College Principle #2: I did not let myself be a selfish student.

When I was little, I used to play a game we called The Never Ending Game. It sounds a lot more intense than it is. It was just a game of Make Believe where my friends and I always played the same characters and picked up where we left off playing the last time. We would play that we were in college or high school because we could never remember which one came first in an older person's life. (I blame Boy Meets World... sometimes they were in high school on reruns, sometimes they were in college and they always had the same principal/administrator/whoever Mr. Feeney was). We'd have lockers and always hung out at them. Because that's what you do at College High School. You hang out at the lockers. But like many young suburbanites, college was never not an option for a kid like me. Both my parents went. Their parents went. It's what you did.

College today is a lot different than when my parents went in 1904. It was cheaper, for one. It wasn't rare to NOT go to college, which meant that what you studied made you a smartiepants in that field, which meant you got a job more easily. I knew this going in. I realized I was going to be in a lot of debt, I was going to be one of millions with degrees in my field, and getting a job was going to be pretty hard. I went through a great program where the other students were super competitive and everything but humble about their internships and published works. 

It would not be fair to categorize college students into those who are selfish and those not. There are so many different kinds of people attending university every year, and thanks to hundreds of student organizations, they can be passionate about all different kinds of things. It's never quite accurate to classify people into two categories (cough, politics, cough), but I'm going to anyways.

 And to be fair, I think the act of going to college in itself, is partially selfish: I AM the one attending college in hopes to better MY life, to better MY opportunities, to become a more educated human being. I struggled with this for a while. 

My freshman and sophomore year, I spent a lot of time feeling bad. Feeling bad because there were people who didn't have the opportunities to attend college, and here I was having an amazing time, meeting amazing people, getting excited about discussions in my classes (I am that girl). I wanted to help others and college seemed like four years of putting that off. 

But the reason I did it was the idea that, without it, I could only do so much to help others. With an education, my opportunities would be greater to do something bigger for others down the line. And just because I wasn't starting a Non-profit-world-saving-hunger-fighting-disease-curing organization right after high school graduation didn't mean that I couldn't do things to help the people I was around. That's the beautifully brilliant thing about helping others: It can be done regardless of where you are or what you're doing or what your job description says. 

College was hard for me. When I was in high school, I never studied and I never did my homework, but I got good grades because I got grades on tests to make up for my laziness in other areas. Then I got to college and learned material more complex than memorizing a lecture on the first try and I actually had to study. But it quickly became apparent to me that I would be doing far more learning and living outside of the lecture hall. I met people from very different backgrounds than mine. And I fell in love with them. Being a good friend to them meant more to me than an A on a paper (although writing papers was my strong suit). I learned that Athens, Ohio was but an island in the middle of a rural area, struggling with things I hadn't experienced much as a kid. I became a mentor to high school students in the area through a thing called Young Life, which meant more to me than shmoozing a bunch of visiting news executives to hire me. I fell in love with exercise and adventure and learned that I could push myself to do things I'd never have even considered-- getting over my fear of heights rock climbing and backpacking on the Appalachian Trail. Inspiring others to get healthy and active meant more to me than setting the curve on an exam. 

[sidenote: Don't think what I'm saying is that working hard in classes doesn't matter because you're learning more important things elsewhere. It isn't right to put off your studies and cheat yourself out of a good education because you're busy having fun. My parents worked their asses off to get me through college and I respected them enough to maintain a substantial grade point average. But it wasn't the only thing that mattered.]

When I was in the classroom, I made a point to know the people in my class. They mattered to me. They weren't competition. I'd give people my notes when I noticed they had been absent, I made conversation with them about their lives that consisted beyond what they did that weekend. 

Outside the classroom, I made a point to care about people. Because I did care about people. It wasn't very hard. 

My priorities were different than other students in my program, but I also know that I experienced a sort of whimsy they will never know. There are a lot of ways to be a student and not be a selfish student. You can go out of your way to help people and get involved in organizations, or you can just choose to not be a douche bag and hold the door for somebody every now and then. I chose the former. 

Principles I lived by in college, Part One: I took extra classes that challenged me and had absolutely no importance towards my graduation.

Part of the fun in being a writer is that you don't have to settle on one specific topic-- you become a jane of many trades, a renaissance woman of sorts, not necessarily staying in any particular industry, but writing about people who have. I liked being in journalism school because I liked learning how to comb out my grammar and learning how to make All the President's Men relevant material in all of my classes. J-school classes were very great, but my favorite subjects I studied were the ones I took for nothing more than the hell of learning something new. (There's only a couple of us at every institution who actually appreciate learning, but here I am, a rare breed!)

It took some extra caffeine, but I let myself take classes in subjects irrelevant to my graduation.

At the bottom of my transcript there's a miscellaneous category that should be titled "GPA ruiners that your optimistic little heart still enjoyed despite all odds."

I took some great stuff: dance classes, SCUBA class, some other easy one-credits. I also took some really hard things: histories, exercise science and personal training classes, philosophy, myrmecology, siphonapterology.

Unfortunately, my expression of interest outside my major field was never rewarded the way it should have been. For example, one particular class I enrolled in last winter left me with scars on my transcript, GPA and my soul.

I'm going to refer to this class as Nazi Germany. This class featured a subject that I was quite interested in. We were assigned weekly papers on various readings and grad student graders were assigned to tell us our work sucked based on the alphabetical location of our last name. There were three graders: Cute little curly-blonde mother-figure-type donning a blue daisy sundress (floppy hat included), tall brunette with earthy shoes, tie-dye headband and colorfully-patched backpack, and Ben.

My grader was Ben.

The first paper I turned in, I got back with a big fat zero written on it.

I went to his office hours after class, introduced myself and attempted to understand my grade (or lack of). There must have been a mistake!

Ben, so thoughtful as he was, assured me that there had been no mistake for I had used too many sources. Granted, I had two sources, but I was only to use one.

I explained to him, "Mr. Ben, I am sorry, bear with me. I'm a journalism major taking this class out of sheer interest. Where I come from, MORE sources is a good thing. Next week's paper will be the less-credible standard of your liking. Promise."

The next week I improved.

D!

I went to Ben's office hours after class, introduced myself (again) and attempted to understand my grade. This time as I approached the closet they must have accidentally assigned him to instead of an office,  another girl was leaving the room crying. I assumed it was because Ben was just such a funny guy!

"Mr. Ben, I used fewer sources like you wanted. But I'm still confused why I'm only getting a D. There must have been a mistake again."

Ben, in the respectful way that he was, told me there had been no mistake. I had, in fact, received a D, this time, because I had used too many quotations from the cited reading.

Again, I told him I was a journalism major. We are taught that more quotations, more citing of credible source materials = good job. His response: "That would explain your ridiculously short paragraphs."

When I asked Mr. Ben what I could do to get an A, what made an A paper, he told me it depended on the paper, which I assume really just meant on his mood that day.

I told him he was a great guy. Then I silently farted in his closet and left him for dead.

I was determined to prove Ben wrong. I spent a lot of time on this Nazi class writing papers with as few quotes and sources as I could not find.

In the end, I pulled out a C-.

What's sad about my C- is that my intentions of the class were so good. I wanted to learn. In the end, I learned a new way to think, I learned how to use criticism to better my writing and I learned that some professors are going to treat you like a fart in a closet office.

I am so glad I took this Nazi class. I am so glad I took extra classes. I am hopeful that there is a professor out there who sees the value in teaching people outside of his or her field of study. Instead of the mentality that the 101 class is a bunch of stupid freshmen trying to fill their basic requirements, it is as an opportunity to get a bunch of stupid freshmen interested in the topic in which one's devoted to his or her life's work. My favorite class was a 100-level plant biology course. Not because I'm really interested in leaves. But because the professor made leaves really interesting.

If you have the extra time, take a class that isn't going to fit anywhere on your graduation requirements. Especially if you don't mind a little C- action every now and then. You'll learn a lot about something new. And maybe you'll meet somebody as outstanding as Mr. Ben. And if you're lucky he'll make you cry.

(Author's Note: You can take classes pass/fail. Do that. I wish I had known this sooner)

What I'm going to do today.

Welp, Erin ya graduated college. It's about time you started writing your people observations again.

I'm a busy body, a busy bee. I like to go, and I like to be going. And when all the GO GO GO turns into SIT SIT SIT around and watch Kitchen Cousins and Curb Appeal for seven hours straight, two things happen: one, I have really beautiful and memorable intense workouts (thank you!) and two, I start thinking. I have been going for four years straight and I thought I would take a week to let myself rest before I let myself fix my portfolio or post in my blog or apply to ten jobs a day or unpack all of the boxes now sitting in my parent's garage.

But there's a problem with trying to let myself rest: I'm a thinker. And when I get thinking, I get really thinking. First, I replayed my last semester in Athens. (Yes, It was a great one, but this blogpost isn't about Athens... I think there are enough nostalgic manifestos that I'm afraid to even read because I'll cry let alone write my own cookie-cutter version of.) Then I replayed my own experiences over the last four years.

So, yeah, I'm going to talk about me. Suck it.

I thought of the four principles, two academic and two personal, that I lived by in college and I'm going to feature them over the next four days.

The first academic principle: I took extra classes that challenged me and had absolutely no importance towards my graduation.

The second academic principle: I did not let myself be a selfish student. 

The first personal principle: I never said no to adventure or good conversation.

The second personal principle: I let myself become an artist. 

The best thing I ever did in all of my entire college

It was something like 4 o’clock on a Thursday morning. I walked to the kitchen and pounded my head on the counter until coffee magically came out of the machine. I looked at the assortment of bags packed on the floor by the front door—my cute Vera Bradley duffel looked funny hanging out with my fins and snorkel. I headed out the door towards the Aquatic Center with bright eyes. Athens, Ohio had been kissed by one of its first frosts of the year, all the more reason to get the heck down to Florida. As we packed up the trailer and everybody put themselves back to bed, I reviewed what had engulfed my stress for the nine weeks prior: OU SCUBA.

“Did you know SCUBA is actually an acronym?”: the only thing I actually knew about it going into the class.

Our first day was like an episode of "1000 Ways to Die"—SCUBA edition. The instructors sat us down and told us anything and everything that could go wrong while we’re diving. Like how your skin could fall off, or how you could get bubbles in your blood and your skin would fall off, or how the bends would make your skin gross right before you died, or how a shark could come up behind you and tear all of your skin off.

Then we signed a release form.

I immediately called my expert diver boyfriend crying.  We had planned a big dive trip to the Dutch Caribbean with his family for Christmas break, but I wasn’t about to go near any water after this first class.

Somehow, I managed to make it to the swim test.

And to the next class.

And to the next pool lab.

And I kept going back, learning something new every time, going out of my comfort zone every time.

The next nine weeks of class gave us more information and practice in the pool than any other introductory SCUBA training I’ve ever heard of. We learned a lot of badass techniques that most divers don’t know—like different kinds of dives, swimming to the bottom of the pool and clearing our mask (getting the water out) all in one breath. We learned how to dive down, gear in hand, and put it all on underwater.

The instructors were total characters, but they also helped you keep calm, while pushing you to push yourself. I have never had a professor genuinely care so much about my success in a class.

At the beginning of pool labs, I was struggling getting my ears to clear on my way to the bottom of the pool—if you don’t clear your ears, the pressure builds up, and the pain is unbearable. My instructor brought me solution for swimmer’s ear the next day.

One instructor had me pushing myself harder than I ever had before. He couldn’t believe how horrible I was at holding my breath.  (which, was actually quite horrible.)

“Are you an athlete?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m a runner.”

“Then why do you have no lung capacity to hold your breath?”

“Because when you’re running, you’re allowed to keep breathing.”

We figured out my incapacity to hold any air in my lungs was directly correlated to my incapacity to relax longer than a half second. (Picture me underwater: I’m the guy from Accepted who they finally get to meditate when they put him in a straight jacket.)

“Relax,” he’d tell me. Until I practiced just sitting at the bottom of the pool and letting myself forget that I couldn’t breathe, I was very horrible at relaxing.

It’s funny to me how often many people, upon finding out I was taking SCUBA diving, responded so very cynically. “Oh, I would never take that class. I’m too scared.”

The irony of their responses is that my reason for taking SCUBA diving is exactly that. I was scared. I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to push myself well beyond my comfort zone. I wanted to poop my wetsuit.

I wanted to let myself relax.

And I’ll admit, I had to go into the aqua center a couple times outside of class to practice sitting at the bottom of the pool.

It sounds ridiculous, but I got so good, in fact, that the lifeguards were on the edges of their seats, praying they wouldn’t have to come in after me.

The final consisted of a written test and a pool test. And then we had the option to head to Florida for a check out dive to get our certification. (Well, hell yeah I’m going to take an opportunity to be excused from my classes and go to Florida in November.)

If you had told me in August that I would be SCUBA diving through pitch-black caves in just a couple months, I’d have called you a liar.

But there I was, kickin’ it with the manatees.

Taking SCUBA diving at OU isn’t for everyone. But everyone should take a course that scares the skin off of them. Whether you are a macho dude who’s taking Women’s Gender Studies or you’re an arachnophobe taking Spider History (that’s not actually a course), everybody should be pushing themselves beyond that box called comfortable that we like to live in.

My trip to the Caribbean was the greatest of my life. I dove 100 feet underwater to see the remnants of a shipwreck. I swam through beautiful reefs. I got to ask rainbow fish what it was like to star in every child’s favorite book.

I learned more about myself in SCUBA diving than any other class I’ve ever taken in college. And I couldn’t have done it if I hadn’t let myself get a little scared.

*This story was published in the opinion section of The Essay Magazine. 

Cry Baby Happy

We used to make fun of my mom when she cried in movies.

Whenever we'd watch something together, an exceptionally emotional scene would mean two things: One, The swelling with tears eyes of my beloved mother, and two, the consequent stares at her from everyone in the room, "The Check" to see if she was tearing up.

The things she cried at were weird to me as a second grader. When Shadow, the aging golden retriever in Homeward Bound, makes his fashionably late arrival over the hill of his family's backyard: waterworks.

She cried at the happy parts!

And I was so confused.

"You should be smiling!" Stupid Mommy. Her emotions are all wrong.

And I always prided myself as a person who didn't cry in movies. When Noah and Allie peacefully and beautifully die in one another's arms at the end of The Notebook (Spoiler Alert: Noah and Allie peacefully and beautifully die in one another's arms at the end of The Notebook), I didn't cry. When Scar lets his BABE of a a flowy-maned big bro fall to his death into a stampeding blur of antelopes in The Lion King, I didn't even cry when Simba finally talks to him via Rafeke Star-Weirdness.

But Internet, I am telling you, as of this summer I am a changed woman. I am my mother.

Not only have I been caught talking to myself while dusting the top of the TV or folding Tshirts, I have been crying at movies, especially the happy parts. And not just the extremely overwhelming happy parts, I've been crying at the moments in a movie that include even the slightest twinkle of happy resolve. For heavens sake, I cried at FREAKING Bride Wars when Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson's characters make up in their big white dresses on the floor of the Plaza (Spoiler Alert: Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson's characters make up in their big white dresses on the floor of the Plaza.)

And for the first time (in ever) I'm finally starting to understand why perhaps I'm crying at ordinary happy moments.

This is my hypothesis:

Crying is a coping mechanism. The body is literally shedding tension through tears and their subsequent blush and sweat. Just as crying makes our squished and sad little hearts feel a little less squished and sad, the overflow of joy from an exciting experience is one so large it can only be released via tears. I am overwhelmed by joy in my life. I am incredibly blessed with amazing people. I get very nostalgic. And I love happy so much that I cry.

People are brutal pieces of shit to each other a lot of the time. So when they actually take time to help and say something of particular love, it is worthy of tears.

Perhaps "The Check" we used to do to my mother was our own coping mechanism, so that we wouldn't cry ourselves.

If movies haven't gotten any happier, maybe I've gotten happier.

No complaints here, I'm just crying.

I lose my phone more than Lance loses Tour Titles.

As usual, it's story time.

Today was the first day of our leadership retreat for the managers and supervisors at OU's Ping Rec Center where I am Employee Relations Manager (WUDDUP).

The day started off pretty well. I'm still on my super lame summer schedule where I can't physically stay up past 10'o'clock and waking up is a natural occurrence at six am. So I woke up early enough to pack a pretty healthy lunch in my new Bengals lunchbox, got a good shower in and had enough time to stop by a coffee place on the way

(sidenote: I went to Court Street Coffee today and will be turning my first few morning walks into a recalculation of my favorite coffee on Court. It's not just a taste test: it's a geographical survey of the best locations, an anthropological study of the best groups of people at each shop and an economic look at which is best on my wallet. I'm calling it Coffeelympics 2012. But it's really just because my coffee maker doesn't come in until next week. end sidenote.)

I also found enough time this morning to ponder if I'd be spending the leadership retreat playing my new phone-game obsession: a brand new game the kids are calling 'euchre'. It's not the best on an iPhone's battery (probably more related to the ads for hot singles in my area constantly scrolling at the bottom of the app than the actual game). And because being able to use your phone to inconspicuously play euchre under a table is more important than, you know, making calls, or whatever, I disabled those obsolete, battery-killing softwares like wifi, location services and my by-the-minute Twitter updates (sorry @McSean3).

We had OHIO police officers come in and teach us about active shooters on campus and what we can do if that horrific situation is thrust upon us and our staff at Ping.

I spent my lunch break doodling and writing my next blogpost about how my mom always cries during the happy parts of movies (really, Erin? A blog plug on your own blog?).

Then we had Ping Olympics events where we ran around, er, sprinted around campus for two hours collecting clues. My team got silver. >>>

Tired from a long day, I dragged my feet the long mile home. Twenty minutes later, I'm walking into my new apartment to start working on my The Essay Magazine's new redesign coming this fall (really, Erin? A magazine plug on your own blog?)

Ready to send a couple emails, I realize I've left my phone at Ping.

I grab nothing but my keys and sprint to the Rec Center. Hands down, I set a new PR for my mile time (six years late from field hockey conditioning camp).

The building was locked and closed, but I saw my boss backing out and driving away in her micro SUV. So naturally I sprint after the car with arms flailing like I'm being chased by bees. She eventually sees me in her rearview and lets me in the closed building. No phone anywhere to be found.

I run to my friend's house to use his phone, but it starts to pour rain. I try to use his 'Find My iPhone App' but I had disabled location services this morning. I'm an idiot.

I am not really sure why I'm telling this long and boring story. I'm still trying to figure out the lesson to take from it all. How sad is it that I feel completely lost and helpless without it? Yes. (Let's not forget the overly dramatic call to my boyfriend from my neighbor's phone at two in the morning about how I was going to be murdered from an active shooter.. the kind I had learned about earlier that morning).

But I think the greatest lesson is that my reaction to realizing where I had left my phone-- the consequent olympic-speed run, the spaz chase after my boss' car, the work to find something so unimportant as a cell phone-- it all made me feel a little better about being ready for something that I will actually need to be ready for. When there are actual lives at stake. I know that I will be able to haul ass and hit the road.

And just what the world needs is another blogpost about the insanity in how much we care about the 4.9 ounce piece of stainless steel and glass in my back right pocket. But really, I didn't have my phone for twenty four hours. and it scared the crap out of me.

I eventually found my unharmed phone on a desk in one of Ping's back rooms. Nobody died. Nothing burned down. And I got to write a long blog post about it.

I'm going to try and get back to basics with my phone. Instead of laying in bed at night checking any extra emails and reading The Onion until I'm so tired I start to confuse the headlines for real news, I'm going to read a book or gather my thoughts like the OLD days. I may have an app for npr, but I also have a radio. I may have unlimited texting, but I don't have unlimited time to be with those people. Plus, in the time it took me to load the horrible Facebook app to look at the picture of your new puppy, I could have walked to your house and cuddled with the lil' guy myself.

And then maybe if I lose my phone again, which is a very high possibility, I won't be such a spaz. Lesson learned.

Eavesdropped.

The things I overhear make me shake my head.

I'm guilty of eavesdropping. I suppose I'd actually call it guilty of, one, having ears and, two, being observant when someone happens to say something strange. It's not like I could close my ears. And I sure as hell can't turn off my brain (trust me, I've tried).

My favorite friends to hang out with (yes I have favorite friends to hang out with) are the ones that hold this skill as well, and we can spend our time overhearing odd crops of conversations together.

My friend Jamie and I play a game where we pretend to be having a conversation walking down the street, but make sure to say something loud and weird as we pass another group of friends. For example, we won't be talking about anything, but as we pass people, I'll add something like, "and so that's how I cut off the second guy's leg" or if they were walking on a certain part of the sidewalk I'd say something like, "remember when I pooped right on that storm drain cover?" right when the people walked over it. It really wasn't as funny as we thought it was.

Yesterday in Wal-Mart I overheard a guy say to his friend, "Trust me, I'm a philosophy major." Eye roll.

Friday at the park, I overheard some girl's conversation about casually sleeping with her friend's boyfriend. Open-mouthed eye roll.

What's worse is when you hear people having a discussion about something they are completely wrong about, but you can't intervene. In the library today, a group of three students at the computer next to mine spent five minutes practically arguing over when Memorial Day was, if Memorial Day was Monday, and even if it was, if there was class Monday. I politely butted in. "Memorial Day is Monday and there is no class since it's a national holiday."

 They said thank you, but proceeded to discuss matters for a project, starting the sentence with "If we don't have class on Monday..." One guy said, "I don't know. Sometimes there still is class on national holidays."

Memorial Day weekend is a big deal at OU. Half the school goes to Hilton Head and the other half goes home. It's known for being our sort of last hurrah before Summer.. because there's no school that Monday.

I was bothered that my butted in words weren't trusted.

So I punched them all and discarded their projects without saving.

we need better chicks in superhero flicks

I was peer pressured into seeing The Avengers last night. I’m not one for superhero movies. Something about catchphrases, one-liners, and women with ginormous boobs and pinky-fingers for wastes that just doesn’t get me very excited.

Many people in my group of friends had already seen it though, and ‘because it was so good’ were out the door to their second viewing, and I decided to go with them.

compare The Avengers plotting-villain scene to this. 

The film re-established my beliefs about the Super Hero Genre, and I cannot say that I was not disappointed with my choice. The one-liners gagged me and the villain’s out-of-this-world scheming scene wouldn’t stop reminding me of the 1995 Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie, but my biggest critique was the role of women in the film. 

I sat next to my good writer-friend Anna, who enjoyed making fun of the movie with me the whole time. She told me about the test by Allison Bechdel in her 1985 comic Dykes to Watch Out For called the Bechdel test. It was created to show the underrepresentation of women in the film industry. To pass this test, a movie must pass three questions: Are there two or more women in it with names, do they talk to each other, and when they do talk to each other is it about something other than men? This has been proven as a systematic problem—There are currently 3,102 movies in the Bechdel database. Many superhero movies like Captain America: The First Avenger, The Dark Knight, GI Joe, Transformers, The Green Lantern, X Men, Wolverine, and many others are included in this database.

Don’t get me wrong, Scarlett Johannsen’s role as Black Widow is a total bad ass. It is always fun to watch a beautiful woman use her charm to outwit a nerdy doctor who has a problem with anger management that makes him turn into the Angry Green Giant, but she also plays into a number of gender stereotypes I not only find one-dimensional and trite, but also archaic.

Black Widow’s establishing scene features her in a tight black dress and tied to a chair surrounded by men. A viewer’s first impression is her objectification. Again, how she releases herself from this tied position shows strength and bad-assyness, but the amazement comes from the ‘wow, a girl just beat up all those men’ factor. Her costume would not have been lingerie if she was not to be noticed as a hot female. Black Widow is also the only character in the film who at one point is found sitting in a corner, hugging her knees and cowering.

Cobie Smulders plays Agent Maria Hill. (I had to look up her name because I could only think of her as the girl who plays Robin in How I Met Your Mother.) Agent Hill has an awesome supporting role as a captain who leads an entire ship of servicemen and women the entire film. Not much is learned about anything beyond her position and place with the Avengers and second-in-command to Fury.

Agent Hill and Black Widow do not hold a single conversation with one another, yet are on the same ship-plane-thing the entire movie. 

Also, I think Mark Ruffalo is attractive.