My first visit to Cornell was a thoroughly annoying experience. However, given that it was a sunny August day, and I was very impressed with the grace of its architecture, it began well enough.

Unfortunately, as I walked into Day Hall for a tour, things began to crumble relatively swiftly. As our miniscule tour group (consisting of a four individuals, including my father and myself) gathered, the bouncy fellow beside me attempted to win my friendship. His first question to me torpedoed his objective in an instant: “So are you, like, a grad student?” I gave him a withering look. While I may dress like I was born in 1953, I’d like to think that I have yet to begin exuding the world-weariness which might accompany a graduate degree.

When I first arrived at Cornell as a sophomore transfer, I was entirely convinced that the University hated me. I found orientation to be completely disorienting. I was absolutely befuddled as to which orientation activities were for transfers, which were for freshmen and which were for both. I was also thoroughly lost. Weaving around the rampant construction on West Campus, I went through a couple of campus maps as I frantically deciphered building codes trying to find out where on earth the Transfer Center was supposed to be. To make matters worse, the weather was decidedly fickle, and I had yet to discover the wisdom of carrying an umbrella on my person at all times.

This Spring Break, my last as a Cornell undergrad, was simply too brief. And now I have no choice — Graduation Day is staring me implacably in the eye. In a few short weeks — I already wish it were longer — I will bid our dear Ithacan icebox a fond farewell.

In keeping with my pensive mood, a swarm of “what ifs” presses incessantly on my mind. What if I had joined a different circle of friends? What if I had chosen a different major? What if I had stayed true to my high school vow to never get overcommitted in college (… and look how well that turned out …). After all, over the course of one’s college career, who wouldn’t wish one could change a decision or two or three?

I have a confession to make — I am an apostate. I don’t believe in having a bear as Cornell’s mascot. Sorry my dear Touchdown, it is time to bid thee adieu. I know it sounds rather odd and downright un-Cornellian, especially coming from a confirmed traditionalist like me, but let me explain.

With graduation looming ever closer, I find myself reminiscing about my college beginnings. I can’t seem to stop myself from thinking back to those days when college was still an utterly novel concept: alien, mysterious and exciting — a voyage into the unknown. And I know I’m not alone in this feeling; all over Cornell, seniors are succumbing to this epidemic of premature nostalgia.

Just the other day, some of my friends and I were discussing what our expectations of college were when we were still seniors in high school. A common theme was that going to college provided an opportunity to recreate oneself and leave behind unwanted portions of persona in the pages of high school yearbooks.

I am in my last semester at Cornell, so perhaps it’s not surprising that I find myself missing Cornell even before I have left with my coveted degree in hand. As I stroll across the Arts Quad under the watchful eyes of Ezra Cornell and A.D. White, I am fiercely proud to call myself a Cornellian. And yet, this sense of nostalgia raises a profound question: Do we share a common conception of what it means to be a Cornellian?

Quite frankly, the more I ponder the question, the more I’m convinced that it is overly simplistic and risks missing the point. Cornell is more than the sum of its parts, and its multifaceted nature ensures that each of us has a slightly different understanding of what it means to be a Cornellian.

The sudden transition from the real world to our isolated scholarly preserve at Cornell is always disorienting — it never fails to jolt me like a bucket of ice water.

A good part of the adjustment is physical. The first time I visited Ithaca — on the sacred pre-college pilgrimage — it was the middle of August. The sunny day reminded me of my hometown in Northern Virginia and I was convinced that reports of arctic Ithaca winters were quite exaggerated. After all, we also get snow in Northern Virginia — how different could Cornell really be? Little did I know that, meteorologically, Ithaca was shockingly similar to Outer Siberia. Yet, in reality, Ithaca is not a gulag in the frozen Russian tundra.

Almost every student would agree that the week before Fall Semester Finals is a wretched time. So perhaps it isn’t the best time to consider how to improve the dialogue between Cornell administrators and students. After all, we are trying to cope with a tidal wave of long deferred assignments that have hit us like a tsunami. In a frantic race against time to prevent academic ruin, desperate undergrads huddle in overcrowded libraries. In this fevered atmosphere, student stress quickly gets translated into inchoate grumblings about Cornell’s failings.

This time of year, as predictable as the grey overcast sky and the fog rolling in from the lakes, a pall of anxiety descends over Cornell students. No, it is not the inevitable hangover one expects after the frenetic excitement of a historic presidential election. Nor is it the case of post-birthday blues, felt by Carrie Bronsther ’10 and myself, but few others. Somehow, there is an eerie feel of familiarity to this anxiety, like an old friend knocking on the door: it is the stress of prelims.

Today is my twenty-first birthday. You say, a watershed event. I say, how charming. Before visions cloud your minds of my sweater-vest clad form engaging in some of the time honored college antics to celebrate this milestone, allow me to quash your musings. Chances of my cutting loose in cheerful abandon are about as likely as the statues of our founders marching off their pedestals and taking a brisk jog around the Arts Quad.