Week 1 at Stanford

Disclaimer: this is going to be a long-winded ramble, but I do spill some tea halfway through.

Another disclaimer: I acknowledge that I’m extremely lucky and privileged to be attending Stanford. That being said, this school is not without its problems.

Here goes!

NSO and SPOT - New Student Orientation and the Stanford Pre-Orientation Trip (five days of basecamping at Lassen National Park) - were euphoric. A brief summary of SPOT: we hiked several dozen miles through wet sand, scaled a volcano, fried cinnamon rolls on a propane stove, and ran into a lake. The most memorable part of SPOT were probably Spotlights: after each meal, a member of our SPOT group would share their life story. I hold SPOT as evidence for how vulnerability is vital for any community - I came out of SPOT humbled and inspired.

Immediately afterwards, NSO slapped away any vestiges of summer’s slowness. NSO was a storm of open houses, meetings, performances and presentations and parties - in other words, it was a blur.

NSO did a great job of making me feel welcome at Stanford, which was what many of us - me included - needed. Its slew of open houses did a good job of demystifying the activities and opportunities on and off campus.

What NSO did not do was prepare me for my first week of classes. Of course, I’m not blaming NSO or any person in particular for the disorientation - for lack of a better word (also, get the pun?) - that I felt in the first week.

NSO was part of Stanford’s magic. It represented my mindset pre-September, when I’d conceptualized Stanford as the epitome of higher education, the culmination of all my years of work. I hadn’t really considered what would happen following NSO or the long-awaited Move-In Day. I hadn’t thought beyond Stanford’s swooping red roofs into the classes within. Despite all my attempts not to, I’d made myself into a cliche - caring so deeply about college admissions that I’d forgotten what college meant.

Then I got sick on Monday (the first day of classes) and lost my voice. I yeeted my way through Monday and Tuesday, but by Wednesday, a mild form of panic had set in - all my naps and my simple inability to function without pain had already set me behind. I had more than a hundred pages of reading due by Friday. I had papers to write and three Chinese quizzes. I needed to apply and interview for several internships and activities, and I had auditions for dance groups on the weekend. My sleep schedule had shifted back by several hours, leaving me with little time to write and reflect in the mornings. Journaling at night became a hurried series of scratches.

My first week was jarring. I’d thought that IB would prepare me for a college courseload (which it had, but courseload is only one of the many parts of a college experience). While I hadn’t expected Stanford to be paradise, neither had I expected it to be so hard (and I know it’s gonna get harder). I felt disorientated and uprooted - although I’d spent many summers at Stanford, it felt almost alien to me. I couldn’t associate myself with the wide-eyed, long-haired girl from one summer, two summer, three summers ago.

But after that hysteria passed, Thursday heralded a realization: college allowed for flexibility. I didn’t need to cram 17 units into my fall quarter (I’d shopped 26) - I dropped to 14. I spent several hours filtering my emails and cleaning my room. I sat down and ground away at the readings and assignments.

One of my friends said that her first week was like an unripe mango: not as enjoyable as you thought it would be, but still good. That line really stuck with me - it reminded me to simultaneously raise and lower my standards for Stanford.

Along a similar vein, a lot of my friends have adopted an oddly parental treatment towards Stanford - simultaneously loving the school and berating it for its many faults.

And now, the tea. I’m currently enrolled in SLE (Structured Liberal Education), an eight-unit year-long course that covers the “western cannon” from several thousand years B.C.E. to present-day. Our first reading was Gilgamesh.

“Gilgamesh explores man’s need to preserve his name," said our lecturer. It should be noted that he is male and white and old. “Now, men typically feel a greater desire to perform deeds that will preserve their names than females do…mainly because females can give birth, and males can’t….”

Mutterings swept through the room - the lecturer seemed to realize that he’d said something wrong. He backed out, but my ears were ringing - I was furious.

Are you implying that a woman’s legacy or greatest deed of significance is that of childbirth? I scribbled into my notebook. Greek cannon —> children always use their FATHER’S name, not mother’s! Childbirth preserves father more than mother! also! how is this relevant to Gilgamesh?

At the end of the lecture, I raised my hand and cleared my throat.

“With all due respect,” I said, “I disagree with what you said about a woman’s greatest legacy being that of childbirth. Could you clarify what you meant?” I repeated my argument about the Greek cannon (children always associate with the father). “How is childbirth equivalent to a ‘deed of significance?’ How would you even quantify the two?”

The lecturer stumbled over his response, something along the lines of how he was only speaking in stereotypical terms (??).

“Maybe I was wrong,” he said, smiling crookedly. He nodded in a semblance of self-assurance and asked for the next question.

It all happened so quickly: the comment, the question, the flimsy response. I kept replaying that moment later, wondering if I should’ve roasted the lecturer a bit harder, fearing whether I’d sounded like a stereotypical angry feminist. But when I put aside all those extraneous thoughts, I realized I was overwhelmingly disappointed.

I know that misogyny exists at Stanford - I just hadn’t expected to see it so soon. I hadn’t expected a professor - a tenured professor! - to shrug off such a misogynistic comment in such an aloof fashion. I hadn’t expected to feel so small, my voice lost amidst all the less-politically-charged questions following mine. Speaking up had given me a brief, slippery semblance of power - that power had vanished almost as quickly as I’d seized it.

Last Saturday, one of my friends visited from Seattle.

“Are you happy?” she said.

I hesitated. “I’m having a good time,” I replied.

Later, I wondered at the authenticity of my response. When does a good time translate into happiness? I’d been scared to admit to unhappiness - somehow I’d translated that sort of admittance into a betrayal of the school I am so lucky to attend. But I’d also been scared of admitting to happiness - somehow that implied that this was all there was, that I was settling for less than I’d expected and wanted.

But hey, good vibes only here. Going back to the tea, I hadn’t expected - and still don’t expect - to change how a professor thinks. And while there are a ton of other problems I could write about, and probably will write about, I’ll focus on the positives: the people here are vibrant go-getters. My physics class (Energy Options for the 21st Century) is extremely rewarding. I’m having a lot of fun in my first Chinese class, and I’ve just taken my first urban dance workshop.

Recently, I’ve been focusing on the present, on treasuring a moment separate from expectations. I’ve found joy in biking across the Quad at night, in spontaneous Trader Joe’s trips with my roommate, in the gold mine of the SLE meme chat.

At the risk of spewing a cliche, Stanford is everything and nothing I’d hoped for. And I think that’s okay. In the end, it comes down to setting expectations for myself rather than for anyone or anything else, especially when that something else is an organization as megalithic and multifaceted as a top-tier university. Again, I recognize that I’m extremely lucky and privileged to be attending school here.

I guess that’s the end of this sleep-deprived ramble! Yeet bye.