Reflections from a first-year on the first few weeks 

I’ve never been punched in the face before. Let me get that off my chest. I can imagine it, I’ve seen it on TV, and I’ve seen a few fights in my school yard days. But I, personally, have never been punched in the face.  

However, I can imagine being socked in the jaw has a similar feeling to that of the first week at Wofford College. And I mean that in the dearest of ways. You say goodbye to mom and dad, and there’s this guy, probably 6-feet, 2 inches and 300 pounds—you know he would make a good linebacker—and you get the feeling he’s going to punch you in the face. There’s an excitement to it. And then his fist kind of snaps out, and hits you square in the jaw, and you spiral back in slow motion just like in the movies. You’re not angry or scared—you’re just a little shocked. You don’t know how exactly to react, but you know for sure that you’re excited. Now you can get going. Now it’s your turn in the ring. Now it’s game on. You might be a 5-foot-5-inch track runner or a lanky dude who spends more time in the theater than outdoors, but one thing you know is proudly presented before you like the grass outside Old Main: it’s go time. It’s your turn.  

The first week is kind of hazy. You’re not quite sure who you are, and you don’t really know your name either because people have asked you so many times. You’re at Campus Life saying hi to someone, then you’re off to Camp Greystone, then you’re shagging with some girl or guy you’ve never met before (if you’re not from the South, that’s dancing), then you’re shooting down the slip-and-slide at field day, where the O-Staff are going crazy, then somebody hands you a snow cone and just like that—BOOM.   

You’re in your first class at 8:30 a.m. And you’re wondering how any of it could be legal. But there you are. And now they expect you to remember what math is, how to speak Spanish, how to read a 30-page syllabus analytically and then write a summary. And then they ask you a question about yourself. And you’re kind of sitting there, your head still spinning, and you say something like, “Who, me?” And the second class—the second day—goes similarly.   

And then something crazy happens. Even though you’ve got no real grasp on anything, and you’ve lost a good amount of control of your life, you’re sitting in Burwell trying to decide if the food is good or not, and then you realize you have nowhere to be. That’s it. Done for the day. You have five hours until you should probably “get some sleep.” And you’re confused because up until then you thought the world would never stop spinning.   

This is your moment. It’s really a very small moment, because you have to read something like 15,000 words before the next day. But it’s still your moment. It’s yours. You get to decide what you’re going to do, maybe for the first time in your life. And the next day happens, and the next. And you keep finding these little moments, like a dollar in your pocket you didn’t know was there. And you know that in these found moments, you are deciding exactly the kind of person you are.   

And even though  you got punched in the face, it feels pretty damn good.