Sitting around a small fire in a friend’s backyard during winter break, I spun a marshmallow in my hand, unsure of how to answer the question: “How would you say you’ve changed over your first quarter of college?” Old friends, people I haven’t seen in months but have known for years, watched me as I fidgeted. What’s the difference between the me sitting here and the me they knew before I called UCLA home?
Answering the question wasn’t as simple as answering the linear algebra questions I had encountered all quarter or telling a dining hall worker what toppings I want in my omelet in the morning. How does one solve the matrix of their own personal development? Besides solving math problems and perfecting omelet ingredient combinations, what have I really accomplished as a new college student?
Thinking through the timeline of my development, I realized growth can reveal itself in unconventional places. In my case, it is revealed through the changes in my online purchases.
I first noticed this when I made one of my more notable purchases: a poster. I bought a colorful and eccentric art piece that welcomes uncomfortable stares from visitors but radiates happiness for me. I finally clicked checkout on something that had been added to a virtual cart for months.
It was a simple online purchase, just a few clicks on the computer and a confirmation email. This process is something that I am unhealthily familiar with. I wouldn’t consider myself obsessed with online shopping, but I can admit that I am a frequent visitor of the mailroom. I’ve walked out with Amazon bags, Target boxes and a package from an international artist. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the timeline of my college career thus far wouldn’t be organized by my number of friends made or my exam scores, but rather bookmarked by the items I carried out of the mailroom, my online purchases.
It all started with a loofah.
After the overwhelmingness of move-in day, after the long goodbye hugs and extensive room organization, I was left alone in my room with the items, new and old, that would compile my new space. I had everything: a desk lamp, a box full of granola bars and Goldfish crackers, a pair of scissors, a sheet of stamps and my favorite tea. But, upon walking into the shower in my new shower shoes, I realized I didn’t have a loofah.
Naturally, it wasn’t a big deal. I live in a family of “borrowing,” in which I can snatch an item from my parents’ or sisters’ bedrooms, sometimes to borrow but usually to steal. But I was learning that a walk down the hall didn’t lead to the beautiful stability of mom’s closet anymore. Instead, it led to a couple of elevators and a lounge full of nervously socializing college newbies.
So sitting on my uncomfortable wooden chair at my unfamiliar wooden desk, with my shower shoes still on, I made my first purchase as a college student, solving my first problem while being truly on my own. And two days of free shipping later, I had a loofah.
With that, my clicks of the checkout button continued. Generally, clothing is my favorite purchase to make; I love connecting with something unique and accepting it into my life as a piece of self-expression. But during my first weeks at UCLA, my wearable purchases weren’t aligned with my self-expression.
Maybe it was because I was unsure of where I stood within UCLA’s student body, or because I was struggling with a classic coming-of-age identity crisis, but I bought clothes that I thought would make me fit in. And as I wore the same subtle maroon stripes that I saw around me, it felt like it was working.
At the time, though, I was feeling already hopelessly lost in my classes and like I was drowning in my perfectly striped, easily acceptable shirt. I didn’t resurface until weeks later when I took an inexplicably impulsive break from studying for my first college midterms. After days of studying and hours of ignoring the time, I shut my math textbook, opened my computer and bought a set of hoop earrings. These weren’t your average ring-sized hoops that sit daintily at the ends of your ear – the hoops were big and silver and unapologetically bold.
For the first time, the purchase wasn’t premeditated, nor was it an obvious necessity. Big, silver hoops weren’t designed to make me fit in. With accessories, I was choosing to welcome attention, adding personality to my appearance. With this small purchase I started to feel like I could belong here at UCLA, and I could confidently figure things out without the comfort of my mom’s closet.
The story of my growth as a college first-year could be narrated through the perspective of the mailroom at UCLA. Like me, students across UCLA’s campus are the protagonists of their own memoirs, but their stories could be narrated by unexpected somethings unique to them.