Becoming a Bear

My mom begged me to apply. It was the one school I refused to tour. I didn’t even want to come here. They used the words “Greetings Rebecca” in their emails. So pretentious. UC Berkeley: home to nerds, try-hards, future cancer curers and me. 

I began researching college in eighth grade and had carefully curated a wishlist of qualities I looked for during each college tour. My future school had to have it all. I refrained from using the word “dream” when describing any particular college so as to avoid the complete devastation that accompanies the words “I’m so sorry but,” in the decision email. 

Although I had decent numbers, a varied activities list and some stellar essays, I expected rejection from every UC school, but as the acceptances began to trickle back, slowly my hope grew. Then one fateful weekend I received the words “I’m so sorry but,” followed by “unable to offer admission” to three schools. I didn’t cry or breakdown, in fact I was so set on one school I was hoping Cal would send me the words “I’m so sorry but” so I could officially accept. 

March 28th finally arrived and as I waited for my mom to finish getting labs done at Kaiser, I received a text from my friend saying she had been admitted to Cal. I yelled out to my mom the good news and joked about how happy I was that I’ll finally be done with the waiting game, and I can commit to my roommates and my other school. Then there was confetti and frantic refreshing as my astonished eyes and confused brain refused to comprehend the words coming across my screen. I sprinted over to my mom, tube still drawing blood from her arm.

“Mom! Mom! I got in! I got into Cal!”

My hands were shaking; I couldn’t form a coherent thought. So many emotions all at once. My loving, supportive mother replied, “No you didn’t. Let me see.”

Ok. Rude. 

She took my phone from my hand and doing what all middle-aged moms do, she tried to zoom in while holding the phone at an arm's distance away so she could see the words “Congratulations” followed by my name and correct address.

I wanted to barf with excitement and anxiety. 

My boyfriend, his grandma and his mom took me to Cal Day. The breeze stumbled with the smell of beer, sweat and the underlying, distinct scent of frat. All dies were up, the band was blaring and everyone was dizzily drunk, wandering up and down Piedmont. My boyfriend’s grandma excitedly pointed out a guy dancing on stairs right before he fell over the porch ledge. She recorded each party and waved to the happy, intoxicated students at the number one public university in the world. I knew then I had made the right decision coming to UC Berkeley: you rip your hair out during finals week and take bong rips on Cal Day- these kids do it all. 

When it came time to apply for housing, my roommates and I researched and strategically selected where we’d want to live. As someone with extremely poor luck, I was shocked to learn I had been given my first choice housing option in Clark Kerr and the two girls I was supposed to room with had received the same offer. Within the hour we all clicked accept and were planning a color scheme. Nine days later, that dream went down the toilet. In bright red letters the word “expired” was smeared across my housing offer. Just like when I received my acceptance to Berkeley, my mind went numb and my mom was in utter disbelief. 

“How could you do this,” she screamed from the other room “You’re going to be homeless!”

My dad, poor timing as usual, responded, “Being homeless in Berkeley is normal. She’ll be with the majority of the population.”

The housing office didn’t care. They resubmitted my application and essentially told me too bad so sad and suggested I look for off-campus options. Before arriving to campus I had learned a huge lesson that everyone should know: READ YOUR BERKELEY EMAIL.

As the summer continued on I came to the conclusion that there must be a reason why Berkeley gives us all these obstacles. They don’t have enough rooms so they set strict deadlines for housing offers; they don’t have an in-person orientation so there is mass confusion when it comes to choosing classes; if CalCentral doesn’t update regularly enough they threaten academic holds. Cal is putting wide-eyed freshmen and helicopter parents through a series of tests that only the fittest will survive: Berkeleyism. If you can make it through a summer of responses from officials consisting of some version of “boo that sucks” finished with “go bears” then it’s safe to say, you can make it at Berkeley.