The Tartan

Editorials featured in the Forum section are solely the opinions of their individual authors.

Prologue: Aug. 21

I open my eyes to see I have time-traveled 30 minutes into the future. The bus ride to the Children’s Museum featured a dozen CFA kids singing Broadway and overanalyzing their favorite books. Nerds. After making my way down the bus and having thanked the bus driver, my roommate Allen showed me a picture he had taken on the bus of me sleeping like a baby with my mouth wide open. My horrendous posture explained my searing neck pain.

As we finally entered the museum, Allen and I saw a girl: She stood there before us menacingly. She stood like a warrior preparing for a battle, with her legs in the triple threat position and arms ready to swing at you at any moment. She stared at me like a predator ready to catch its prey. Was she a spy out to get me for skipping this morning’s orientation session? Or maybe she was a time traveler from the year 2080 ready to stop me from slipping on a banana peel that causes a chain reaction to alter the course of history? As Allen looked at me dumbfounded, I scratched my eyes and cleared the fog from my glasses. It turned out I was half asleep and my brain was playing tricks on me. The girl just stood there and waved hello at us.

“Hello! You guys are archi too?”

The girl introduced herself as Ashley, a fellow architecture student. She was one of the hundred people in the auditorium who one day glared at me for wasting their time. As Allen introduced himself, I waved hello and smiled. Ashley struck up a conversation with Allen as I awkwardly stood there drinking Diet Coke.

“So, you two, what did you guys talk about for your opening speech?”

Oh goodness, I almost choked on my Diet Coke. My eyes widened and sweat poured down my face. I wanted no one to remember my embarrassing speech. That speech was awful. My ancestors did not survive the Ice Age just to see their two-thousandth descendant fumble that terribly on their first impression in college. I thought to myself that my speech could not have been memorable. It is one of many speeches made that day. Besides, it was a long day, and my speech was so generic and bland. 

Allen continued to talk with Ashley, “I talked about sustainable architecture. Victor here… well he said architecture is a – “

I gulped. 

“YOU ARE THE ONE WHO SAID ‘ARCHITECTURE IS A FLUID!’

Thank you, Allen. I always considered you a friend, but I will remember this moment. As I stood there listening to Ashley recall specific quotes from my speech, it became apparent that I made a total fool of myself. Looking to my left, Ashley was laughing uncontrollably. To my right, Allen was doing his best impression of me. It became increasingly apparent that my plan to be as unnoticeable as possible had failed. I embraced my newfound fame and enjoyed the night at the museum with my new friend.

Aug. 26

The morning of Aug. 26 was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and a police car was blaring its loud sirens down the road at six in the morning. Did somebody rob a bank? I was dreaming of a creamy bacon carbonara just a second ago. Being half asleep, I quickly checked the time on my phone, wrapped myself up in my blanket, and fell right back to sleep dreaming about the delicious food I would not be eating any time soon. 

I woke up to a loud thump. Thinking the roof had broken off, I frantically jumped out of bed to peer out the window. It turned out to be a garbage truck collecting its weekly garbage. I gave a deep sigh of relief and proceeded back to bed. I quickly checked the time, which was 7 a.m., and fell right back to sleep. 

“WEEWOO WEEWOO WEEWOO!” I had enough. What could be next? Did a nuclear war break out? Was there a zombie apocalypse on the first day of college? It turned out to be my silly alarm clock. As my roommates woke up one by one because of the alarm, I decided to start my day. 

It was 8 a.m. and classes began in an hour. As my roommates began their morning routines by taking a shower and brushing their teeth, I proceeded to scroll through Instagram until I ran out of marmot reels. Allen and I left Donner at 8:40 a.m. and proceeded over to Doherty Hall. We met an upperclassman friend who didn’t recognize us and got bribed into joining Buggy for a few candies. We entered Doherty Hall and met hundreds of students rushing out of class to get to their next lecture. We quickly entered our classroom and sat in the front. English class was fun. The 50 minutes went by quickly. This was a great start to the college experience! After class ended, we had to find our next classroom. Allen and I planned out the route we would take the night before. On the way to our next class, Shop Skills, we met a familiar face. She wore a belt and had a latte in her hand. It was Ashley. 

“Hey, what’s up guys?” Ashley asked.

We greeted one another and showed each other our schedules. As she scrolled through my phone, her eyes widened.

“Is something wrong, Ashley?” I asked.

“It says B2. You don’t have shop skills right now.”

Allen and I look at each other shocked. We ran over to the CUC and asked the person at the information desk. It turned out we indeed had no class. Given that we took two mini-courses, this class would occur in the second half of the semester. We now had three hours of free time. We thanked Ashley and she ran off to her English class.

I asked Allen, “What do you want to do now?” 

We headed up to Rev Noodle for an early lunch and went to Hunt Library to begin our English homework. As we went inside and opened the door to the stairwell, another familiar face appeared. He wore a Star Wars shirt. He had curly hair and glasses. It was Sami!

“Yo, what’s good guys?”

Sami appeared ecstatic to see us since he was as bored as we were. We headed upstairs where there were fewer people, and we toured the second floor of Hunt. The library was relatively busy on the first day. There, I saw students hard at work with their homework while others were enjoying their books in silence. We sat down at a table in the corner to complete some work. While Allen and I were brainstorming ideas for our English assignment, Sami watched Organic Chemistry Tutor for an hour. When the clock reached 1:50 p.m., we all headed to our next class.

Studio. The most feared architecture class for first-years. Upperclassmen shake violently upon the mention of this course. Legend says first-years  spend a minimum of five hours a day in the studio working tirelessly on our projects. Some do not sleep for days, others survive on a diet of Redbull and sheer willpower. Over summer break, I trained myself for such occasions. Architecture is daunting, but not as daunting as binge-watching true crime documentaries and horror movies late in the evening. I trained my mind to be impenetrable and iron-willed: nothing will phase me in the slightest bit. Besides, the constant fear of being possessed by an evil doll in my sleep has made me immune to sleep deprivation. I am invincible.

As I set foot into CFA Room 214 for the first time, around me were the same 60 or so students whose time I wasted at orientation, and the professors who will take me under their tutelage for the semester. I saw Ashley wave at me, so I joined her at her table and waited for the lecture to begin. 

The class was two hours and 50 minutes long. One word I’d use to sum up the class: Work. We were immediately assigned a project to be completed in two days. What was it? Drawing line after line after line in varying line weights and density. The class immediately got to work after class was complete; every second was precious. So precious, in fact, that I could not go to the bathroom without feeling guilty for wasting any precious time. With my adrenaline pumping and heart racing, I immediately got to work. Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned into hours. Before I knew it, the sky was dark. I had merely drawn a couple of straight lines and am not halfway done. Checking my phone, it was just past nine. The studio was still jam-packed with distressed architecture students. 

After doing a few stretches, I returned to my seat to resume my work. Before picking up my mechanical pencil, I noticed my hand was black. From the side of my hand to my fingers, it was covered in graphite. Parts of the drawing were also smudged. This was terrible news, and I was devastated. I was so invested in my drawing that I failed to notice these black smudges. I frantically erased the smudges, and with that, hours of progress were lost. I never thought my quirky pencil grip would cost me so much time, sweat, and tears. I wished my mother taught me how to hold a pencil properly instead of letting me do it my way. I wished I didn’t hold my pencil in a fist. Although it looks interesting, I had come to realize how impractical it was, and perhaps it is why my handwriting is illegible. After erasing a quarter of my drawing, I ran over to the sink and covered my right hand in soap. I watched as the soap turned black and my hand changed color. Crisis averted: the sink was now black, my hand was clean, and I was ready to draw again.

Drawing lines for hours on end is not fun. Writing about drawing lines is not fun. Not eating dinner is also not fun. I left the studio at around 1 a.m. I left my half-completed drawing and 50 other comrades who were still in the studio to retreat to my room. I drew too many lines today. I drew so much that I saw the world in vertical and horizontal lines for a while. As I returned to Donner House, I imagined every tree, plant, and building in two dimensions. In the shower, I thought about the optimal pencil grip for drawing lines. As I shut off the lights and tucked myself into bed, I considered investing in a T square ruler. As I drifted off to sleep, I had a nightmare where I used HB instead of 4B lead on my drawing.

My first day of college was, well, adventurous. Was it fun? Sort of. Were the rumors true? Yes, you will spend at least five hours in the studio and not sleep more than six hours a day ever again. Energy drinks will be my best friend. Lines will become my worst enemy. I will develop a bond unlike any other with the 60 other architecture students — a trauma bond united by archi-torture. But amidst my disdain for drawing lines, today was indeed thrilling: maybe it’s truly the passion that fuels ambition. I love architecture, after all, and I signed up for this. Tomorrow is a new day. Perhaps I will draw more lines. Perhaps I will be lucky enough to eat dinner. Maybe tomorrow will mark a new beginning which will fuel a burning hatred for chairs (foreshadowing). Either way, I said I will be ready, and I am strapped in for the ride that the journey of being an architecture major will take me on.