The bottom line of college orientation is that it’s a paradox: feeling simultaneously deeply comforted and entirely thrown off your axis, spinning rapidly towards the unknown. Or at least, that’s what orientation was like for me.

This paradox manifested itself at the very beginning of the journey from Ohio to New York. After posting my obligatory, “Leaving for college. Thanks for the memories everybody!” Facebook status, I packed all of my earthly belongings into the family car. That’s when I realized that all of my earthly belongings fit into the family car. While the reality of this totally satisfied the fatalist in me (look how easy it would be for me to escape with so little materialistic baggage to weigh me down once the zombie apocalypse hits — yippee!) it also left me reeling. It only underscored the fact that the home I was leaving, the home I had grown up in and considered my own, really wasn’t mine any more. Everything that grounded me to my house was stuffed into the car, ready to be shipped off to what is essentially a linoleum-floored, whitewashed box. Statements I had made with confidence ever since I clicked submit on my electronic application quickly turned to questions: This is what I want? I’m excited? I’m ready to be on my own?

I often felt a little lost in the shuffle, unsure of who to ask to hang out with me and a little uncomfortable with the thought of having to ask at all. When I was asked to hang out (I did manage to avoid total social leprosy) I wondered if I was being funny enough or smart enough or if people would remember that I had been with them at all.

But when I arrived on campus, a wave of peace washed over me. Everything from the overheard conversations about starting a Quidditch team to the deeply important and intricate debate I had with the senior who so graciously helped me move in about which side of the room I should take (I GOT THERE FIRST, BITCHES) reminded me why I chose to go to Barnard in the first place. These were my people.

This solid sense of being in the right place only became more apparent as the week — known as “NSOP” or “New Student Orientation Program” — wore on. We were pretty much booked day in and day out with lectures on public safety, college life, and even an awesome alumnae book club, but between all of the required activities, I got to know my fellow bold, beautiful Barnard women. Yes, I think I might even have temporarily forgotten about my home back in Ohio … if I hadn’t had to repeat my place of birth along with my name, intended major and reason I chose this school every single time I met somebody new, which was approximately every five minutes. Such is orientation.

I met girls who aspired to be neuroscientists, anthropologists, philosophers of literature and everything in between. I met girls from all over the country and the world — my own roommate is from Istanbul, Turkey. Possibly most impressively of all, I met a girl who proudly dressed up as George Costanza from “Seinfeld” for Halloween the year before. I was so proud that I was selected to be one of these girls and slightly amazed that I made the cut. I finally felt like I had found exactly where I was supposed to be, and the peace that came with that was unlike anything I’d ever felt before.

But then again, despite going through the ranks of what many of us described as “friend speed-dating,” despite casual jaunts to places like Times Freakin’ Square, the West Village and the Brooklyn Bridge, and even despite tasting a variety of cupcakes that truly forced me to reconsider everything I had previously thought about baked goods and subsequently my entire life in general (they are intricately related after all), I felt a little niggling of homesickness.

Longing to see my beloved dog, I tried to convince my mom to set up a Skype account just for him. (For the record, she refused … but she will. Trust me I’m not giving up.) I missed having conversations that didn’t require me to explain myself — my likes, dislikes, hometown, family, etc. — in any way. I missed knowing who I would be hanging out with, when and what we’d be doing. Every evening it seemed like girls formed groups and went off together before I even had the chance to say, “Anybody up for ice cream and Netflix Instant?” I often felt a little lost in the shuffle, unsure of who to ask to hang out with me and a little uncomfortable with the thought of having to ask at all. When I was asked to hang out (I did manage to avoid total social leprosy), I wondered if I was being funny enough or smart enough or if people would remember that I had been with them at all.

Of course, despite the general love I already have for this place and my new life, I’m admittedly struggling a little bit. I’ve already met wonderful people that I truly, genuinely like, but I still worry that once classes start they’ll completely forget about my existence. Hopefully I’ll stop missing my family and friends as much, but I know that I probably always will to some extent. Classes haven’t even started yet (oh right, I came here to learn) so who knows how that’ll work its way into the mix. All I know is that I’m trying to live in the moment, trying to remember the disorientation as much as I remember the orientation. Hopefully, I’ll look back on this moment at the end of the year, shake my head and sigh, ‘Oh, September Julie. If only you knew what’s in store for you.’

Cross-posted from The Frisky where I’m writing every other week about being a college Freshman. Check it out here.

Barnard College

I’m proud to announce that for the next school year, I’ll be writing a column for The Frisky about my Freshman year in college. I’ll be writing about everything from frat parties to relationships to financial aid, all from a feminist perspective. The first post in this series was published this week, and is reprinted below. I hope you guys like it and continue to read!

I wouldn’t say that I was a nerd in high school. Although I have adopted the art of procrastination as ardently and with as much love as if it were a tiny puppy alone on the side of the road in a rainstorm, I did in fact manage to get some studying in. But despite grades and test scores that were high enough to award me admittance to one of the best schools in the country, I’d never call myself geeky. “Loner” probably isn’t the right word, either. I wasn’t exactly in the running for prom queen (real talk: I didn’t even go to prom my junior year, gasp) but I had a particularly close group of best friends who were like my sisters. I never felt alone, but rather constantly surrounded by people who loved me. No, the only thing I can definitively say to describe who I was in high school is that I was there.

I felt it on the first day of my freshman year: I didn’t belong there. I know, it’s the oldest story in the privileged white girl’s book. Nobody understands me! I wish I went to an alternative school that exchanged P.E. for reiki treatments and preferred Woolf and Plath to Dickens and Thoreau! Whinewhinewhine! Okay, maybe that’s not what every privileged white girl wants (Uggs paired with skirts in summer and Natty Light come to mind as viable alternatives for many a P.W.G) but it’s certainly what I wanted. Or at least it’s a hyperbolic version of what I wanted. I remember, as I took my first steps into high school thinking, Julie, if you make it through today, I will reward you with a cookie and a ‘My So Called Life’ marathon. Get your head in the game. Ward off everything that makes you uncomfortable with sarcasm and cynicism that your classmates don’t yet and may never understand or appreciate. Only four more years!

And now, here I am, four years later. I graduated high school. I am headed off to Barnard College of Columbia University. When people here at home in ol’ northeastern Ohio ask where I’m going and I answer a little too quickly, they tilt their heads skeptically and ask, “You’re going to a farm in South America?” thinking I’ve said, “A barnyard in Colombia.” I internally roll my eyes, but at least I know the truth: I was simultaneously accepted to the number one women’s college in the country and an Ivy League school, and I’m going to New York City to do some fancy learning.

The truth is, I’m absolutely terrified. I have older friends already in and out of college who tell me that being afraid is perfectly normal, but that doesn’t keep me from waking up in the middle of the night from stress dreams of a bleak future. In one dream, I’m alone in my dorm room on a Saturday night wrapped in my Snuggie with a hand shoved into a box of Munchkins, so far past the freshman 15 that the ability to fit into my jeans is but a distant memory, sobbing, “Forever alone. Why am I forever alone?”

If it’s not a dream, then it’ll be a gripping panic interjected into the most mundane of daily tasks. The other day, I was loading dishes in the dishwasher when it hit me: What if I have to eat alone? People can’t possibly go to the cafeteria in groups at all times in college like they do in high school, can they? While I’ve eaten alone, I’ve only ever eaten really alone, like alone in my own house. I’ve never eaten alone while surrounded by other people who are not eating alone. What the hell do I do then? Am I crazy for worrying about this? Probably. I’m probably insane and nobody will like me. Cue me crying in the corner in the fetal position.

But despite the panic and fear and just plain sadness that has been pretty consistent throughout this whole leaving-everything-I know-behind-forever thing, I’m also pretty damn excited (bet you didn’t see that coming). I’m scared about being alone … but I’m also really happy to finally be independent. I’m excited to possibly meet people with whom I have more things in common than being born in the same location. I want to learn, I want to meet my soulmate (of every variety), I want to have a lot of fun and I want to experience as many things for the first time as I possibly can.

One interesting thing (amongst many!) about Barnard is that they’re extraordinarily (and rightfully) proud of their alumna, Pulitzer Prize-winning author and journalist Anna Quindlen. The school constantly quotes her as saying that at Barnard she “majored in unafraid.” Well, I think I’ll follow in Ms. Quindlen’s footsteps and add “unafraid” to my academic and personal agenda. I don’t want to repeat my experience in high school – of showing up, doing what’s required and dying for it to be over. I want to make the absolute most of college. I want to really be there.

And I want you to come with me. For the next year here on The Frisky I’m going to write a tell-all account of my freshman year (well, at Barnard I am technically known as a “First Year” because we’re not into that patriarchal “-man” suffix s**t, but you know what I mean). And, like I said, I’m officially fearless. Or at least I’m going to try very hard to be.

So, I think the only area of doubt that remains, the final question that begs to be asked is: are you ready to vicariously relive your freshman year?

But you’d think, if you were dating a guy that knows you’re a feminist, supports your feminism, agrees with your feminism, that he’d be a feminist too, right? How could he not be? 

Jessica Wakeman at The Frisky posed the question: could you date a guy that doesn’t call himself a feminist?

To which I would respond: I’m friends with girls who support my feminism, believe in feminist issues and don’t call themselves feminists (yet…). And I have dated guys who didn’t consider themselves feminist. One guy would tell me over and over again how much he supported my belief in feminism, but would never identify as one himself, no matter how many times I explained that

a) you don’t have to be a girl to be a feminist
and
b) he’d already identified himself as one in everything but title. 

It all just comes down to how intimidating the title “feminist” is to some people. I can’t even count how many times I’ve heard “I’m not a feminist, but of course I support a woman’s right to choose/of course I believe media sets ridiculous standards for women/of course women should be paid the same as men/etc.”

News flash: that’s what being a feminist is. There is not some club you join or ritual initiation. There is no ring or other charm you must wear. There are no secret handshakes or passwords. It is just about believing in women’s rights to equality. 

For me, I don’t choose friends based on their feminist status, and boyfriends go the same way. It takes people longer than others to see the light, or be secure enough with themselves to use a word that makes so many others uncomfortable. I can only help by teaching them about feminism and sharing my experiences. Maybe one day they’ll identify as feminists, then again, maybe they won’t. 

As a feminist, I’m all about choice.