In some ways, I don't have nearly as much nerve as I should. When I was younger my brother and I used to pay one another to tell the McDonald's counter attendant when our hamburgers were made wrong. We also used to beg our parents to sell our little league candy for us, or any other item that we were forced to peddle in order to play a sport we were only tangentially interested in.
And those inhibitions haven't left. I still shy away from solicitors on the Bryan Center walkway, allow myself to be ignored by saleswomen in classy department stores, and, even as a reporter, I dread having to interrupt a fellow sorority girl's Alpine lunch in an effort to get quotes for an upcoming story (granted, I feel a lot more comfortable with men).
Nevertheless, one of the things I like best about myself is my continued ability to engage in ludicrous, and what some people would consider childish, behavior.
Up at The Chronicle, it wouldn't be abnormal to see me stone-cold sober on a Tuesday night singing congratulatory songs to myself after completing any one of the tedious tasks I perform in my capacity as managing editor; or demanding that my boss, Editor Greg Pessin, observe me while I perform a dance routine I choreographed some seven years ago.
But it doesn't take a Chronicle staffer to know my peculiarities. Others may know me as the girl in econ class who draws stick figures engaged in sexual acts in an effort to make her unassuming and studious neighbor laugh, or the girl who teamed up with her roommate to bombard an acquaintance they haven't seen in over a year with water pistols on a crowded East-West bus.
Nonetheless, I am just as serious and conservative as the rest of you.
In fact, I am currently stressing over my grades (even though I've already got a job) and questioning my four-year career at Duke, wondering how things would have been if I had taken different courses or somehow convinced myself against a career in teaching, perhaps in exchange for a profession more worthy of Duke credentials.
Still though, at the age of 21, I am proud of my continued ability to do off-the-wall things to make myself happy.
About a year ago, at a slumber party with friends from my rural northern California hometown, I relayed to them the tradition that had been forged in my freshman-year triple: At least once a week right near bedtime, I thrilled my two roommates with a dance number I had conceived to the song, "Come On Eileen." Within a month, half of my freshman dorm knew about my antics, and many of them had the opportunity to witness the aforementioned act.
My friends from home couldn't stop laughing. My friend Sarah said that unlike everyone else in the room, I hadn't changed a bit. I was overjoyed.
Later that evening, Sarah corrected herself--she said I was smarter and knew more rich people than I had before. But her point was still the same: After four years far away from the hick town where I was raised, where straight-A students ended up working in factories and where our local pride centers around a bull that killed two cowboys, I had held on to one of my most endearing qualities.
But the truth is, Duke has changed me... a lot.
For starters, I never thought I'd date a man who wore khaki pants. Now, I wouldn't take anything less. In fact, I wear khaki pants--I, along with most everyone else at this school. I have also developed an affinity for salads, bagels and flavored coffees.
I grew to fear certain quads, on the belief that the fraternity there would collectively look down on a girl like me.
I became so disillusioned by race relations on campus that I didn't cultivate a friendship with the coolest girl I ever met, just because being from different races would have made hanging out difficult.
I also came to believe that because of my background, even my closest friends would never understand me.
But after experiencing Duke as a microcosm of life's pressures, I've salvaged one special quality--my playfulness, my outrageous spirit--and through all these years, that, if nothing else, kept me sane and smiling when I least expected.
And I'm hoping to hang on to that for as long as possible.
Tessa Lyons is a Trinity senior and managing editor of The Chronicle.
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