Tales of a transfer: I'm enigmatic Emma
emma johnston '10 -- guest columnist

I am a minority here on campus: the few, the awkward, the eternally unsure, the transfer student. We the transfers of St. Michael’s are only really members of a subset group; contributors to the exponentially increasing number of people who do not know what the hell they are doing with their lives.

They say a baby is born every 13.1 seconds, whilst an undergrad undergoes some type of existential crisis every 12.5. The transfer is atypical only in that he (yes, I’m going to use the masculine pronoun “he” even though I am female) succumbed to fears which plague everyone all the time. After probably weeks, maybe months of emotional turmoil, he came to one conclusion, the only solution, St. Michael’s College.

He did it twice. He took the tours, paid for the applications, wrote the essays, suffered the anxiety, and endured the ice-breakers—oh, the ice-breakers. Really, how else should one be welcomed to St. Michael’s College than by a scantily-clad, Busch Light scented O-leader asking you to couple your first name with a descriptive adjective?

I have two words: Enigmatic Emma.

The transfer student has an identity crisis. He is an elusive character, who is by no means a freshman. Whatever internal process he put forth in his decision to leave the original school provided an involuntary maturation process. He is certainly not an upperclassman, not even close. It is the little things that distinguish him, like the silent “t” in our precious dining hall. He remains a hybrid, a seasoned vessel in a sea of continued adjustment periods.

Among other things, his transcript sets him apart. It is peppered with useless credits, which his adviser scrambles to justify in order to fill the voids of a Liberal Arts Curriculum. It is tremendous what a little faculty rationale can get you in the way of earned credits. Who knew Introduction to Calligraphy could knock off an Artistic Experience AND Culture and Civ?

Then there is housing. To the members of the North Campus community who proudly announce their place of residence, I commend you. But the sentencing of a naïve and petrified transfer student to the bowels of the campus is a criminal action in and of itself. He knows not what the term “North Campus” really means. A little preparation could potentially lessen the blow to the student when he finally realizes that although deliciously stale Alliot bagels are in fact provided on Saturday and Sunday mornings, he is cut-off from any other outlet to the rest of campus.

And all the while the transfer wanders mispronouncing these Edmundite buildings and shivers waiting for the shuttle. He is satisfied in his decision. His proactive approach to the way in which he wants to spend his next three (or two) years has allowed him the opportunity to have the experience he had once envisioned. The phenomenal friends absolve the horrors of the awkward first days, and well, not much beats Alliot brunch. The title transfer-student will soon fade away, like the memories of freshman year, and an identity will be solidified once more.