Finals Daze: How I Learned to Stop Worrying, Love Powell, and Embrace the Pain

It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I have no idea how I got here. I’m surrounded by a bevy of strangers — students, mostly, and a few moonlighting as security guards — and they’ve just taken moments from their carefully planned night to alert me that, yes, in fact, the once scalding hot coffee I bought at the vending machine outside of Powell is spilling on about four different people and must be contained immediately. Or else.

So I contained it, using each of the three napkins I miraculously brought with me, and watch in horror as everyone in the library stares at me with seemingly same understanding: it’s finals, and I better get my process together or everything that I worked for — I’m a transfer, after all, and that might not mean as much to those that started as freshmen — might fall apart. There is little room for error, and even less for those that have a combined six quarters of studying to complete and a lifetime of experiences to somehow conjure up in that timeframe. A few hours later and a load of messages from my roommate as to my whereabouts, I finally leave and hit the infamous, towering steps in front of Wilson Plaza, where I’m once again reminded — as the sun rises, no less — how important every second of the day actually is at UCLA. As I begin my descent, a piece of advice a few seniors imparted on me rings in my head: work hard, play hard. And when I work hard? Work really, really hard. So hard, in fact, that you’ll have no regrets, regardless of the grade you end up receiving. That, they said, is out of your control.

How do I describe the process of what finals were like for a transfer student in his very first quarter? By telling the truth. Finals were chaotic, insane, terrifying, and exhilarating. In fact, I remember a single week where I slept around three hours a night — if that. During that week, I had two essays, two tests, three scholarship essays due, and five different shifts to accommodate at work — all of which happened seemed to happen at night. Often, you would have seen me bouncing between study spots — Powell, Young Research Library and even The Study late at night — and running to various departments for office hours and then to the Undergraduate Writing Center, where I work. On top of all of this, of course, was a separate fellowship at night in Israeli Studies, and subsequently dealing with the typical issues a student faces — such as laundry, eating healthy, and exercising when possible (I prefer running but I’ve seen every combination work).

The difference, of course, isn’t the speed of UCLA — it’s the time or lack thereof that you end up having. Everything is condensed beyond anything you’ve experienced, particularly on the semester system. Studying? Not a habit to indulge but a ritual that must be followed with a rigidity that must be learned or else risk failure. Exercise? Get a routine down because night after night of De Neve, Covell and the Study will start to take a toll on your health. Sleep? It’s everything and contributed directly to how effective I was the next day. Eating late at night? As addictive as many places are on campus, I can only recommend avoiding it, at least for the two weeks that finals last. You’ll thank me later, especially when you wake up in a daze after

A few hours after my last final ended, I was exhausted, and found myself wandering near the Wooden Center. I parked myself on the steps, threw off my backpack, and leaned back as the sun beat down on my unusually pale face. To an average student I must have looked insane. When I arrived on campus for Bruin Day a few months prior, I had a vision for how the first quarter would go: fast, sure, but controlled. I wanted to manage every second of the experience, but the week alone taught me that simply would not be happening. Instead, I needed to take every day as it came to and appreciate it no less — the good, the bad, and the ugly (though UCLA is always beautiful). When I finally opened my eyes a short while later, I found a familiar face standing directly above me. She quickly sat down on the steps next to me, barely even needing to say anything to understand the time of the quarter it was and all of the emotions that seemed to flow from it. Over the next several minutes, she encouraged me to keep going, and to understand the first quarter is part of a much larger, as of yet unrevealed process. I struggled to believe, especially considering my exhaustion, but it was advice I desperately needed to hear. Afterward, we hugged, and I began walking toward Holly, the massive steel tower that houses the anxieties of many transfers. As I neared, I happened to spot one of the seniors I met during my first day on campus. Without missing a beat, he took one look, laughed, and threw his hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, what’d I tell you? Welcome to UCLA.”