finals@dartmouth

It was 4:00 pm on Friday when I returned to my dorm, Boloco burrito in hand. I hadn't showered or been back to my room in at least two days. I was wearing a combination of my clothes and my best friend's -- I had been sleeping on his futon, since his dorm is a quick walk from the library. I had eaten all my meals while doing work. All of my breaks consisted of getting more food or walking down a flight of stairs to the bathroom. I had been at this for three days, and finally, the worst of it was over. I relished unwrapping that burrito; grinned as I clicked "play" on Hulu and The Office began; I started to sing as I stepped into the warm water of the shower. Over the past three days, I had written two twelve-page papers, and I was exhausted.

Finals at Dartmouth seem to sneak up on you -- you're in class, you're eating lunch with your friends, and all of a sudden, the term is over, and there's no more class, and your friends are going home. Giving in to studying for finals means overcoming the denial that you'll have to leave Dartmouth, even for just a few weeks; that the term is ending, and some of your friends won't come back until the fall; that, like it or not, you're going to have to study. A lot.

There's a good amount of variation with finals: some are tests, some are papers, some are presentations. Since I took English, Comparative Literature, and French, I had three papers. I've always been a struck-by-inspiration writer: I don't like to start writing unless I feel like I really have something to write about; unless the form of my paper has already miraculously appeared, all laid-out, in my head. But, alas, there's no time to wait for the Muses when 50% of your grade depends on a well-researched paper on the melancholy of John Keats (a topic of my choosing, which, in retrospect, appears to indicate a desire towards some sort of abstract self-flagellation).

For my English paper, I checked out books. I carried them in a stack that nearly reached my chin, and read them as fast as I could, taking notes and marking page numbers. I organized quotes; I outlined; I wrote. I wrote from 5:00 pm on Thursday to 4:00 pm on Friday, going to bed at 3:30 am and waking up at 8. I edited, cited, and listened to Queen with my headphones on (fat-bottomed girls, they make the rockin' world go round.) as I finished my two-page works cited. I biked to my professor's office, and, out-of-breath, handed him my final draft, still warm from the printer.

For my Comparative Literature paper, I thought. I thought for a long time, writing things down here and there, until, Aha!, the outline completed itself behind my eyes, and all I needed to do was realize it. I wrote five pages in an hour and a half without pause. I knew what I wanted to say -- I didn't need to pause to cite or consult other people's research. I had my thoughts, and the texts, and for my professor, that was enough. I handed him my paper after a pleasant walk to one of the cafes in town.

So, maybe sometimes there is time for the Muses, and sometimes there's time when you need to eat bagels for every meal because they're the only reliable food you can get without having to leave the library and keep writing even when you can hardly tell one word from the next. In either case, finals are an exhausting -- but doable -- challenge. They're your last chance to get something out of the classes you've taken; to prove that you've understood and internalized the material; to remind you that through all the activities, movies, clubs, parties, and hang-outs, you still have to take classes.

I finished my last final at 3:30 am on Saturday night (Sunday morning?). I sent it in, danced around my room, and stayed up the rest of the night with my friends in celebration.