1.) These are names of legacies whose parent(s) pissed of the administration when they were students, therefore our generation must pay for their crimes. I’m banking on this as the likeliest scenario. My mom probably forgot to return a library book before she graduated.
2.) They somehow found out that this was not my first choice of colleges and now they’re messing with me for their own sadistic entertainment.
3.) The List is compiled of randomly chosen names based on social security numbers and/or birthdays.
These may be the ramblings of a half-crazed conspiracy theorist, but I think there’s something to the giant shitstorm that this school keeps throwing me into. When we left off, I was a lost little Spanish major with 9 credit hours, no advisor, and very few attainable career aspirations.
Fast-forward 24 hours: I’m feeling pretty good because the Spanish class on Latin American Cinema (AKA my dream class that I’ve been trying desperately to get into since I got to this Godforsaken school) is actually still open, according to the aforementioned impossibly challenging new course enrollment system. Trying not to get my hopes up, I quickly request enrollment and await the professor’s affirmation to tell me I am officially in the class. After not hearing a response, I take a proactive approach and e-mail her explaining how excited I am for her class and which section has more room? Another day passes, and still no word, so I decide to just show up to the class. At 8 AM. (Now that’s dedication.) I gleefully awaken at 7 o’clock and make my way to the secret hidden classroom in the basement of the library (creepy). I find a friend from a previous Spanish class and she tells me this course is great and she hopes I get in. Witty banter ensues. Prof sits down, takes roll, and I bring my predicament to her attention. She tells me, “Lo siento, pero no hay espacio en la clase,” which is Spanish for “Fuck you, get out of my classroom.” (Not really, but that’s how it felt.) I ask her about the 9:30 section of the class. She tells me she will be letting in one more student but then it, too, will be full. She does all this very politely, but still manages to make me think she just might be the Devil incarnate. I am fighting both the urge to bust into tears and the impulse to scream, “I’M A THIRD-YEAR SPANISH MAJOR AND THERE ARE FIVE EMPTY DESKS IN THIS CLASSROOM SO WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PROBLEM?!” (Now that kind of outburst would probably earn me some kind of asterisk or gold star on The List: “*Requires excessively thorough torment*”)
But I don’t. Cry or scream, that is. (At least not right then.) I ask if there is even a small chance of getting into one of the classes, if it’s worth it for me to stay. She shakes her head with fake compassion. So I pick up the tiny pieces of my shattered dreams off the floor, gather my books and take the walk of shame out of the classroom.
That class was pretty much my last hope. I had somehow convinced myself that despite this rocky transitional time, everything would be great once I got into that Spanish class. I realize it was a bad idea to put all my eggs in one basket, and I was seriously regretting turning down the other two offers of enrollment I had received, sure that I could get into this class. This meant that in order to maintain the 12-credit minimum, I would have to stay in the Religion class that I had signed up for in a moment of blatant stupidity: The History of the Bible. It met for 2 hours and 45 minutes once a week. Its subject was not the content of the Bible, but rather how the books included in the Bible were chosen and why. Like I said, it was a horrible decision. I realized this after the first meeting, but hadn’t technically dropped it yet.
Without my beloved Spanish film class, I had no choice but to go crawling back to History of the Bible. At this point I had 24 hours to complete the week’s worth of reading that I hadn’t started, thinking I would surely be dropping the class. I had spent a couple hours trying to get through the tedious readings when I checked my e-mail. I received a message from the Spanish film class professor notifying me that I had been granted a spot in the 9:30 section of the class.
... REALLY?! Now that I’ve missed three classes and completed 75% of my mind-numbing Religion reading, NOW you decide to let me into your class? Not before when I was, you know…present? Really? Why must they toy with my emotions like this?
I was equally outraged and relieved. And I really didn’t want to do the last 25% of my reading for History of the Bible. So it all worked out and everyone lived happily ever after. (False. Remember The List?) We’ll see how it goes down when I actually show up for class. (“Surprise! You got Punk’d.”) My brother suggested I make the “Facial” sign when I see her in class, but I think that might be one expression that gets lost in translation.