At last, the end of the semester — the season of Blue Book emergencies and Red Bull-fueled all-nighters — is upon us. You can sense it not by the blooming dogwoods or the reappearance of sandals, but by the dark circles under everyone’s eyes and the increased stench coming from Clemons.
I recently pulled an all-nighter, although I would have slept for a few hours after finishing my paper if not for the loud chirping outside my window. Clearly these birds were of the Hitchcock rather than Disney variety — that is, evil and incapable of braiding hair.
So, in an odd move for someone who despises both exercise and mornings, I went on a run, managing to drag my sorry, atrophied muscles to the Lawn. There, heeding No. 43 on the “109 Things to Do Before You Graduate” list, I watched the sunrise.
I was, to put it bluntly, underwhelmed. Did you know you can’t really see the sunrise from the Lawn? The Rotunda is kind of in the way. But despite the obstructed view and early hour and aching muscles, as I stared at the colorful sky, I thought to myself ...
Well, to be honest, I don’t really form coherent thoughts before noon, and if I had, it would have been something along the lines of, “It’s early. I should be asleep. Pillow is a funny word. I like pie.”
But later, after a nap and injections of coffee, I thought about how few sunrises there are between today and graduation, how my days of casually walking past the Rotunda are numbered and how much I really do like pie.
It would be impossible to sum up my time at the University in the space I have left. There barely would be enough room to tell you about the time my roommate threw a potato on the neighbor’s roof, or the Great Tree-Napping of 2005, or how the Fountain of Youth exists and costs $2.59.
So instead, I’ll use that most poetic of abbreviations, the haiku, to condense four years into 68 syllables. One poem per year. Ready?
Hoos this T.J. guy? / Wack fire code, good ice milk / Orange we lucky?
Declared my majors / Still get lost in Cabell Hall / Know too much Journey.
We are halfway done / Unlike the South Lawn project / Three-pointers for Cane’s!
Twenty-one, feel old / “Wahoowa!” makes us “Boo-hoo!” / Gonna miss this place.
OK, so maybe that fell short. Take two?
When I first decided on U.Va., I was wary. I knew a lot of gung-ho Hoos, bleeding orange and blue long before they ever got their dormitory assignments. But I was unsure. I didn’t see how sundresses and football went together. I couldn’t find any deep, unsettlingly vicious hatred for Tech in my heart. I kept forgetting that words like “freshman” and “campus” don’t exist here.
But just as every first-year student eventually does at some point, I dropped the map, learned the lingo and found my niche. I distinguished between Old and New Cabell, was awed by a cappella and Arch’s and Alderman Library. I stopped missing home-cooked meals and started stealing mint brownies from O-Hill.
During four years, I Golfed on Grounds, Pancaked for Parkinson’s, Corner Crawled, Hoodanged, Springfested, Foxfielded, Trivia Nighted and Lit the Lawn. I crossed the railroad tracks, strolled across Grounds, climbed the Amphitheater, scaled the Hill and hiked from dorms to Rugby Road and back again. I also did a whole lot of nothing — and that was pretty fun, too.
Then somewhere along the way, I had the realization that I kind of liked it here. Hopefully you did, too. Perhaps it was the first time you sang the Good Ol’ Song or really looked closely at the Rotunda. Or it might have been something random or stupid or silly — like the first time you fell asleep in class or ate a Gusburger or got into a fraternity party ‘cause you “knew people.” Maybe it was the first time you called C-ville ‘home’ and your mom made you take it back.
I hope you’ll forgive the sentimentalism. We fourth-year students tend to get a bit weepy when it comes to talking about a school that will soon become our alma mater instead of our home. The nostalgia works like a vaccine, protecting me — and the rest of the Class of 2009 — as we prepare to enter a world without an honor code, a world in which they spell Hoo with a ‘w’. I mean, really, hoo does that?
Rebecca’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at r.marsh@cavalierdaily.com.
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