The time has come.
As students you really would think we’d have learned a thing or two by now, but getting in to my mandated classes shouldn’t be as surprising as being picked in the Reaping.
Didn’t you hear? Elon University is the new Panem.
To tell you the truth, this series of unfortunate events resembles Jim Carey and mumbles the words of the esteemed Albert Einstein. “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” He might as well have formulated a constitution for us tributes in the world of academia.
Seniors are the people of district one and two. They have years of preparation and experience; they are supposed to be in the best of shape with the best odds.
Freshmen are ones from district twelve—the coal miners, the impoverish of the collegiate community. Odds so low you could almost consider it deplorable. Everyone, once getting through approval check, putting on their Mockingjay pin.
I do appreciate the dedication the school has to keep the incredible student:teacher ratio, but without getting in to these classes my ratio will be a bitter 0:0.
Each year is like receiving a medal of honor, with graduating seniors having the noble peace prize. We think we will be safe, especially with getting this far, and each year we are proved wrong just like Miss Katniss Everdeen. Oh dear how ever did this happen? It is this relentless battle for survival, but someone has to prevail. Hope and luck triumph any and all logic. We have to leave what we cannot control in the hands of fate.
As an attempt to relieve some pain of this violently forsaken means to retain fear, I remind you, we are Phoenixes not Mockingjays. We rise from the ashes of our misfortunate. When there is a will, there is a way, and during registration that is by ferociously emailing everyone and anyone you can think of, and praying there will be that one wonderfully brave soul to drop their precious spot.
To give ourselves some credit, the credit I would rather add to my number of credit hours, advisors are as responsive as the most agreeable, Haymitch— consequently leaving us star crossed. We are forewarned, ever so sporadically, spontaneously, and unexpectedly. Suggested in the words of Haymitch to, “just stay alive.”
Left with hanger, we realize that staying alive is really just ensuring we graduate on time. Flaunting that diploma is like the victors’ tour around the districts, glorifying the reality of the post graduate life. I just hope my victors’ village isn’t straight back to my parent’s house. Thank you Katniss for showing me how I would react if I had to relive that horror. This game of survival is just as cruel as the twists and turns of a Quarter Quell.
With the clock going tick tock like a time bomb, we beat on, but only until next year. Surprise, surprise. Helpful advice? Pay close attention to that slot clock. The Elon world is always watching, and may the odds truly be ever in your favor this year.