For those of you who don’t know, Duke University does their rush process in the spring. I’m guessing it has something to do with wanting first-years to get settled before throwing them into the judgement-filled, late-night-partying, interviewing nightmare that is Rush Month. I’m not sure how this helps, since first semester was also spent feeling awkward and uncomfortable around upperclassmen who had their life together, but I digress.
At the time I’m writing this, it is almost February, which means rush is almost over. In the last two weeks, I have debated the ethics of vaccinations, lost spectacularly at bowling, won spectacularly at card games, argued about Harry Potter characterizations, discussed gender and philosophy alike, and attended my first college party (which was really just all of the above with loud music and dancing to Trampoline).
I never thought I would rush. I didn’t think that there was a place for me in the process; I don’t drink, I’m openly queer, I can’t necessarily handle the social pressure that comes with being in a selective living group. More to the point, I’m not good at judgement. I have social anxiety, I already feel like people are judging me every moment; why would I willingly put myself into a position where that was the point of the event? I was planning on ignoring the social scene that was Greek life and keeping myself comfortable with multivariable calculus homework and Netflix.
And yet, here I am, ferociously editing essays, scrapbooking, and coordinating rides to Central to try and impress people I met two weeks ago. And by impress, I mean showing up to Open House with electric blue hair, Cookie Monster pajama pants, and a terribly-written Letter to the Editor about queerness to laugh about.
Nexus fits. It’s a group of people from everywhere who’s only connecting point is their living situation and a love of learning; the not-quite-golden walls are filled with future philosophers, actors, politicians, engineers, professors, biologists, activists. People who legitimately care, who don’t bother with small talk and jump straight to the important things in life: social mannerisms on the bus, the relative importance of Latin as a possibly dead language, whether time travel is even ethical if one follows a specific scientific perspective.
Their rush process is simple. Show up, enjoy yourself, fill out a Google form answering one or two unique questions.
I decided to rush Nexus for one reason: a math/physics double major spent a handful of hours with me in the common room last semester, articulating the finer points of his life philosophy after explaining to me how one could theoretically live forever in a Schrodinger’s Cat situation; invited me over for homemade eggnog at midnight on my birthday just because; talked me through my feelings after a homophobic death threat was scrawled in one of the freshman dorms; invited people to a small event on Pride Weekend if we didn’t want to go out. He reminded me that people aren’t simply categories, that we are multifaceted and messy contradictions and more than the sum total of our experiences. He was so excited about Nexus, so genuinely happy with what it had given him, that I couldn’t say no when he asked if I was rushing. It wasn’t even a choice at that point; it already fit, already made sense.
The point of this is to attempt to articulate what good people can do to you. I am very blessed that my life is full of wonderful, kind people who legitimately care about me; whether this is because I’m brutal in ending toxic relationships or just luck is yet to be determined. Nexus is filled with these people; the people who remind you not to apologize when you don’t want to drink; the people who give you their apartment keys when you can’t Social right now; the people who let you vent into their Facebook messages when the school newspaper messes up your pronouns. But they’re also the people who can make you laugh uncontrollably at any time; the people who teach you the Star Trek dance; the people who help you paint your nails with highlighter; the people who flirt with you over card games.
The night of the last party of rush, after almost everyone has gone back to East, the stories start. I am almost half awake on top of the previously mentioned math major, his fingers tangling in my off-blue hair as lights shine off the silver walls. The Nexus President sits across from me, electric yellow Party Monitor shirt blinding in the black light, and tells a story about the Duke Gardens’ ducks. I realize, startlingly, half asleep, at nearly 2am on a Friday night, that I feel safe, and comfortable, and so, so okay. I am warm and happy and in love.
I ignore the nagging feeling that this is fleeting, that the people around me might not be just as in love with this moment as I am, and pull away from the affection I am still trying to convince myself that I deserve. Before I can think too hard, the Nexans pull out the card games. I remember this scenario well; the first time I ever came over, I managed to beat three of them in Coup before they realized my strategy of waiting for them to take each other out based off of previous scores to settle. This is something familiar, something easy to relax into. It’s too early in the morning and I’m exhausted, but this feels right.
“You know, you’re allowed to go back if you want. You don’t have to take care of everyone.” I am reminded of this fact quietly. “You’re allowed to put yourself first.”
“I know. I’ll stay anyway.” I watch silently as the game unfolds in front of me, emotions running high as strategy, mystery, betrayal hit at three am. I need to be included, even if it’s just watching the players study each other; I need to make sure that I am a part of this, make sure that I am not forgotten, make sure that I am important, somehow. I am still convinced, after all of this time, that I have to be important to everyone in order to matter to myself.
(I don’t remember that being important is not up to me, that falling asleep on the couch is hardly memorable, but I’m happy and don’t want to think too much about why that is, so I justify it by saying I don’t want to leave alone.)
(Really, I just don’t want to leave.)
“It means a lot that you can fall asleep here. That you feel comfortable with us,” He says a few minutes later, and I smile again, pull him into a hug, take a deep breath, because this will always be easier than words and somehow he understands whatever I can’t say because he hugs back.
“I trust you. Besides, I’m running on, like, negative five mental energy, it’s sort of inevitable,” I mumble into the cushions because it’s easier than admitting how okay I feel right now around people I barely know. You’re not supposed to tell people whose names you learned last week that you love them, that they feel like home and happy and family. That’s what ends these things, when it’s not the same and people don’t understand how easily you make places home and how hard it is to forget that feeling once you decide that it’s worth it. In some strange twisted way, it’s better to be not okay than to be okay, because there is no way being this comfortable with people is natural.
(The fact that I’m comfortable being not okay around this group of people, that I’m comfortable admitting that, also evades me. I don’t need any more connections that I fear will break at any moment.)
You’re not supposed to find family in a handful of days. And yet, here I am, missing a common room that isn’t mine yet and people who haven’t graduated yet because even now, I don’t want to think of my life without this presence.
(I remind myself that it’s only been two weeks.)
(It doesn’t matter.)
“Does that mean negative spoons?” I remember that someone has explained Spoon Theory to him, that he seems excited to have remembered the way I operate, in chosen moments and not enough energy. I store this piece of information away for contemplation later, the fact that he tries to understand how I work, will spend hours thinking and rethinking and analyzing and reanalyzing what happened because there’s no way people can care this much.
There’s no way you matter this much.
“Yeah. That’s okay, though, this is where I come to get more,” I say without thinking, without realizing that it’s true until hours later, when I will remember trying to stay awake with my feet tucked behind the person who made me rush, when I will blush deep because how do you explain how important that is without coming off as clingy
how do I explain that social pressures don’t exist here, that I don’t have to always be okay, that I’m allowed to check out and relax into the atmosphere and sometimes that’s better-
“Oh. Wow.” I can hear the surprise across from me from the guy who will be reading my essays in thirty six hours. I brace myself for the inevitable, but it never comes. He looks confused, as if somehow the living group he leads couldn’t be capable of that (and oh, are they). Pleased, as if somehow this doesn’t happen often (and oh, does it). In awe of something, but I can’t figure out what. I want to try and tell him how much this means to me, the simple act of having open doors and open arms and open ears, but words are hard and I’ve never been good at explaining myself.
“That’s what happened on Monday,” I mumble instead. Monday, when schedules were messed up because of snow and homework was uncompleted because of being needed. When exhaustion and stress and mental illness hit full force and threw me backwards into a whirlwind of attempting to handle things. Monday, which left me cuddled into a physics major on Central Campus, watching Monty Python and finally feeling halfway decent as I let myself breathe.
The Monday after bids were sent out, after enough people have filtered into the common room (my common room, I remind myself), the stories start. There’s a physics major half-awake with his head in my lap, my fingers tangling in his dark hair as laughter fills the still-silver-plated room. The Nexus President sits across from me, electric yellow Party Monitor shirt in the laundry, and looks up the results of the Iowa Caucus. I realize, startlingly, half asleep, at nearly 1am on a Monday night, that I feel safe, and comfortable, and so, so okay. I am warm and happy and loved.
