My first day as a UCLA student began with a misunderstanding.
The Wednesday night before our first classes, the teaching assistant from my history class sent out an e-mail: “Discussion to meet at 9 a.m. in Bunche Hall.”
Being a naive and timid freshman, I rose bright and early from my humble abode in Hedrick Hall and made the long trek from the top of the Hill to North Campus, where Bunche Hall is located.
Since I was ignorant and uninformed, I managed to walk the long route from the residence halls, down past John Wooden Center, and up Bruin Walk to finally arrive at my destination: Bunche.
(I would later learn the ins and outs of UCLA’s mammoth campus and realize that had I simply trotted down Charles E. Young Drive, past the north end of Drake Stadium, I would have significantly minimized my journey.)
I then faced the challenge of scaling Bunche’s dark-glass walls and working through the building’s labyrinthine system to find the assigned classroom on the A-level. I stopped in my tracks ““ Bunche Hall had an A-level? Where did an A-level fit into the high-rise building? Would a lettered level come before or after the numbered levels?
Standing there, completely stunned and baffled, I looked around in hopes of finding a familiar face. All I found were groups of upperclassmen, casually strolling past and sipping their lattes without a care.
I was too stubborn and sheepish to confront these strangers for directions. Oh, how I envied them. Oh, how they effortlessly roamed the UCLA campus without a campus map in their hands for security. And how they walked in freedom, without being weighed down by a backpack full of textbooks!
It was at this point that a great miracle ““ or fortunate coincidence ““ happened. My orientation counselor walked out of Bunche Hall after her first class of the school year. At this moment, my feelings of confusion subsided, and I was overcome by joy and, most importantly, immense relief. My orientation counselor graciously pointed out that the A-level was located at the bottom floor of Bunche, and I quickly waved her goodbye as I made my way to my first official class at UCLA.
Or so I thought.
I arrived about 20 minutes early to the history discussion and patiently waited outside the classroom for my TA to arrive. As I waited, I chatted with a transfer student who was also enrolled in the class. It turned out that he, too, had trouble finding the A-level (which was a little boost to my already-discouraged freshman ego).
The TA finally arrived. He sat down, passed out the syllabus, and began his discussion. But, after five minutes of reviewing the course material, he paused.
“Oh, and by the way, anyone who isn’t enrolled in Discussion C, you’re not supposed to be here. Sorry, I sent out the e-mail to the entire class roster on accident,” he said.
I quickly ruffled through my backpack and checked my class schedule ““ I was enrolled in Discussion G, for the following day.
So, as it turned out, my entire first-day adventure was actually a big miscommunication. In fact, as I would later learn, my correct discussion wasn’t even in Bunche Hall.
As I made my hike back up to Hedrick Hall, I contemplated the anatomy of my first day at UCLA. The only recipe I formulated followed along the lines of Murphy’s law: Anything that can possibly go wrong, will.
In truth, my first day as a UCLA student was in no way a reflection of my experiences during my first year. I would later learn the art of waking up 15 minutes before a class and somehow defying the laws of physics to arrive there on time. I would endure caffeine dependence and sleep withdrawals as I studied for my first finals. I would develop a love-hate relationship with dining hall food. But most importantly, I would realize what I truly loved about UCLA ““ meeting an amazing and intelligent group of people from different backgrounds and cultures.
E-mail Chung at lchung@media.ucla.edu. Send general comments to viewpoint@media.ucla.edu.