Zahra Virani

“How is Yale?”

I’m asked frequently and casually enough that I can toy with the answer a bit each time. No one wants to hear that you “don’t really know” how you feel about your first month at an elite university, so I’ve found that it’s easiest to hone in on an aspect of my Yale experience I’m confident in. For example, my suitemates are wonderful. I like the content I’m learning in my classes. I’ve found some really nice study spots. These things feel on par, something like what people expect me to say.

Other first years seem to have a much easier time concisely describing their experience: “Fun.”  “I love it here.” “I’m having the time of my life.” 

In my quest to become a more honest person in college, I’ve admitted to myself that I don’t have answers like those. In fact, after a month at Yale, I have more questions than I began with. The uncertainty fuels hope — maybe by November, I’ll have it down to a neat few words — but I also feel uncomfortable with the ambiguity. 

As I reflect on a month at Yale, I find it impossible to distill my experience. Instead, I contemplate some of those questions, small to big, the ones that sit obtrusively in my chest, protesting, reminding me how frustratingly complicated it all has felt.

Why do people stand on tables at frats?

I went to a sports house party last night, mostly because a guy I thought was cute told me about it. When I came in, he was standing on a “stage,” his silhouette towering over me in the crowded room. As anonymous bodies jostled me, I realized he couldn’t have even noticed I was there. I must have looked ridiculous, staring up at someone so far away.

The thing is, he wasn’t far. He was a few inches from me. He could have taken one step and been on the floor next to me, a fellow victim to the sloshing current of people.

At all the parties I’ve been to, there always seems to be some platform where people can stand to watch the crowd below. I feel fixedly unsuited to stand on those surfaces. Is it a confidence issue? A question of experience? Why do I feel unqualified? 

My working theory is that physical height is a proxy for social height. In getting up on those tables, people emerge from the crowd, becoming visible and dominant. They’re who you’re forced to look at when you enter a room — but they can choose whether to see you. They embed structure and hierarchy into wildly unstructured spaces. 

If it’s so easy for anyone to get up on that table, why do I feel so beneath them? I’ve found that at Yale, arbitrary social markers — height, membership on a sports team, or even the clothes you wear — make a difference. At least I feel like they do. I can know something is meaningless and still feel controlled by it. 

Why am I still in this dining hall?

In all fairness, I live in Benjamin Franklin College. Even in the warm weather, I’ve spent most of my meals in my college dining hall, forgoing the walk to central campus where I could get dinner from 12 other places. 

My own behavior might be the answer to this question. I’ve always been predisposed to predictability, inertia and routine. In general, I spend time in the same few spaces here, seeing the same people — some of them I know, others are nameless faces I’ve come to memorize.

Maybe it’s a sign that Yale is starting to feel like home, but I’ve found myself longing for variation. I wonder about the conversation being had in Grace Hopper or Morse, the train I didn’t take to New York, the hike I didn’t make to East Rock this afternoon. I feel the weight of every missed opportunity on my back, reminding me that my time here is limited. 

I am concerned that, after another eight of these one-month segments, I will find myself back in the Franklin dining hall — not to eat with my friends or FroCo group but because nothing compels me to go elsewhere.

Who are “my people?”

I’m really not lying when I tell people that I love my suitemates. Every day, I savor the moment when I can return to the common room to hear about the newest romantic prospect, unearth some deeply buried personal story or laugh about an absurd news headline. I do feel settled in my suite.

College is one of the rare places where many people, once entirely unconnected to one another, are suddenly living in close proximity. Our newness and fear might be the only thing we all have in common. Almost instantly, we tether ourselves to the people whom we first encounter — it’s our primal instinct to insulate ourselves.

When I leave my room, and my suitemates leave to live their own lives, I often feel like I’m starting over socially. Whether it be at a party or studying at the library or on the way out of class, I watch friend groups and couples walk past me. These strangers exude permanence, stability — maybe feigned, maybe real but deeply felt on my part. 

I cherish my time spent alone. But I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I haven’t yet reached far enough, or that “my people,” the crowd with whom I could really connect, have already found each other. 

It’s comforting that it has only been a month. But I’m wondering when it will be too late to answer these questions — when party culture begins to feel suffocating, when I won’t be able to break out of my routine, when it’ll be too awkward to form new friendships. 

I probably don’t have much authority on these issues. Upperclassman friends have suggested to me that there isn’t a “too late.” They say my college life will constantly morph and is entirely within my control. I’ll give them that — they’ve been here longer, and they know more than I do.

Right now, what I can be sure of is that I’m not exactly sure. I’ve settled with the fact that I’m not completely settled. My first-month retrospective is an essay, not a platitude.