“I don’t know what it is about us first years, but it seems to me that everyone seems to notice us. How the hell do we manage to be so different that everyone can pick us out in a hoard of thousands, its ludicrous.”
It’s fair to say overhearing conversations isn’t the smartest thing, especially when they leave you feeling a bit paranoid. However I thought I had things going for me perfectly, maybe wearing the wool knit jersey that mum crafted me out this Christmas was a bad idea but I mean I had my Edward scissor hands t-shirt to fall back on. That t-shirt is gold, even if the chicks are just taking a squiz at Johnny Depp on the front they’re still looking at me, surely technicalities make little difference and just maybe a few are checking out the hot, chiselled body encased by the almighty T. I like to think so anyway. I haven’t bothered to shave for a few days so I’ve got the fashionable stubble going, I must be looking at least twenty-two. We Indians we grow the facial hair quick and as for the Indian guys well that’s another story. Now there is no possible way that I’m going to get the “ha you’re a first year” thing, I’m so sorted.
So walking on to the campus I’m thinking it’s ok G, everything’s fine, no one’s noticed a thing, just do it smooth. I pull into the quad and I’m pretty rattled by the people. I come from Wanganui, that place just made city status and the only time we get in the papers or the news is when there is a drive by shooting or some doctor at the hospital gibs a patient by stealing her ovaries without consent. Seriously it’s looking like a rat race and I’m content on coming dead last as long as I remain inconspicuous. Go figure, its quite easy, go to lectures mind your business and you might escape the brutal reality of first year life.
Turns out after two days of similar occurrences I’ve noticed that no one really gives a flying fuck what year you are. I’m getting closer and closer to actually wearing a t-shirt that says “I’m too sexy for first year” and pacing the quad in a march asking for abuse. “Look at me, I live at Weir house, nothing has occurred in my life for two days and I’m starting to get depressed, step right up and kick me! Fuck I’m first year!” I’m still thinking not much would actually happen; never know till I try (any body knows of a t-shirt printing shop, drop me a line). I just can’t get over the idea I believed all the smucks that told me “oh it’s hell, have a fun time”, “Everyone will hate you”. These people must have been hanging on to the ole mother’s hand or other appendage for way past its use by date. I had two girls standing next to me in line for the free sausage sizzle (those things keep me going) and just chatting about how this guy was a total “hottie” and I turn around to where the females have got there crosshairs pointed to see a first year guy. Besides my own self esteem being boosted two-fold the whole idea of first year hatred and branding seems to be tearing itself up and placing its pieces in the paper recycling bin, (all for the recycling thang we kiwi’s have going). If you’re a first year and still haven’t quite realised no one gives a stuff bout ya or even better you have been abused, let me know. Either way don’t laugh at a girl’s jokes, unless she’s funny.
G. Singh
Weir House