balance@dartmouth

I had my first test in Psychology today (that's right, blog followers, I'm taking two science classes!), and I was nervous. Like, didn't-eat-breakfast nervous. I haven't really taken that many tests at Dartmouth, and the ones I have taken have been very conceptual, rather than based on the memorization of specific facts. This test was different than any I'd taken in a few years -- 50 questions, multiple choice, four 40-page chapters' worth of material. I spent last night pouring over pages and pages of notes, shuffling through a stack of note cards three inches thick, saying definitions out loud as Physical Graffiti spilled from my speakers.

Much to my surprise, I knew most of the definitions on the cards the first time around; I could name the nine different types of neurotransmitters, the six different subcortical structures, and the three keys to the scientific method. Thank you, Theatre Gods, for teaching me to memorize! I still felt like I hadn't done enough, even though there was no way I could study past 2 am for a test at 10.

Sitting in the lecture hall, I waited for my test to be passed out and marveled at the scantron, that 1950s relic, that was handed to me. I started filling out my answers -- I had an hour, so I knew I could take my time. Within ten minutes I was finished. I looked around. No one had turned in their test yet. I did my test again. Still no one. Finally, two people stood up and I followed them down to the podium to place my test in the gaping, cardboard mouth of the Office Depot box.

As I left the room, I was stricken by that typical oh-god-I-finished-first feeling of doubt, but after double-checking the questions I could still remember over lunch, I felt good. I took my first college science test and I felt good. I studied hard, I knew the material, and I tried my best. I've heard that the curve averages most everyone out to a B, but even so, I think I'll be proud of my grade.

As the afternoon wore on, and my stomach grumbled with the longing for a two o'clock snack, I made my way to my French class. My professor was sifting through students' essays, pointing to the author of each and tearing their work apart, honing in on flaws, both grammatical and interpretive. "There is no author!" she cried, her French-Romanian accent trembling. "Why do you insist there is? There is only the poetical voice!" I knew that, I thought to myself. I never once mentioned "the author" in my essay -- I was safe. But I was also safe because I hadn't turned in an essay the day it was due. It could be flawless, but it was still sitting in my backpack, waiting to be slipped onto her desk, two days late. In my fixation on studying for my Psych test, I had neglected all of my French homework. I had assumed that since I was good at French, I didn't have to try as hard. But that's not true -- no matter what subject you're pursuing, whether for your major or purely out of interest, you have to try your best. Although Dartmouth is a wonderful, welcoming, and forgiving place, we're here to learn -- I'm here to learn. I just have to figure out how to balance first.