Senior Activities

So I've officially graduated college. Crazy, huh? I want to share with you the details and the emotions of the event, but first I have to write about senior week.

Last week, my final week at Fordham, was full of scheduled senior activities. These are all sponsored by the university, and it's a cool way for the class of 2008 to get together and party. Tuesday night featured the first of these events- the Luau under the bleachers.

The Luau was supposed to be Hawaiian themed, but it was difficult to get a sense of that in the concrete cavern under the football bleachers. There was plenty of cheap light beer to be had, so my friends and I capitalized on that. For me, he best part of the night was when we got together and 'rode the ram'; a rite of passage for any Fordham student. There is a life-size bronze ram statue on campus, and before you graduate you have to climb up on it and take a picture saddling up. I was wearing a skirt, so the bronze was rather rough on my bare legs, but we got some excellent pictures, as you can see here.

Wednesday was the senior ball, which was held in a colossal ballroom downtown at Chelsea Piers. I went with my friend Xavier; as I mentioned in an earlier post I needed a platonic dance partner, and he fit the bill. Needless to say, we looked sharp and tore up the dance floor. It was also very cool to see all the members of my class dressed to the nines.

The one glitch in the night came when my date unexpectedly disappeared. Remember when I wrote about my friend Mary, and how she was razzing me about asking Xavier to the ball? And remember my prediction that she would drunkenly steal him during the course of the evening? Well, ladies and gentlemen, Annie knows how to call it; this is exactly what happened.

Xavier left to go to the bathroom at about 11:45, and after about fifteen minutes had gone by, I began to grow restless. The ball was scheduled to end at 12:30; there was only a half hour left to dance, and my default dance partner was MIA. I managed to find his roommates, and they explained to me that they last saw Xavier being dragged out unto the dance floor by Mary. Needless to say, when I heard this news I was incensed. Keep in mind that at this point the bar was closed down, I was completely sober, and I had seen a number of ex-boyfriends lurking in the background. I wanted to be out on the dance floor with my date, not standing on the sidelines waiting for some ridiculous girl to return him.

"I'm going to rain Sicilian wrath down upon her head," I vowed aloud, literally shaking my fist to the ceiling, not caring who heard or saw me. At this point the deejay announced he was playing his final songs for the night, and more people flooded to the dance floor. My anger and discomfort deepened.

Fortunately I was rescued by perhaps my oldest guy friend, a boy named Mark. We've been so tight for years that people jokingly call us a married couple.

"Annie, where's Xavier?" he asked, on his way to the dance floor.

"He's been stolen," I replied, gritting my teeth.

"Come dance with me," he said, and he grabbed my hand and we moved into the crowd. We danced the last few songs together, my head on his shoulder. My anger began to dissolve and was replaced by a sense of bittersweet sadness. My classmates were moving around me; Frank Sinatra filled the air.

"We started it out together, and we're ending it together, Wray," Mark told me and we moved in slow circles.

I didn't know what to say to that; I was quickly becoming overwhelmed with emotion. I gave him a kiss on the cheek.

The last song ended, and me and Mark hugged tightly. I belatedly realized that he had ditched his own date to be with me. Oh well.

And then Xavier materialized, drunken Mary trailing behind him.

"Heeeeyyyyyy!" Mary slurred, but I ignored her. Lucky for her the Sicilian wrath remained dormant.

"I'm sorry," Xavier said to me. "She jumped me. And my phone gets no reception in here."

"Whatever, let's just go get some Guinness," I replied. Xavier and I spent the rest of the night downtown at our favorite bar, Ulysses, where we reminiscenced about the last four years and knocked back some pints, still in our formal wear. Needless to say, his disappearance was forgiven.

Friday night, the night before graduation, was the Baccalaureate Mass and the Parent Appreciation Dinner. As a member of the University Choir, we sang for the Baccalaureate mass, which was attended by over 1,000 people and held in the Rose Hill gym. My parents and brothers came for the Mass; when I saw them before the service was to start the reality of my impending graduation sank in. My entire family had never all been assembled at Fordham before.

There was little time to think about that though, because I had some serious singing to do. The mass went very well. We sang some pieces as selected by the seniors; for my part I picked "Cantique de Jean Racine" by Faure, and "I Was Glad" by Perry. Look them up on Itunes- it's good stuff.

Immediately after the Mass we all went to a huge tent on Martyr's Lawn for the Parent Appreciation Dinner Dance. It was very nice event, with delicious food and great music. I enjoyed hanging out with my entire family; in particular, my younger brother Jack and I had a good time on the dance floor.

And on Saturday came my graduation, but I will save that discussion for my next post...

Fragility

I usually do not post on serious subjects, but today was one of the those days that will sit in your memory for quite some time. I sincerely hope that 'blogging' about it will not trivialize the matter; I consider this blog a forum to stay in touch with my family and close friends, so I think posting about this is appropriate, because I really want to share it with you.

Today started out ordinarily enough; I slept in, relishing the lack of scheduled responsibilities. I met up with my good friends for cappuccinos and cannolis (an amazing combo, especially when you're dining in Little Italy of the Bronx). Over the pastries, two of my oldest friends, Mark and Bill, told me about how there were police detectives in their hallway on the first floor of O'Hare Hall this morning.
"It was really intense; they even checked for our i.d.s to make sure we lived there," Bill said.
"Maybe someone is hiding an alien in their room or something," I suggested, completely immature, buzzed on caffeine.

When I got back to my dorm at about 4:00 this afternoon I checked my email (which most of you know I hardly ever do). I had received a mass email from the university, informing me that a student had died this morning in O'Hare Hall. Suddenly Mark and Bill's story about the police made sense.

I felt sickened and paralyzed, staring at my computer screen. Fordham has an undergraduate body of 6,000 students, but only 4,000 attend my campus of Rose Hill in the Bronx, and a decent percentage of those are commuter students, not residents. This individual was directly in my community.

Information started to leak in from the grapevine; the student was a junior boy, the circumstances surrounding his death were unknown, he had a mother and father and brother, and I did not know him. It did not matter. He was in my little community, he was one of us. I felt physically ill, and before I knew it hot tears were running down my cheeks.

The email mentioned that a prayer service was going to be held at 7:00 in the basement of the church. I decided I was going to go; not only would it make me feel better to be with other members of the community, but I felt it was important to honor one of our own. I asked my roommates if they wanted to come with; their responses were incredulous: "Why would we go? We didn't know him."

I went to choir rehearsal at 5:00; we have to prepare for the Baccalaureate mass on Friday and commencement on Saturday. Needless to say that I sucked. I screwed up songs that I had known for years. It was like I had forgotten how to read music. Some of my fellow choirsters looked equally distracted; the tone of the entire rehearsal was subdued.

I asked my friend Quan to come to the service with me. Before I continue with my story, let me tell you a little about Quan. He is a short Asian guy from Louisiana and one of my good friends. He's always been in choir, and we've recently started hanging out again. He was abroad last spring, and I was in London in the fall, so we went for a year without seeing each other. Earlier today I had run into him when I was going to get cappuccinos with Bill and Mark, and I asked him if he wanted to come with, to which he agreed. It was the first time we've hung out in earnest in months. Quan, who's also a scholastic Jesuit but is in my grade, also today took me to the Jesuit community hall off-campus where he lives, and showed me around, which was very cool. He's been a scholastic Jesuit, which is a Jesuit who's still in the training process, for four years. Overall, he's an intelligent, sensitive, nice guy.

So this evening, after choir ended, Quan went back to his residence hall to drop off his music, then met me at the basement of the church for the service. There weren't alot of people there; after all most people have gone home for the summer. The family of this boy weren't there either, but this did not surprise me.

Father Currie asked for capable readers to deliver readings, and I volunteered, along with one other student and two professors. I figured that I would be able to maintain my composure, and besides, I wanted to help. I read a selection from 2 Romans.

Overall, it was sobering, sad gathering. Father Currie asked for people to share memories of the boy, but nobody spoke. The silence was perhaps the most difficult part of all. I was grateful to be surrounded by other members of the community, but it would have been nice if more were there.

After it was over, Quan walked me back to my dorm.
"This is for you," he said, and he gave me a little wooden crucifix. "I could see in choir how upset this has made you."
"I'm sensitive," I replied, a little embarrassed. I thought I had successfully concealed my emotions at rehearsal. But still I was touched by the gift. "Thank you, Quan."
"You're a good person," Quan answered. "Hold unto God." He gave me a hug and left.

With graduation approaching, this is already a week of bittersweet transition, but this death of a member of my community reminds me forcibly of the fragility of life. Mundane worries about paychecks, grades and boys are not important; the fact that I'm alive and able to relish a delicious cappuccino on a May afternoon is a gift. I also think that it was interesting that Quan came back into my life on a day like this; he was there for me right when I needed someone to lean on. I'm not a deeply religious person, but I can not ignore the spiritual significance of that.

It's almost 9:00 pm now, and I am still rattled and upset by the day's events. Mostly I think of my fellow student, and of his family. I hope he's okay now, and I can't imagine what his family is going through.

Earlier today I planned on baking cookies for a friend's birthday, and I am still going to do that. I think it's important to cherish small celebrations, and some chocolate sounds delicious.

I apologize if this post was preachy; I just decided to be honest. xoxoxo

Academic Achievement

One week to go. One week left in my undergraduate career. This realization brings in a deluge of conflicting emotions; I am alternately excited to leave and at other times I am quite upset at the prospect. Bittersweet is the best word to describe it.

So anyway, this past week saw the completion of my academic career at Fordham. I finished up my finals and my final papers. It was a grueling week but I think I did well on my exams. On Friday after everything was finished I met up with my good friends and we cooked a nice celebratory dinner. I even made brownies; it was quite a culinary achievement in my opinion.

I also attended my last Archaeology of the Ancient Near East Seminar at Columbia University. As I've mentioned in previous posts, The Professor hosts these seminars, and I've been attending them every month for the past two years. Normally the lecturers speak about topics that are way over my head, but this week the presenter was an archaeologist from Tel Aviv who spoke about the Philistines. Keep in mind that I had just completed a term paper on the Philistines.

Normally I never open my mouth at these seminars; the other attendees are other Columbia profs who are well into their fifties and sixties. Speaking would just reiterate my ignorance. But at this lecture, with a subject that I actually had some background in, I raised my hand and asked a question at the end:

"When examining these artifacts, you mentioned that the primary animal motifs were of bulls or horses. Did you notice the presence of a bird motif? I ask this because the bird motif is a classic Philistine design; it's on contemporaneous Mycenaean pottery and also in the reliefs at Medinet Habu."

Killer question, huh? I couldn't believe myself! The archaeologist, an old, irascible Israeli woman, simply replied in her thick accent: "No. No bird motif."

But it didn't matter. I had opened my mouth and sounded like I actually knew what I was talking about! And it got even better. After the end of the lecture, as the professors were all getting ready to go to dinner, The Professor came up to me.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?" he asked. "It's your last lecture, after all. The university will pay for you."

"Really?" I replied, flattered and astounded. "I would love to! Thank you."

So I went out to an Italian restaurant with about seven of the professors. We went to a place close to the University, and the venue was packed with students. It felt a little strange arriving there with a bunch of white haired academics, but what the hell. Over dinner they talked about their days in grad school, debated various theories about the Philistines, and argued about concepts that I had never heard of. I did my best to pay attention and stay engaged, and I am pleased to say that I did well. It was a little nerve-racking, but I held my own. The free wine helped, too.

I viewed that whole night as quite an achievement. I never would have dreamed, four years ago, that I would know enough about archaeology to engage intelligently in debate with seasoned veterans of the field. And I still can't get over the fact that they invited me to dinner!

And now it's Sunday, and this week I will graduate; I'm still trying to wrap my brain around it. There are alot of activities planned for the seniors, and I will try to post more frequently to keep you all updated on this tumultuous, exciting time. Until next time...

The End of Classes

So this week saw the end of my undergraduate classes. I had my last day of regular classes on Tuesday, something that was both liberating and unsettling. First, at 11:30, I had my last archaeology class (Ancient Cultures of the Bible), and my last class with my mentor, The Professor. To be honest, it didn't really sink in that is was my final class with him; I was too busy taking notes, as it was a serious lecture class. At 1:00 I had my final Anthropology Fieldwork class, and again I didn't get that sense of finality; we were too busy wrapping up the course and getting through final student presentations.

But at 2:30 on that Tuesday I had my final class of the day (and of my undergraduate career). It was very appropriate that it was Liberation Theology, my senior values seminar. The class is all seniors, and we sat in our typical circular formation. As I sat down and looked at my fellow seniors, I was shocked and embarrassed to have a lump form in my throat. The reality of it all was sinking in; our time in college and at Fordham was drawing to a close.

In that class we sat and talked about the course and our upcoming final, but there was no lecture or note-taking. Some of the seniors spoke of their plans post-graduation, but the majority of us sat there, staring blankly. A few girls were tearing up, and I am glad to say that I did not join their ranks. I tried my best to keep my emotions concealed in the classroom context.

After that class was over I went outside and stood by the quad. It was a beautiful day; the sky was a bright glaring blue and devoid of clouds. I had oversized sunglasses on (very trendy), and I stood there, absorbing the beauty of the campus and allowing my new reality to settle in. Before I knew it silent tears were rolling down my face (thankfully concealed by the sunglasses). While I saw it as an accomplishment that I had finished my classes, keep in mind that I am an avid lover of academia; in general I enjoy my work. The fact that all of my classes at Fordham were now over was a bitter pill to swallow.

There was only one person on campus I could talk to about this: The Professor. The Professor and I have developed a strong bond over the past four years. I consider him to be my mentor both in archaeology as well as in other areas of life, and I respect him highly. I met him up in his messy, chaotic office and sat in the chair that I have sat in for countless hours.

"You're growing up!" he said to me as I plopped down in my chair and removed my sunglasses, revealing my tear-stained face. "The new adventure in your life is about to begin!"

"Yeah, I guess," I said, rather unenthusiastically.

"There will always be moments of transition like this in your life," he said. "That's what it's all about. I mean, you wouldn't want to stay here for another year, would you?"

"I guess not," I answered.

"And it's not like it's the end of school for you," he added. "It's just the end of school at Fordham."

I nodded- after all, I did plan on grad school in a year. The Professor was so wise.

"You'll be fine, Annie," he said to me, clapping me on the back. "I have absolute faith in you."

I didn't have alot of time to think about the close of my classes; now I am thoroughly entrenched in preparation for my finals. Those will be wrapped up by the close of this week, so another milestone will have gone by. It is quite unbelievable to think that I have two weeks left in my college career...