this week. Sure, I get about three hours of sleep a night because I lie awake, glassy-eyed, remote in hand. But when I’m gaining powerful life lessons from Addison Montgomery and Audrina Patridge, it hardly seems to matter. A double-shot is a small price to pay for the pedagogical gems imparted by Thursday’s network lineup.
The thing is, though, I’m picky. I’ve begun to feel myself getting antsy during 90210. I used to live and breathe The OC, but now my eyes wander and I multitask while re-watching episodes that once made me weep with happiness and fulfillment. I turn to these shows for that warm, little glow that once was, but I’m left feeling empty and unmoved.
But on the other hand, I cannot rip my eyes away from the three — four, if you count Spencer — blond drama queens who rule The Hills. I lap up the wisdom of Entourage’s Ari Gold, and I recently found myself digging through the Felicity archives, happily listening to the life musings she records on cassette and sends to her former french tutor. I used to wince at Gold’s crude remarks and I used to think that nothing short of a weekend-long paleontology seminar could be as boring as Felicity.
So what has become of me? Why have my TV tastes so severely altered?
Say what you will about this day and age. Gripe all you want about how far removed this generation is from reality and plain, old human interaction.
For tonight, friends, tonight I am not only proud to be an American, I am proud to be of the Facebook generation.
That’s right. I said it. I think I may have even coined it. The Facebook Generation.
My vote doesn’t matter. Yours doesn’t either. This isn’t about whether you rejoiced or mourned as you watched the election results. This isn’t about whether you want change or a maverick.
This is about realizing that we are living and breathing history right now. And to be in college, where spirits are high and spines are tingling with the promises of tomorrow, and to be an active member of facebook — these are the blessings of our generation.
College. It’s said to be the most selfish time. You’re wrapped in the minutia of your personal life- what you’ll eat for breakfast, what you’ll get on your econ exam, what you’ll do on Saturday night and what you’ll wear when you do it. It’s so easy for us to fall into that dark, narcissistic pit. We seem to fit so perfectly inside our snug, egocentric cocoons.
But then why is the metamorphosis so agonizing? If leaving the nest is an organic, meant-to-be kind of thing, then why is it so scary, challenging and painful?
When you’re young, you’re not expected to fend for yourself. Someone else cleans and bandages your scraped knees. Someone rubs your tummy and makes you tea as you contentedly watch Full House reruns. Someone is ready with a tissue to dry your tears. And when you mess up, someone is there to reassure you that it’ll all work out.
And it’s not until those magical helping hands disappear that we begin to miss them.
A month into Penn and I was already sick of the weekend scene. So I packed some things and got on the train to NY to visit a friend at Columbia.
A few hours after arriving at what can only be described as an unending-staircase-sculpture-garden, I stood on the steps of their Taj Mahal library and thought, “I sure as hell am not in Philadelphia anymore.”
It felt strange from the start. And I had to figure out why.
Strange things have been happening around here at night.
The sun sets, the wind whips up, and students shuffle down Locust, headed home for TV and schoolwork… But some Penn students have been staying out late.
A few have been sneaking out, waiting for the darkened nighttime streets for their fun to begin. And you’re thinking: Who are they? What are they doing? Where’s the party and why wasn’t I told? What do I wear? Can I please come, too???
Well, yes. Yes, of course you can. As long as you want to spend all night praying for your soul’s salvation, that is.
You’ve probably heard your Jewish friends grumbling about the classes they’re going to miss for the High Holidays. We’re just days away from the Jewish New Year, glimpsing apples, honey and challah bread, and asking classmates to take notes for us while we’re gone.
And a number of us have been making the trek out to Hillel for a nightly 10:45 p.m. penitential prayer service. And I love it.
Talent knows no bounds here at Penn.
The problem with college is that there is just too much going on.
Locust is crawling with Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs and even a Wiccan or two. ABP, Gia, Savory, Einstein, as well as all the dining halls, are just some of the dozens of mealtime options. There are obviously too many academic disciplines to study them all. And there are certainly too many creative outlets to fully explore one’s potential.
It would be a real blessing to be surrounded with such a wide array if only college were longer than four years and every day lasted for hundreds of hours.
But time is not on our side. And to take it all in — to feel, hear, taste, smell and see all that Penn has to offer — we need to start condensing this university’s cultural offerings into sardine-sized pockets of time.
What we need, more than a new health services building, is a weekly variety show.
During the first few weeks here at Penn, students settle into their routines of all-night partying, all-day sleeping and class somewhere in between. And it is during this busy time that some of their most formative, university-age decision making takes place.
Yup, that’s right. Among other things, like deciding how often (if ever) they’ll exercise, what they’ll eat, how they’ll dress and where they’ll most often get their drink on, students have to decide how they’re going to represent themselves to their friends and classmates. And what better way to do that than by personalizing one’s dorm room with all sorts of intimate knickknacks?
So why, pray tell, do Penn students line up by the dozen to purchase their personalities?
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