Sophie Henry

“What has surprised you about Yale?” 

Torrential rains, boisterous yells and rows upon rows of cars — this sums up first-year move-in. Once the initial unease subsided, the party culture behind these Ivy-hallowed halls emerged. That girl I hung out with before classes started — she is a future finance bro, nationally ranked in chess, and could have been a grandmaster. That guy I saw get blackout drunk — he is Saltburn rich and will probably end up as one of the three students in our class who become senators. If you see someone at a party, pretend you didn’t. Although these social scenes exist, the people you meet often remain people you only talk to after the sun goes down. While I encountered characters I never expected, I realized over time that Yale students are far too eclectic to pin down right away.

“But it’s not like that.” At Yale, you’re not actually rich because there’s always someone richer than you. Who cares that Barron Trump is going to NYU when we’re now the new yub for nepo babies? Yes, “yague,” “yuttle,” and “yub” — the Yale lingo is ingrained in you from day one. 

On a more serious note, I was also surprised about the fear surrounding New Haven crime, especially given that its rates are comparable to those of Conneticut’s other major cities, Hartford and Bridgeport. Perhaps the fear has something to do with New Haven’s stark demographic contrast compared to the homes of most Yale students.

What I will say, though, is that after a week of classes, I’ve realized that Yale is just like any other school, plus a dash of exorbitant wealth and smidge of elitism that flashes in your face just when you’re starting to forget about it. In many ways, Yale feels like one large state school where everyone knows each other — except, instead of growing up together, it’s the private academies and pre-professional programs that everyone was part of. Auditioning for a cappella groups feels eerily similar to ‘Bama rush, except with an Ivy-exclusive twist where you are mysteriously — or not so mysteriously — “tapped” with clamorous singing outside your door. I hope you’re not banking on a spot in a consulting group because placement into one is lower than Yale’s acceptance rate. 

But not all is lost if you attended a regular public school; you’ll still be recognized from Instagram, even if you’ve never met people before arriving here. For those of you back home with a special Yalie, I hate to break it to you, but you might be getting cheated on. I’ve seen and heard of far too many guys with a secret girlfriend or two.

When the fun before classes ended, the Hunger Games began. “May the odds be ever in your favor,” because first-year registration is a bloodbath. We were told to “just keep attending the class,” even though rooms with a capacity of 16 were packed with nearly 30 students. 

All in all, while my classmates have kept me on my toes, most of my interactions with them have been kind, respectful and genuine. Although Yale students can be quite elusive, that’s actually one of the things I’ve loved most about my first-year experience — you never know what a Yalie will say when you spark up a conversation.