During the first few days of my freshman year of college in Philadelphia – 20 years ago this week – it was sunny, bright, and contradictorily cool. We kept waiting for rain, and there was none, which was good for us suburban kids who weren’t used to walking around in a city. Some of us already had blisters on our feet by the third day on campus.
The first several days were reserved for freshman orientation. It included “diversity training” on the grassy college green, where we acted out skits designed to erase any racism and sexism we’d acquired back home. We dropped and added courses last-minute, attended seminars like “using campus phones,” and quickly learned to do laundry. There was a tree-lined brick walkway that ran the length of campus, past the bookstore and the Quadrangle, and along the way, salespeople set up tables to offer us credit cards, sell us college t-shirts, and sign us up for gym or video store membership.
During the first few days of school, everybody wanted us. We were the future. We were not yet hardened or sullied. Our mailboxes and backpacks filled with coupons: The local pizza restaurant, wing joints, bagel shops. Credit card companies followed up on their offers by telling us which gifts we could have if we used their card, now that we were suddenly independent (probably not such a good idea). Clubs and non-profit volunteer groups begged us to join.
Everybody wanted us. We were the future.
One night during orientation, there was an introductory event at the Christian center with free burgers. Of course, all the non-Christian freshmen came too, because it was yet another free dinner, a way to avoid spending money when people were throwing so many freebies at us.
Everybody wanted us. We were the future.
And some of us apparently wanted each other. We were 18, without our parents for the first time, and hormones were raging. So there we were, with thousands of people our ages, of similar backgrounds, suddenly sprung from the stuffy halls of high school and shedding the social labels of nerd or geek or jock.
Everybody wanted us. We were the future.
Everybody wanted us when we were 18.
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We could do anything from there, and some of us were bound to find great success. So all the salespeople wanted to make sure it was their credit card we had in our hand. Upperclassmen wanted to make sure it was they whom we dated. We were ripe for the picking. Get ’em while they’re young. Feed ’em, stuff their mailboxes with offers and event notices, give ’em a plastic blue and red rape whistle if any of their late-night activities go too far.
It was an explosive, exciting time for those of us who’d been mired in the limitations of high school. It was the beginning of independence.
For some students, it was a time when they realized they didn’t know how to handle that newfound independence and flunked out. Others started a “floor couple” romance within a few days of class and saw it end on the last day of freshman year. Some spent all of school partying. Some prepared to make a lot of money. Some filled their heads with knowledge but didn’t know what to do after graduation, and spent their twenties feeling like a fish suffocating on land.
But no matter what happened, beginnings are nice. We didn’t know which path we were about to take, only that it was ahead of us and not much was behind.
That feeling comes back to me every year around this time, when the leaves crumble and the cool winds of autumn return. I remember when I knew that pretty much anything could happen in love and life. You don’t have to be 18 to believe that, but when you are 18, it sure helps that other people feel that way about you, too!