Molly Lunn's blog

The courtroom reminds me of my high school cafeteria. Peach and cream tiles gleam on the walls, dated wood paneling adds a homey touch and the ceiling looms low and slightly gray from wear.  Similar to lunchtime in my high school cafeteria, I sit in a plastic chair to talk about food.  But unlike the high school gossip interspersed with comments on the boys we hope to Instant Message later, I join those in the courtroom to discuss the legality of backyard Brussels sprouts in Canton, NY.  

While much of St. Lawrence has already begun hibernation beneath scarlet and brown scarves, many of us are active as ever anticipating tomorrow’s election. Political clubs are caroling, professors are throwing out last gumdrops of advice and a fleet of vans is as ready as reindeer to bring students downtown to choose New York’s delegates for president.

When I thought about joining a sorority back in high school, the answer was easy. My mother’s family is Greek, and their desserts are fantastic. Really, I thought; who needs hazing and drama. I’m Greek enough.

I spent my first year at St. Lawrence unaware Greek life here existed. Like most First-Years, my First-Year Program (FYP) classmates lived on my floor and became a second family; my swim team, a third. Occasionally I’d hear a string of exclusive-sounding Greek letters, and I paid them little attention. When I received invitations to spring cookouts with each of the four sororities on campus I saw the events as just another fun St. Lawrence activity, another thing my roommate and I felt we should ‘just try.’

My eyes were dry as I tested pH levels one last time, color-coordinated the kickboards for good measure and biked away from my poolside summer jobs. As much as I miss those sticky days of saltwatered hair and the SPF 50 film on my sunglasses and pillow, I am not alone when I say that the school year is what St. Lawrence students look forward to most, not our summer breaks.

My sorority has a secret song about how college saved us from a life on the farm, and I used to think the farm-or-education choice has always been black and white.  Everyone had to make this choice; everyone from classic writers to the CEO's whose smartphones my worldwide classmates now consider holding hostage in exchange for jobs. Right?

College, I can say, involves much more farming than I ever would have thought.  And farming, more education.

I walked across the stage two weeks ago today, graduation gown billowing and tassel smoking in the heat.  President Fox shook my hand, lots of people I don’t know snapped photos, and I became one of those driven, successful people who graduate college in four years.  Except that I haven’t graduated in four years.

My maroon diploma with its St. Lawrence crest reads “congratulations on your effort.”  The semester I took off junior year, according to our Office of Institutional Research, throws me out of the federally-defined “cohort” of students who enrolled in fall 2008 and will graduate by this summer.  My nonconsecutive eight semesters of undergrad is like a magic key to the 5-year graduation club.

Applying for an internship or competitive summer job is like steamrolling your life into short sentences, tattooing those to cover letters, resumes, essays and writing samples, shrink-wrapping it all into an email and waiting, hung from your toes, until someone catches you with a fish hook.  Short answer: internship applications are confusing.  And painful.

I’m learning in Sustainability class not to value money. Money is outdated, our readings explain; it fosters a dependence on something of no concrete value while ignoring the immense value of a shade-providing tree or a network of life-giving streams. I buy into this, having almost worshipped the regal maple outside my window growing up. But sometimes money is pretty darn useful, especially when I plan to use it through an Innovation Grant to better my St. Lawrence community.

This week-after-break's sunshine has been nothing short of distressing.   Where are my overcast March days, spent in the productive indoors applying for summer internships?   Where is that freezing rain I so welcome when mid-semester essays pile up?   Where's all the treacherous end-of-winter road slush when all I want to do is ride that bike I forgot at home over break?

Winter seems to have dropped responsibility for the weather this week, so while I’m slipping or sloshing around campus I’m thinking of other things, too. Finishing my first feature-length film script, for one. Editing 30 papers for the intro to politics class I’m mentoring. Condensing the first half of my sustainability class at hockey rival Clarkson into 1000 to 1500 words. Finding a dress for my spring Kappa Delta Sigma social this weekend. Trying to remember where I put Susan Merrell '83’s gold eagle-embossed business card after our informational interview yesterday.

Note to self: invest in a rolodex-type device that scans, alphabetizes by industry and stores forever all of the millions of business cards I’ve collected in my almost 4 years at SLU. Not millions, maybe, but over a handful of cards have made their way into the bottoms of my purses, pockets and drawers since I discovered how willing our alumni network is to dole out career advice. And small cardboard cards.