On Wednesday of last week I was only registered for two classes.
Not too dramatic, I know, but for me, under-enrollment was traumatizing. Advanced Registration had never failed me in the past. Somehow, for five semesters I weaseled my way through the maze of Penn InTouch into four not–too-early, not–too–hard courses and was there in a safe middle row desk browsing Buzzfeed from day one.
This time around, things were different. I was rejected by professor after professor in a disappointing round of academic speed–dating, sent all the way back to Pine St. without even a syllabus to keep me warm at night. And it freaked me out.
After calling my mom nearly 100 times to whine about the uncertainty of my future, Friday came and went. On Saturday morning I got an email that rush was postponed; it was the third loss in as many weeks.
Instantly, I realized my little problem was one I should feel lucky to face.
The uncertainty of classes, rush, OCR or whatever else you’re worrying about is nothing compared to the uncertainty of life—the one uncertainty we’re not usually complaining about to our moms or friends or academic advisors. When a spot opens up in the recitation you've been waiting for, you probably don’t think it’s because someone else won’t ever get the chance to come back to school.
Now that my schedule is adequately full, I’m thinking about those students. I know that while I may be nearly done with graduation requirements, others didn’t make it as far. This first letter is for them.
