My undergraduate career at Penn State began in August 2012. Move-in day was predictably chaotic, but the busyness of unpacking and meeting others in my residence hall kept my impending jitters at bay; to my surprise, I didn't have a hard time saying goodbye to my mom.
When I crawled into my bunk that night, however, it was achingly foreign. The feeling overwhelmed me. I began to shrink at the thought of 40,000 strangers surrounding me, all of whom seemed to have somehow made friends already. I felt suffocated, both by the lack of air conditioning and the knowing that I had four years to go.
The next night didn't feel any different, or the next.
Not long after, I visited my adviser with the intent to transfer. While homesickness is the simple diagnosis, my condition was a little more complicated. Deeply rooted beneath melancholy and social anxiety was a hyper-awareness of myself, a kind of insecurity that lingered like a shadow, fixed on amplifying my differences. It whispered, "You don't belong here," and shook its condescending head at me whenever I thought that maybe things would turn out OK.
I felt like the world was holding a magnifying glass up to me. I convinced myself that I was the black sheep among superficial men and women who were confident and happy and had every reason to be.
My solution was to distance myself. I thought I was noble for choosing not to conform. But what I deemed "focusing on school" was really self-isolation, which only augmented my self doubt. Factor in academics and a long-distance relationship, and I began to sink under all the weight.
People from home were quick to assume I was having the time of my life. Alumni slapped my back because I shared with them some kind of rite of passage as one of the thousands who shout "We Are" on Saturdays. When I called my mom crying, she would say, "Jordan, I wish I was you."
Because I had the smallest speck of faith in myself, I opted out of transferring. I was right. As time progressed, I got over it. I found a sense of purpose, and more importantly, I met people who shared similar experiences in ironically named Happy Valley.
One said he felt distanced from his peers because he was the black kid who chose cello over basketball. A Muslim student wept in class because she didn't feel safe. A few others admitted to seeking help at Counseling and Psychological Services. Woven through each of our stories was the desperation for contentment--surprising, given Penn State's ranking as 8th most fun school in the U.S., yet a common side effect for those grappling with individuality.
On a trip to Salt Lake City in November with a group of my fellow writing tutors, one admitted to planning on leaving after their first semester. "Me too," someone answered. "Same."
I was ashamed for thinking wrongly about the Penn State community.
Penn Staters are not all superficial, confident, happy people. Some are oppressed, and some are smothered by the pressure of academics. Others are victims. Many can't afford books, and some will call their moms crying tonight. Others don't have a mom.
My choice to segregate myself negated the possibility of finding someone else who needed a friend. I learned that finding solidarity in the midst of adversity is a matter of immersing yourself within the community, not turning your nose up at it.
Here's something I wish I had known in August 2012: Penn State is not a utopia. It's an institution. There are students who are considered worth more than others. There are voices which go unheard. Individuality is not always welcomed. While Penn State may be in the center of Pennsylvania, it's not the center of the universe.
This is not to say that State College isn't a wonderful place to live. It's my home, and I will always encourage others to consider moving there. I met brilliant people who inspired me and helped me grow. The relationships I made are with people who also remained true to themselves and contribute to the world in positive ways; I value this in people because after all, it is a choice.
The problem isn't Penn State. The problem is the constructed ideal of Penn State--as is with many colleges and universities--and the universal assumption that it's the next best thing to Disney World.
Sadly, such an ideal gave me and thousands of others reason to believe we were at fault for not loving our school on day one. It is OK to be unhappy in Happy Valley. For those not willing to submit to the status quo, there's still a place for them.
Everyone there, whether they admit it or not, is a little broken. That's what gives Penn State its humanity. When you peel back the layers to expose what remains under the over-exposed exterior, you will find a core composed of raw, flawed humanity. Behind the façade of Big10 football and THON and the "For the Glory" T-shirts are people searching for a sense of belonging. That's what took me three and a half years to learn and what I appreciate most about my school.
Because it's where I did the most growing, I left Penn State with a heavy heart. While my professors and friends have taught me the power of original thought, I am most thankful for them teaching me the power of valuing yourself. That'll get you further than any diploma will.