Sasee Magazine

“Please come get me,” I sobbed into the receiver. “I just can’t do this. It’s too stressful, and I want to come home.” Looking back, I cannot believe these words came out of the mouth of the girl who swore she would never return to Wakefield, the tiny town where everyone knows your business.

But I did beg my mom to come get me from college, and I know this because she loves to remind me when I tell people how much I enjoyed my college years. “Not at first you didn’t,” she says. “Remember when you called crying and begged your daddy and me to come get you?”

I know I did but, in my defense, it was my first semester of college. And coming from a town that was like Mayberry with a stoplight, it was one heck of an adjustment.

My first college experience began with lugging my belongings up two flights of stairs on a 100-degree day in August and moving them into a closet-sized room with no air conditioning. I was surprised to find that my roommate had already unpacked her stuff and claimed the right side of the room. She was nowhere to be found, so I took a quick glance at her things. Her side of the dorm room was lacquered with artistic photographs of barely clothed women, posters of Bob Marley and odd, abstract pieces in all shapes and sizes. Her decorations were suffocating in the already cramped room, but I was still excited to meet my eccentric roommate.

Long after I had put away my things and said a long goodbye to my family, my roommate bounced into the room. “Hi! I’m Whitney,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the right side. I left you the bigger closet.”

“Thank you so much,” I told her. I was relieved that Whitney seemed to be a sweet, caring person. I had no idea that this would be her first and final act of generosity.

Later that night, Whitney went to a party, and I stayed in the room perusing my class schedule. I couldn’t wait to take my first psychology course. It was very late when she returned, and she did not come back alone. It seemed Whitney had brought the party back to our dorm room, and she proceeded to turn on her stereo and blast Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” until the windows rattled.

The next morning, Whitney was surprised she had disturbed me. She honestly believed I had slept through her little jam session. Nevertheless, she apologized and, though still a bit miffed, I accepted. I thought back to Marley’s lyrics from the night before and decided to not worry “cause every little thing, gonna be alright.”

But the next night was a lot like the first except there were twice as many visitors and four times as much noise. Each night was worse and worse, and Whitney continued to act without consideration. She even stated, “I don’t bother you about your studying; why do you nag me about partying?” I didn’t make the connection.

A few weeks later, I went to bed even earlier than usual after studying for a test in abnormal child psychology. I read the assigned chapters, reviewed my notes and answered practice essay questions. I felt prepared, so I set my alarm and went to bed.

I woke up the next morning in a complete panic. It was 9:00; my class started at 8:30. I asked my roommate if she had heard my alarm clock go off. “Yeah, I heard it,” she mumbled. “It was giving me a headache, so I turned it off.” I wanted to choke her, but I didn’t have time. Instead, I threw on some clothes, grabbed my books and ran across campus.

By the time I arrived at the psychology building, it was 9:25 and my class was over. I sat outside my professor’s office and waited for him to return for his posted office hours. When he did, I explained my situation and asked him if I could make up the test. He told me that he didn’t offer make-ups, I was in the real world now, and that I would have to suffer the consequences. He gave me an F.

That was the afternoon I called my parents and begged them to come pick me up from college. I told them about everything that had happened since the first night with my roommate. They drove over two hours, from Wakefield to Farmville, and brought me home.

It was a Friday afternoon when they came to get me. They spent the weekend calming me down and reassuring me (a lot like Bob Marley tried to) that everything was going to be all right. My mom convinced me that it wouldn’t be difficult to switch roommates and that just because I had failed one test didn’t mean that I was going to fail the class. I would just have to work even harder.

My parents allowed me to see that college is one of the few times in our lives when we are around a diverse group of people who are all after a similar goal. They taught me to take advantage of, and enjoy, this unique experience I had been afforded.

I was fortunate to have parents who helped me see the bigger picture. They were able to see the benefits of staying in college when I could only focus on the present state of living with an insane roommate.

I learned a great deal in my first year of college. I learned as much from my parents and friends as I did from my professors. I even learned a little from my crazy roommate. She taught me to stop and listen to the music. Sometimes, especially when you’re studying, the loud noise is distracting; but the message is important. And everything turned out to be all right.