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My high school teachers often told us, “College is what you make of it.” But I knewexactly what college could make of me. Long before filling out any applications, I had filled myhead with big dreams of college quads, trendy cafés, and school sweatshirts. During senior year,though, my dreams turned into glass and shattered before me.I worked towards getting into Elite Private University all through high school. Oncethere, I’d study English, graduate and the old boy network would help me land a job at Major Publication. I served as a head writer for my high school paper, so I knew that aspiring journalists like me came in droves striving for bylines and front page stories. I needed to standout. And there was no better way to do so than attending EPU; my opportunities would behanded to me. When the decision letters arrived, however, I was met by six Dear John’s and leftwith only two prospects: Moderately Prestigious Elite Private University and State School. I washeartbroken. The path I had diligently laid out to that coveted newsroom slowly unpaved itself.Pretentiously, I considered the prospect of attending State School worse than notmatriculating anywhere. The stigma of attending a public institution was beyond my endurance.Unless, however, said institution was highly ranked by a certain news publication, or rather,news report. At least, this was how my peers and I were conditioned to believe: that we deservedthe best, and the best are tabulated on an annual ranking sold on newsstands as academic biblesfor admissions choices. So naturally, the only choice left was MPEPU. Unfortunately, thefinancial aid packages said differently; my only reasonable choice was attending State School,after all. That is, unless I wanted to be over a hundred and twenty grand in debt upon graduation.The remainder of my senior year comprised sleepless nights and tears, and while it wasvery tempting to choose prestige over practicality, I knew I had to think realistically. So I did. Isent in my deposit. And everything was finalized.

Shortly after, the school’s English department invited me to participate in a first year program where I would live on a floor with other freshman English majors. The opportunity boasted smaller classes and the advantage of living with fellow classmates. I deserved this. Iknew how intelligent I was, and I was happy the school did too.Although this opportunity began to paint a better experience for me, summer orientationonly reinforced my fears. A field trip years earlier to the school left me with just a vague imageof campus; the ivory tower I envisioned instead resembled a massive factory flowered withunsightly buildings of different textures and sizes. It was an architectural nightmare: “ZooMassSlamherst,” partying harder than your school since 1863. I assumed the incoming class wasready to live up to this expectation, so I made little efforts to meet new friends. I just sulked inmy dorm room. “This wasn’t right,” I thought to myself. “I tried so much harder than any of them.” I called my best friend and cried about everything. Because it was all true: the people,the campus, and the reputation. I wasn’t going to fit in here, and I sure as hell didn’t want to tryeither.When September came, I packed up my dreams and headed to college with everyintention of transferring. I met everyone on my floor, and despite their self-proclaimed passionfor writing and literature, I doubted that any of them could string together a coherent sentence.How could they? If they had any shred of intelligence, they wouldn’t have ended up here. Thenwhy did I? Well, I was an exception.My experience in the classroom would prove my assumptions wrong. Our English professor asked us to analyze two poems during the first day of class. Here was my chance toshine and amaze everyone with my intellectual prowess. Instead, I found myself lost in the text.I was unable to identify literary techniques, saw no deeper meanings, and I didn’t even realize

that one was a sonnet. Yet everyone else effortlessly dissected the poetry. This astounded me.After a few more classes, my initial condescension quickly abated. At this point, I just feltinferior.If anything, my prose could still redeem me. I wrote my first paper on Alfred Tennyson’s“The Solitary Reaper.” I analyzed tone, rhyme scheme, diction, even meter. I received a B+,and a broken ego. If I couldn’t produce A-level work at UMass Amherst, how would I havesucceeded at Columbia? I spoke with my professor about my frustration. When I told her aboutmy struggle with the course and concern with my writing, she empathetically said, “Writingnever gets easier.”Her words set off a detonator, and my brain exploded. Here was this brillianttransnational feminist-slash-postcolonial-literature buff with her doctorate in English telling methat she still found writing challenging. Then why was I studying it? She explained that whileour writing abilities improve over time, our ideas become more complex and articulating themwas the challenge.I came into her class under the impression that the next four years would be easy; thatupon graduation my degree would automatically confer skills I didn’t already have. But itwasn’t the case. Not here. Not at Columbia, or anywhere else. So was I willing to work onimproving a craft that would never become easy?Since I just finished my second year, I guess the answer is yes. I’m now designing twoindependent studies and am working towards being a tutor for my university’s writing center.While my experience has definitely not been defined by quads, cafés, or sweatshirts, I’ve stayedfor other reasons: my professors constantly challenge me, my writing continually improves, and