A Texan Avoiding Becoming a `Blue-Bellied Yankee'

Before I left for college my first year, my parents bade me heed the advice of Polonius, one of the wise fools in Shakespeare's Hamlet. As his son, Laertes, prepares to leave for France, Polonius leaves him with two pieces of wisdom, "Neither a borrower nor a lender be," and "to thine own self be true."

Now, my parents seemed to think that this piece of 16th century logic, combined with a bit of Texas grit and determination, would make my switch from life as an only child in Dallas to life with at least four roommates in the Northeast an easy one.

I was not so sure, and cast greedy eyes on credit cards, care packages and family visits that might help me make the transition from Dallas to the East more smoothly. But, despite my anticipated (and realistic) longings for the creature comforts of home, a look back at first year convinces me that both my parents and old Polonius knew what they were talking about. As a veteran of roommate wars over the surreptitiously borrowed and later stained white shirt or formal dress, I will be the first to say that borrowing and lending can have their disadvantages.

But more than that, it is gaining confidence to know yourself and to be true to yourself in decision-making situations that is an invaluable first-year experience, one that is ultimately more important than what you gain from any of the films you see in a first-year seminar.

I knew I would get a lot of flack from relatives when I decided to go to school in the Northeast, but what I didn't anticipate was pressure from friends and other first-year students to conform to the Eastern way of life. My grandmother, you see, still wages the War of Northern Aggression (Civil War, if you weren't sure), and she couldn't stand the fact that I might go to the H-school and become or worse yet, date, a "blue-bellied Yankee." (Heaven forbid.) No one was really standing around giving me lessons in how to become an "effite Easterner," but there were still those who thought the concept of Texas was something suitable only for Westerns and Friday afternoon re-runs of Ewing family backstabbing.

"You got cows in your backyard?" people would ask "How come you don't have an accent?" or better yet, "They don't have antiques down in Texas, do they?"

"No ma'am, nor running water," was what I wanted to reply.

Such situations were usually just hilarious, and I enjoyed the chance to enlighten friends about the fact that Texas joined the Union back in the 19th century and that, yes, indeed, most people have indoor plumbing. What was trying was when people would give me grief about dressing "Southern" or about eating picante sauce with just about every kind of food.

I guess I just did not have enough confidence at the time to "shoot everyone the finger," so to speak. For awhile, I adopted the strangest manner of dress, suitable for gypsy costumes in a late 1930s musical. I despised things Dallas or Southern, and I rejected bar-b-qued chicken, okra and squash souffle. My parents, I think, believed I was mad, and they wrung their hands in despair.

They concocted a plan to restore me to my Texas heritage--a trip to West Texas and the Rio Grande, home of millions of rattlesnakes, very few peoople and the ghost of Pancho Villa. It was a desolate Spring Break to be sure, but it also brought me back to a feeling of pride in my home. Between the combination of West Texas mesquite trees and glorious Dallas azaelas, I realized that no matter how influential my education at Harvard might be, I owed something to my roots.

This is not to say that I did not learn countless positive things my first year in the East; it is just to say that in doing so, I realized I could not reject what had formed me since birth.

Hanging on to your heritage is just one way of realizing who you are: romantic relationships are another. The second week of first year I met this guy in the laundry room. He was perfectly nice, (he was even from the Midwest--not Eastern at all) and we talked about the QRR test for awhile. Eventually my darks were dry and I collected my basket, jug of Tide and bid him goodbye.

The next weekend, I saw him at one of those small, intimate keg parties that serve at least 1000 students every 10 minutes. He asked me if I liked to dance. I said, "Sure, who doesn't?"

So then he assumed we were going to the 350th together. (The 350th was a formal given by the University to celebrate its 350th year of academic endeavor.) That wasn't the impression I got, but when he called and dropped by every day for the next few days, I became willing to go-after all it was quite an event, and he seemed nice enough.

My roommates thought the whole situation was great and envied my early-on success in the romantic front. I was not so sure, but their enthusiasm convincedme to have a good time at the formal and to continue our friendship. So, whenever he came over we would talk for hours, but I never mentioned my lack of passion; I guess he must have just thought things were moving a little slowly.

The next weekend, this guy's roommates had a party and I felt like I should go, so I walked over about 11:00. Suddenly, my laundry room man had dragged me into his bedroom and was declaring that he was in love with me.

Oh no!

I said, "Thank you very much," and announced that I had to get back to my room. He followed me, came back with daisies stolen from John Harvard's feet and declared his sentiments at my bedroom window for all of Canaday courtyard to see.

The next day, I had the ugly task of dealing with a situation gone out of hand, because I hadn't been honest with myself or with anyone else. I had listened to well-intentioned but uninformed roommates instead of listening to my own feelings. Because I had been wishy-washy, I had to be twice as hurtful as I might have been had I been up front from the beginning.

Now, this is not to say that the second you decide you are not romantically inclined toward someone you should just blurt it out. Each person has his or her own timing and reason. But, instead of riding on an emotional roller coaster of guilt and romantic disinterest, it is better to be true to one's sentiments.

It was probably the first-year rooming lottery that provided me with the hardest decisions to make that first year at school. By now, it may be apparent that I, for one, do not always recognize my feelings until it is almost too late. This happened with housing my first year at Harvard as well.

My assigned roommates and I got along wonderfully most of the time. Karen and I shared a "clean" fetish and spent hours scrubbing the hall bathroom before parents weekend and more hours laughing about how gross it was afterwards; Kim and I had survived pre-med Chemistry together, forging a bond not unlike the friendships survivors of war share; and Michelle and I mainly complained about the venerable vegetables in the Union and spent a lot of time at Christy's and Store 24 buying Ramen and instant soup.

Some assumed that we would all live together, but, once again, I was not so sure. Rather than say anything about making alternate plans, I kept quiet, because I didn't really know what I thought, and I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.

But when the subject came up, I had to confess that I was living with other people in Thayer and Mass. Hall. What could have been totally friendly became tense for awhile because I still didn't know myself.

We are all still friends and even those roommates who lived together have split up for various reasons. But once again, by not searching my feelings at the beginning of the situation, I waited and made things more difficutlt, thinking, maybe, that it would all come to me in a dream. Three years later, I can attest that nothing yet has come to me in a dream.

Once I realized that making decisions and acting on them early is the key of being true to myself and averting trauma in my life, I realized that getting away from Harvard was a great way to calm down and search my sentiments. Although I generally thrive on the activity of the Square and Harvard Yard, sometimes the area can be downright overwhelming with its street musicians, dancing bears and frantic pedestrians. A long run along the banks of the Charles River or just a ride on the subway and a walk through downtown Boston has, more often than not, given me perspective on my life at school and the decisions I want to make.

And rather than get myself into confusing situations, I have found that when I am true to myself, as Polonius suggests, I have had great times at Harvard--eating picante sauce with Cape Cod potato chips, dating whom I want, even if he might be from the East Coast, and being honest with my friends.