Reflection and perspectives

What do a mental case, a cowboy, a devout Catholic, and an uptight Ivy Leaguer have in common, aside from attending the same high school?

I found myself asking the same question as I stared at three of my former classmates from across a plate of hot wings. One year and four different universities later and here we were, just the same -- well, not really. Even before I sat down to dinner I had my mind made up. I had convinced myself that these people were the same -- that they hadn't changed. That they were just the same, but that I had evolved. I had gone to the Ivy League and found the answers to pressing intellectual quandaries while they had whittled away their time consuming mass amounts of alcohol at their lesser-known universities.

But in reality, all we had changed were our images. The mental case who suffered through depression, OCD, and several expensive therapists was now a frat boy extraordinaire. The cowboy who once drove around rural Georgia in a red pick-up truck with the Confederate flag plastered to his bumper and the phrase "American by birth, but Southern by the grace of God" had since turned to rap, dyed his hair platinum, and now strangely resembled a backward Backstreet boy. The devout Catholic was now playing at being "a player" and racking up a list of dates faster than the Hail Marys she formerly recited. And the uptight Ivy Leaguer -- that would be me -- had submerged her intellect into the blonde dye job of last year.

But we were all the same. Sigma Kappa still tapped his fork to the right side of his plate five times before taking a bite. To a non-observant on-looker he seemed healthy enough. No medication since last October, and there was only a look of subtle trauma in his eyes when he mentioned second semester hazing. Cowboy's southern accent crept into the conversation and detracted from the DKNY he now wore. Not even his relentless stories of the past year's hook-ups and petty crime arrests deterred from the little boy eyes and gentle manner that I had grown accustomed to over four years of high school. The devout Catholic too, couldn't quite pull it off. Despite her own stories of conquests she still couldn't suppress shock at the blatant display of cleavage at the table next door. Even I reverted to my serious self --ÿbeing a clueless blonde suddenly seemed too tiring to attempt. And then it hit me.

I HAD evolved! There was a supreme lesson to my first year of college. I had spent the past 12 months racking my carefully unused brain asking myself why I had been so very wrong in my assessments of others. Virtually none of the people I met during my freshman year proved to be what I expected -- not my roommate, not the jock in my German class, not the engineer across the hall. Almost everyone had taken my expectations and thrown them out the window, leaving me to believe that I was a bad judge of character.

And now I knew why. The mental case could look like the All-American frat boy who had it all, and Cowboy could appear to be ghetto or whatever it was he was going for (I still don't know), and even the devout Catholic could seem like a sultry seductress to a passerby, or to any student at college.

I only saw through their new images because I knew the old ones so well. The people that I had misjudged my freshman year were forms of the mental case, the cowboy, and the Catholic -- only they were in hiding. They each had their fronts up just as I had mine. I simply hadn't taken the time to watch for the scrutiny in the Catholic's eyes or the troubled look coming from the mental case. I had dismissed people too easily because I saw the images they presented and left it at that.

But a plate of hot wings, an hour on the beach and a clumsy game of football later, I made a quick good-bye with best wishes for the year to come. Walking to the parking lot, I couldn't help but feel disheartened and disappointed that these people -- people I had known and loved -- now sheathed themselves from others, others who may never know them the same way that I had. Then something caught my eye -- Cowboy's red pick-up truck. He would surely sell it soon and trade it in for a motorcycle, but for now, there it was. And on the now bare bumper remained the shiny rectangular shape where the southern flag had once flown proudly. The sticker was gone, but if you looked closely enough, you could discern the former stars and bars on his truck. You simply have to take the time to look beyond the image to see it -- and that's just what I intend to do.

Please note All comments are eligible for publication in The Daily Pennsylvanian.