What college student doesn’t love prospective students? Seriously. They give us so many opportunities:
- …I’m coming up blank here, guys.
Really, what prospective students do is give us a great opportunity to lie about how wonderful we think our school is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prospie walking around and asking people questions to hear: “I fucking hate this place. Seriously. Go somewhere else.” In fact, people praise their universities to such an extent that one piece of advice I got when looking at colleges was to ask the current students what the thing they disliked the most about their school was. And every single response ended in some sort of justification. “I wish we had a better gym, but they’re building a new one next year.” “The food sucks, but it’s cafeteria food and not bad compared to the food at my friend’s school.” “There’s a lot of homework so not much free time, but I’m really getting my money’s worth for my education.”
Rarely are we given the opportunity to show them what our school is really like.
On Wednesday, we had some prospective students visit two of my classes. One of these is a 9AM poetry writing class, which I’m taking because I’m a creative writing major and we need to take a certain number of writing classes to fulfill requirements. If I’m honest, I hate poetry. (To be clear, I don’t hate reading it. I love reading good poetry. But every night before I have a poem due, I realise oh shit I have a poem due and write something quickly just so I don’t have to worry about missing an assignment. I usually think they’re shit. So I don’t hate poetry in general; I just hate writing it. It’s not my thing.)
Every week in this class has a different theme. For Monday, we read a bunch of poems in that theme. For Wednesday, we write our own poem in that theme and spend the class workshopping it. Last week, Monday was a holiday and we had the day off, so the professor came up with something for us to do on Wednesday that didn’t require having discussed a theme on Monday: Erotic Poetry Exercise.
This involved reading a few poems about sex, none of which were particularly sexy, and then being sent off to compose a bawdy limerick. At our disposal was a sheet photocopied and handed out by the professor filled with sex personals and a 900 number at the top. AWESOME. (This week is actually Erotic Poetry Week; I figure the exercise was more to get us comfortable with the idea before we started really working on it.)
We get to work. “Work” involves reading sex personals and alternately laughing hysterically and being horrified at the idea of whatever the personal entails.
In the back, our two perspective students giggle as they work together on their own poem. I don’t remember what it was, but I remember they did that thing where the first letter of every line spells out a word, so when they shared, they blackboard had “PUSSY” written vertically in giant letters. Awesome. Then we start reading our work to share what we’ve done with our time:
Hello, my name is Daniella.
I’ve got a whole wall of flagella.
Oral’s always a plus,
and I don’t mind the pus,
as long as you’re a well-paying fella.
-By me & a classmate. Mostly me. Yeah.
This must the the administration’s worst nightmare: that, at ass o’clock in the morning, we immediately strip away the pretense that anyone in college, including the professors, has matured beyond the age of fifteen, and rub it in the fact of the students they hope to entice to their “prestigious institution.”
Welcome to college, girls. We didn’t lie to you. I hope you respect that. I also hope that, for the sake of your own well-being, you go to a different fucking school.