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Exclusives: Comparative Life October
24, 2001: By Kristen Albertsen '02 A week before I returned for my senior year at Princeton, I accompanied my younger brother to Cornell for the start of his freshman year. My family made the six-hour drive in a car packed only partially with his spartan freshman belongings; a week later that same car was creaking under the weight of my senior junk - three years' worth of textbooks and tapestries and countless articles of orange-and-black clothing. As we sat in the back seat together that day, watching the vast farms and hills of upstate New York roll by, I entertained a quiet jealousy at the brand-new experiences he was to have and life he was to create. For me, it was an envious and impossible prospect, this idea of a "second chance": the ability to correct all the mistakes I had made my first year and subsequent years, to have been able to define myself with the confidence and depth I have now, instead of by simply where I was from and what residential college I was in. I cast covetous glances in his direction until we arrived in Ithaca and proceeded to wait nearly an hour as other disoriented parents of freshmen were patiently directed all over campus. Finally we found his dormitory and room, his home for the coming year, and with it ran head-on into the nervous roommate and his even more nervous parents. Soon after, a buoyant little blond girl poked her head in the room and, speaking at a clip only to be heard during Freshman Week, introduced herself as the girl down the hall. Minutes later a welcoming brigade of freshman boys stopped by to introduce themselves; their enthusiasm visibly waned when they learned that not I but instead that tall guy in the corner was the Cornell freshman. Finally, after outfitting him with the requisite detergent and 12-pack of Coke, my parents and I climbed into the empty car and took our leave. My little brother stood still and waved good-bye for a moment, then turned and raced back into the dorm to check his email on the high-speed Ethernet. After quietly arriving at Princeton a few days later, moving into my single, and hunkering down with my troupe of established friends, I emailed him a note glossed with a mixture of senior stress and ennui. I received in return an email several kilobytes in length that bubbled with excitement and energy. His classes were awesome; he had joined the freshman crew team; the funniest thing had happened last Saturday night. He couldn't wait until Thanksgiving to show me all the pictures of his friends and recount to me a story involving two late-night pizzas and a lampshade. I smiled and made a mental note to schedule him in between my thesis research and grad school applications. Thus I have realized that freshman year is, well, for freshmen. For 18-year-old students fresh from high school, not quite sure who they are or where they're going, but damn excited to begin figuring it all out. As for myself, however, I couldn't and wouldn't do it again. However many mistakes I made, however painful certain experiences were, I wouldn't trade them in or give them up, for they are essential to the senior I've become. And in less than one brief year, it will be time for me to thank Princeton for the experiences and opportunities it has given me, and take the next great step in growing up. You can reach Kristen at albertsn@princeton.edu
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