Santa Clara University

Adela Ardelean

Graduation: Saying our Goodbyes
by Adela Ardelean

As I watched Dana Wolf address our graduating class of 2001, I sat immersed in bittersweet emotions. I didn't know whether I wanted to cry or laugh out loud. It suddenly dawned on me that I had graduated from Santa Clara University and that consequently my life would never be the same. I listened while my friends' names were being called and as they walked across the stage I looked around in search of faces that I might never see again. It seemed as though it had only been yesterday that I first set foot on the University.

It was the summer of 1997 after my graduation from Madison High School that my father and I drove down to Santa Clara for the July orientation. I remember my father had been proud to drive his daughter off to college in his spiffed up cream '54 Mercedes. Having always had a talent for fixing cars, my dad managed to bring that car up to its brand new condition. Well, sort of-we had to drive at 15mph for a good stretch of the 12-hour-drive from Portland, Oregon to Santa Clara, California; I thought it would never end!

When we finally arrived I was exhausted as we had spent part of the trip sleeping bunched up in the car. I couldn't wait for a nice, clean place to take a shower and lay my head down to rest. I had never before seen the university except in pamphlets and through an orientation video shown to me by my speech coach, Mr. Patrick Gonzales. As my father does not use maps, we spent several hours just finding the right exit. Once we finally found the place, I felt as though I had entered through the gates of Eden.

I remember admiring the way in which the female students were dressed in their Aeropostale short shorts, their GAP skirts or khakis, and their JCrew summer dresses. They all looked as though they were ready for a photo shoot and I didn't doubt the fact that some of them probably modeled for Elle, Glamour, or Mademoiselle. Here, everyone was calling soft drinks soda instead of pop and everyone seemed to think that just about everything was "hella cool." I don't believe I saw one single guy who didn't sport flip-flops or ride a skateboard.

While I had managed to muster a perfectly cheery exterior with a smile from ear to ear, on the interior I knew that I fit in Ca musca in zar, or like my grandmother used to say: about as well as a mosquito in soured milk. Nevertheless, I was excited to have been accepted to Santa Clara and hoped with all my heart that life would indeed only get better, just like my aunt Estera had promised me.

That summer after orientation, I had gone with my family back to Romania to visit friends and relatives. It was then that my feeling of alienation was reinforced; I realized that I didn't really belong anywhere. While I loved the people and country that I had come from I didn't think I could go back to stay. After seven years of absence I tried to reconnect with my Romanian kin. I thought back to those dark September days of 1990 when my mom, brother, and I left Romania.

LIFE IN ROMANIA

Within several months after the revolution of '89 my father and his younger brother Fane left to work in Austria. Due to the turmoil that ensued shortly after the revolution the borders were not as well guarded as before and many Romanians decided to leave in hopes of a better future elsewhere. My father escaped by foot and found his way to a lager camp in Trieskirchen, a small village near Vienna, Austria. There he worked in various construction, gardening, and cleaning jobs until he was able to earn enough money to have mom, my brother Alin, and me brought over as well.

I still get shivers down my spine when I think back to that dark September night when my brother, mother, and I climbed into a yellow taxi cab and made our way across the Hungarian and Austrian borders. It had been dark and rainy. My father's middle brother Oanea was driving in the front with the taxi driver who had been paid a nice sum of money by my father to provide us with fake passports and safe passage into Austria. I remember the vamesi or border patrol shine their flashlights into our faces and check them against the photos on the passports. I held my breath and my heart froze for what seemed like forever until we passed through.

Our family spent the next 18 months in several lager camps within Austria while waiting for our American visa to come through. My mother's younger sister, Estera, had lived in the United States for over 10 years by that time and had sent us a family reunion invitation. I don't remember a lot of detail about the camps except that we had to wait in long lines in order to receive our three daily meals in neatly stacked stainless steel containers. We lived in large rooms that accommodated 10 to 15 individuals in neatly stacked bunked beds. Although in retrospect the whole ordeal seems frightening, I have to admit that during that time I don't think either Alin or I really minded it that much. In fact I thought of it as a sort of an adventure. I was 11 years old at the time.

On my return trip to Romania at the age of 18 I tried to imagine things as I had left them, but everything seemed so much smaller now. I was a good foot taller than my grandmother Maria who had raised me for 11 years of my life. The doors and windows I once thought gigantic were now barely tall enough to walk through.
On the other hand, there were things that I suppose will likely never change. Things like the Romanian women bickering about the prices at the market and gossiping about their neighbors as long as they were out of earshot. The fact that people bathed only once a week due to the paucity of heated water. The overwhelming stench of smoke and sweat in overcrowded streetcars, and the scarcity of produce at the nearby grocery store would prevail indefinitely, or so it seemed.

Romanians now seemed hopeless and depressed, and for good reason I suppose, when people make 50 dollars in monthly wages yet are expected to somehow manage to put food on the table and clothes on their family's backs. I failed to comprehend how they managed, and in many ways, I think I longed to forget how badly things had really been. But in my mind's eye I could still see clearly what had been. I could see disjointed flashes of light capturing my family, gathered for prayer at our tiny apartment in Arad. I remember how buildings around us acquired the resemblance of cheese graters while being perforated by bombs and machine guns during the '89 Romanian Revolution.

I remember the long queues for frozen chicken, stale bread, and rotting oranges (which were considered a delicacy). I remember my father's yearlong absence as he was detained in the Romanian prison for having bought meat off the black market. I was eight or nine years old at that time and I remember having to take photos at the village photographer with my younger brother and grandmother to send to my father in jail.4 I don't think we told the photographer the purpose of the picture.

Back then I was living with my father's parents, Grandpa Fillip and Grandma Maria. In fact I had spent the first 11 years of my life living in that tiny village called Macea, whose population capped at about 2,000 individuals. Because my parents spent most of the day at work, they figured I would be better off staying with my grandparents who lived in the countryside, instead of alone, locked up in a stuffy little apartment in the city. Grandma Maria, who worked as a farmer in the government-owned tomato fields (also known as La colectiv), would tell me, "honey you better study. Don't be like your grandma who has only two classes like the train".5

Grandpa Fillip had completed seven grades and then started working as a terracotta furnace builder. Parts of Romania would get very cold during the winter months so grandpa's profession was in high demand. Grandpa was also a wine maker on the side, although I think it was mostly just for our family in that he didn't make much more than he needed.

Overall I suppose it wasn't too bad living with my grandparents or even being in Romania during the communist dictatorship. I didn't know of anything better. The kindergarten I attended was right across the street. Due to the large influx of Germany's Jewish population during the Second World War, the villagers were mostly German. As a result the kindergarten and grammar school I attended were German-Romanian. I spoke Romanian at home and German at school since the age of 3. It never dawned on me that this language might someday be useful.
Even as a child I knew my grandmother had strategically planned all my schooling. Her brother Mitru, who was a physics teacher, had married a young woman by the name of Rosalia who was German and also a grade school teacher. Her aid proved to be invaluable and she became my mentor throughout the first 10 years of my life.

Grandma and I would go over to Aunt Rosi's house for mint tea and toast spread with goose lard and garlic. I used to think that was the best stuff on earth. As the water boiled in the teakettle and the bread toasted on the open stove top Aunt Rosi would look over my homework and help me with things I didn't understand. Sometimes the toast would burn to charcoal because Aunty Rosi didn't have a sense of smell; but no one had the heart to tell her that the toast was anything but perfect.

During that time, my parents would sometimes come to visit on weekends. It occurred to me that I was one of those children who, instead of visiting their grandparents on weekends, would get to visit with her parents. I remember I would cry each time they left. Sometimes dad would come, other times they came together. My parents usually stayed for Sunday brunch and sometimes they would also stay for evening church service, but mostly they would leave in the early afternoon.

For the first couple of years, my younger brother Alin stayed with grandma and grandpa as well, but as soon as he started first grade and I started third, Alin left to be with my parents in the nearby city of Arad. As a child I had always been jealous of my little brother because it had been apparent to me that my parents favored him. Partly I think, this was the case, because he was a boy. My dad had always been embittered by the fact that his firstborn child had been a girl.

A couple of years ago, my mother told me of how, at my birth, I was a frail blue little baby due to anemia and her difficulty in labor. She remembered that, when he first saw me, my father was disgusted and refused to pick me up until the nurse asked him "Well, aren't you going to kiss your daughter?" Undoubtedly, this news infused me with a significant amount of bitterness, not only because now, it had become apparent why I had always believed my brother to be the favored child, but also because I tried in vain to imagine that my parents liked me just as well.

I tried very hard to please my parents. In an attempt to accomplish this goal, I worked very hard and tried to achieve recognition in school. I labored to be like the boy my father had always wanted. Subconsciously, I think I also tried to prove him wrong in his belief that sending a girl to school was like pouring water in good shoes; it's a waste either way you look at it. The water runs out of and ruins the shoes simultaneously, was his infamous claim.

I left for Santa Clara with a deeply unquenched thirst for knowledge but also with the dream that life only gets better. However, whether life indeed got better or only worse, of one thing I was sure: no matter what happened, I would never allow myself to be in the position in which my mother or grandmother had been.
Throughout my childhood, and then years later when I moved in with my parents, the female role models in my life had been used, abused, and mistreated in a myriad of ways. What stuck out most to me was the fact that both my father and grandfather apparently believed themselves to be more educated than their wives. As a result they claimed for themselves the right to order the women around as their servants. Dad would frequently call my mother proasta (which in Romanian means stupid) on account of having completed only two compared to his four years of liceu (high school). The men even used the Bible to back up their claims: God first made Adam and then Eve and the wife is supposed to submit to her husband. I vowed that I would never allow myself to be in a similar situation. I would never be my husband's maid and I would never allow any man to idealize me for my body, dismiss my intellect, or treat me with disrespect.

As a young Romanian Baptist girl, this dream was at odds with the rest of the culture. While I was challenging other boys in my class with German grammar and arithmetic, my female classmates preoccupied themselves with learning how to become good housewives. The mere thought disgusted me; my mission in life was not learning how to please the opposite sex. In some ways I think this contributed to my becoming more and more individualistic and self-reliant, making my highest priority school.

LIFE IN THE UNITED STATES

We arrived in Portland, Oregon in January of 1992. My father, who had been inspector on the transportation commission in Arad, was placed to work in a cookie factory by a church group who helped immigrants. My mother worked at a local Laundromat. The owner of the Laundromat, who had also immigrated to the U.S. some years earlier, was quick to take advantage of my mother. She expected her to iron over 50 shirts an hour and also constantly demanded that my mother "make money" for her.

My brother and I were enrolled in fifth and seventh grades respectively within several weeks of our arrival. Back then I hated Portland as well as everything about my new environment. Whereas in Austria I had never encountered language barrier problems because I had been speaking German practically since birth, in the U.S. it was quite a different story. Although I had been exposed to several language classes during our stay in the lager camps, my English speaking ability was very broken. I could barely ask where the bathroom was. I felt imprisoned within my own skin. This nearly drove me to insanity because I had always been extremely gregarious and outgoing. Not being able to communicate what and how I felt had a profound effect on my personality. I tried desperately to smile and be happy at all times in an attempt to assimilate with my American peers. But on the inside I never stopped crying.

I believe that it had been the first time in my life when I didn't feel that I belonged anywhere. Although the community at Gregory Heights Middle School was fairly diverse with groups of Russian, Laotian, Chinese, and Romanians, I still could not find my niche. I could not communicate my likes or dislikes, my hopes, dreams, and aspirations. But not only did I lack the ability to communicate with others, it seemed as though not a single soul even cared that I existed. I felt invisible.

The atmosphere into which I had been brought provided for a complete culture shock. For example, I recall that on several occasions the children in my school seemed reluctant to share, be it crayons or lunch. I was appalled because in Romania it was thought to be extremely rude and ill mannered of a child to refuse to share with other children. It was simply not polite, but ultimately I think it was a matter of survival. When one person had plenty of something he or she knew to share with the rest of the class or the rest of the village even. I remember that our neighbors down the street from my grandmother's house raised geese and they would always share their goose lard with us. Grandfather in turn would make sure to drop off a demijohn of red wine or a couple bottles of tomato juice during harvest in the fall.

It amazed me how strange these American children were. Unlike the Austrian boys who would readily challenge me in whatever subject we were studying, it seemed that in the U.S. boys only wanted to get in my pants. I was dubbed the class nerd and found few individuals with whom I shared commonalities. However, the bonus was that in being a nerd I was also the teachers pet; I hate to admit it but it's true. By the time I reached high school I was learning my fourth language, French. My teachers praised me and encouraged me incessantly, particularly Mr. Musaeus my honors English teacher.

In this way, although I sometimes felt that my parents or peers could care less whether I disappeared off of the face of the planet, I knew that at least my teachers appreciated my hard work. I would never cease to amaze them, and they, of course, never ceased to fascinate me.

One of my very favorite teachers in high school was my speech club coach and mentor, Mr. Patrick Gonzales. Both he and his wife, a pediatrician, were SCU alumni. "Gonzo" was the most animated teacher at Madison High. He would come dressed up to school in neatly pressed shirts, black pants, and matching suspenders with alternating ties for every day of the week (Bugs Bunny, Mickey Mouse, Tasmanian Devil, and so on).

When we went on competitions with our speech team, Gonzo would cheer us on and praise our every effort, regardless of whether we just did okay or brought home the gold. As far as I could tell, his motto in life was to have fun. I thought to myself, whatever Santa Clara did to him, it must have been great and I very much wanted to receive some of the same dose of greatness.

I don't recall the exact events that surrounded my decision to come to Santa Clara. Overall I believe it was a combination of good mentors, hard work, and a pinch of good luck. I had asked both Mr. Gonzales as well as Mr. Musaeus to write letters of recommendation for me. I also asked my supervisor, Sharon Rask, at Plaza 102 Pharmacy, to write a letter. Then, I borrowed an old typewriter from work and started on my applications. That was the extent of the outside help I received on my applications. I remember that one of my personal statements revolved around grandpa's cherry tree. On the day of the deadline, midnight sharp, I made my way to Kinko's where I was able to get the package stamped for the same day; this would make my application meet the deadline. It's a little trick I learned by being the most fabulous procrastinator.

I had only applied to two schools: Santa Clara University and Pepperdine University in Malibu, California. Upon receiving my admittance letters from both I decided to go to Santa Clara. Primarily what influenced my decision was the fact that SCU was closer to home and, additionally, I had received a better financial aid package. Ultimately my decision was based on the advice given me by my teachers who said Santa Clara was a better school academically.

Santa Clara was everything I had ever dreamed of as a little girl. The warm sun and tall palm trees provided the tranquility of a fertile learning environment I had never had at home. There were tons of new faces and I felt like Aladdin on his brand new carpet; I too had discovered a brand new world. However, soon enough I was rudely awoken to the reality of an American society that believed that if I didn't have the money to pay I should not be at SCU.

I think at first I was reluctant to ask others how they were able to afford paying Santa Clara's tuition. I simply assumed that their parents had money. As time went by however, I found out that I was not alone struggling to pay for college. As it turned out, some of my friends received almost full rides all in SCU scholarships. Because both my mom and I were barely getting by, I was encouraged to write a letter of appeal. I met with my financial aid counselor who was able to allocate more money to my account after reviewing my file.

Generally, I think people assume that if you are white and attend SCU you must certainly have money. Although some universities try to aid underprivileged students of racial minority status, Romanians are not considered a minority group. My case happened to be fairly unique in that I am white but that I also share partly in the background of the minority students at SCU. Ironically enough however, I was not considered minority and therefore was also not considered to have a real financial need.

I think about the fact that I am Romanian and realize that most people think I am just white, Anglo-Saxon, or North American when in fact I am not. This has led to an overall feeling of alienation because there seems to be a part of me that my white-American friends do not understand and I am also excluded from multicultural groups because I am not of "color". The first year in particular was difficult because I tried to find my niche. I am presently very happy with my atypical group of friends who range from being of Ethiopian, Mexican, Japanese, Irish, Jordanian, South American, French, Hawaiian, and Portuguese descent.

I am white or Caucasian, whatever the box checkers like to call it, and because of this I am assumed to be a part of the majority of the privileged children attending SCU. However, as a child I never felt that I could fit in with the white students. Although I, like them, had white skin, that pretty much is where our similarities ended. I recall one time in the seventh grade when a classmate noticed my t-shirt with a U.S. flag on it and told me that "I had no business wearing that (shirt) and I should go back to where I came from."

Thus I shared much with students whose families had recently immigrated from other cultures. In addition to having distinct religious and cultural practices and being accustomed to a particular kind of cuisine (depending on the culture), the commonalities we minority children shared were those of poverty and suffering, but most importantly, that of survival. This is what I believe truly alleviated the loneliness we felt inside and strengthened the bond between us. I found that I was able to bond much more effectively with children of various backgrounds from across the globe, yet nearly everyone seemed to bear some kind of prejudice against those who were different from them.

I remember one day in middle school at Gregory Heights when one Laotian boy asked me, "What are you? I know you're not white because you can barely speak English!" The latter statement was true; due to the fact that I had only recently arrived in the United States, I spoke very little English and was attending ESL (English as a Second Language) class several times per week. The former statement and question threw me. What did he perceive me to be? What exactly did he mean by "What are you?" It is then that I began to understand the importance of race in U.S. society and to question what that meant for me. Who am I or what am I? I am a daughter, a sister, and a friend. I am a full-blooded Romanian woman and every inch proud of who and what I am. I have clear ivory skin, green eyes, and reddish-brown hair. I love to sing and dance and laugh, but what I am is not only comprised of my body or the sound of my voice. Inside, I am a firecracker ready to explode. I look to the future while fully embracing my past, my culture, and my life. I am who I am and what I have become, due to the adventures and memories that have paved the road that I chose to walk on; it was the road less traveled.

LIFE AT SANTA CLARA UNIVERSITY

I spent my first year at Santa Clara in Campisi Hall. Here I learned to adjust to dorm life, cope with extravagant roommates, and polish my study habits. One of my first encounters with the reality of my new world came during my first week at one of our floor meetings in Campisi. In addition to roll call and the weekly business of rules and regulations to follow, the Resident Assistants (RAs) also led some ice-breaker sessions, the purpose of which was for us to become better acquainted.

During this very first session the RA asked for a show of hands of individuals who were a first generation college student! I remember looking around the room in agony as I saw no movement or anyone raising their hand. After a long silent wait, there were three of us in a group of 40 or 50 students who finally raised our hands. I remember my heart racing and my face turning a shade of red that mirrored that of a tomato. I waited for something to follow that up, some words of wisdom, maybe some advice. To my utter disappointment there was nothing to follow, just the next category.

It had become unquestionably apparent to me that I had just unveiled my deepest darkest secret. I felt as though I were standing naked in front of the entire room with everyone watching. I wondered what other students were thinking. Did they think that I was intellectually inferior to them? That I might not make it? Did they pity me? A million thoughts rushed through my mind all at once and I didn't quite know on which to settle.

I knew that if the majority of the students in the room had parents who were educated, that probably meant that they had sufficient funds to send their children to Santa Clara. I suddenly felt out of place because my parents were not educated, and most certainly did not have sufficient funds to send me here. This thought only served to increase my discomfort. To make matters worse, I recall being told by a fellow student that he did not feel that his tuition money ought to contribute to paying for students who could not afford to pay.

Yet I felt a great responsibility to graduate from college for the sake of my family. Upon my return to Romania after a seven-year absence, my father's youngest brother, Uncle Fane, told me that I was the Joseph of our family. For anyone who is familiar with biblical terminology this might seem a rather large burden to place on a young girl at 18-years-of-age. I had just finished high school at that time and was sort of hoping for a little less responsibility than having my entire family's faith rest on my shoulders.

It didn't occur to me until recently what it might mean to be the first in my family to attend college. I am a first-born child and also the eldest out of all the cousins in our extended family. I suppose this contributes to my tendency toward being a natural leader. I don't really know exactly where all my ambition stemmed from, but I do know that everyone in my family seems to be fairly grateful that I have it. My uncle has informed me that my younger cousins Benjamin and Bianca seek to walk in my footsteps and also hope to attend a university in Vienna. This makes me very happy, not because my cousins want to emulate what I have achieved in my life academically, but because I truly believe that knowledge is power. Like the infamous John Keats, I too am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination.

Despite these ambitions, during my freshman year at Santa Clara I was very naive in the ways of the world. Although I had traveled extensively, I was also extremely sheltered and my social life was basically limited to family ties. During that time my knowledge of what the Greek system was all about were about was non-existent. Some of Campisi's residents decided to rush, including my roommate and four of her close friends. They became Alpha Phis. Others on the floor decided not to rush on grounds that they didn't want to have to pay to make friends.

Aside from the emotional havoc that resulted from individuals being accepted or rejected into the Greek community there also arose a division between those who were sisters and those who were not. I recall that before the beginning of rush our residential community was fairly well interconnected and individuals mingled amongst each other without restraint. However, after the process of selection, divisions developed on Campisi's second floor based on Greek status. The floor was no longer the Campisi girls but the Delta Zetas, Alpha Phis, Delta Gammas and so on. I also noticed that women with whom I had been friends before became increasingly distant and proceeded to isolate their friendships to their particular sorority chapters.

In addition to the social segregation that ensued, there was also the issue of alcoholism-particularly underage drinking. My roommate was at that time several years short of the legal drinking age, yet would return home bi-weekly in a drunken state. I do not mean simply that she was buzzed. On one occasion I was asked by the on-call Emergency Medical Technicians to stay up with her for the entire night and make certain she didn't choke on her vomit. She had returned from a theme party with public safety officers and complete adult supervision yet, ironically enough, she and her friends had been able to get drunk.

This was very difficult for me because on the one hand I knew that my primary responsibility was to do well in school; but on the other hand, I also wanted to have a social life. I quickly came to realize that the social scene was not going to happen for me for two reasons. One, even if I had the money I would not pay it simply to obtain a certified membership for the in crowd; and secondly, I never believed in drinking for the sole purpose of getting drunk. So, I decided to return to doing what I had always been good at: school.

As it turned out, this was not such a bad idea because most students at SCU are extremely competitive academically. However, what complicated matters was the fact that I, who had graduated in the top third percentile of my public high school, was now having to struggle to keep up with the other students. This was especially difficult because I felt that the one pride and joy in my life-being able to do well in school-was fading away before my eyes. I was dumfounded. I couldn't figure out how one went from straight A plusses in high school to barely passing college classes.

I had no idea what to do. My parents were a thousand miles away but I felt like I could not really get any helpful advice from either of them because they had never themselves attended college. There was no one else in my immediate or extended family who had even attempted to go to college and as such I was left in utter desperation. There were many times when I thought I would just throw in the towel and return to Oregon. I would pray at night for God's guidance, enlightenment, and strength to help me make it through.

What I remember most distinctly about my sophomore year was my discovery of a great friend and roommate, Jacinda Forster. I don't know how I would have made it without her that year. Unlike my freshman year experience, rooming with Jacinda was always fun and adventurous, and she also influenced me to become more involved on campus. I started to sing in the church choir with Jacinda and another one of her good friends Carmen. Sometimes Jacinda would plan late night outings to Ben and Jerry's, other times she'd round us up for early morning ministry at Julian Inn where we made breakfast for the homeless under the bridge. It felt awesome to be able to give back to the community of which I was part. Slowly but surely I thought that I might have found my niche at Santa Clara.

Adai, Kylene, Andrea, and I spent our junior year living in the Tamarack apartments, a 10 minute walk from school. While living in our very own apartment gave us a lot of freedom, it also presented us, and me in particular with a lot more responsibility. My mother had been taking out federal parent loans in order to help pay for my Santa Clara tuition. By my junior year her monthly payments on the loan had increased to over $400 per month and she could not afford to have them increase anymore. Mom was the only breadwinner in the family and I knew that she had done all she could to help me out.

Although it was suggested to me by my financial aid counselor that I leave Santa Clara and try to complete my studies elsewhere, I chose to stay and make the best of it. I had been working at the Cowell Health Center since my sophomore year. Junior year however, I had to take on two additional jobs in order to be able to balance my finances. In addition to preparing the patient's beds, sterilizing medical instruments, and filing patient's charts every morning from seven to nine at Cowell, I spent my afternoons and weekends working the reception desk, washing dishes, and serving at the Adobe Lodge. My weekday evenings were spent directing conversation groups in French and German for the Modern Languages Department. Working an average of thirty hours per week enabled me to pay rent, utilities, bills, and books.

How did I manage? Well, I slept an average of three to five hours per night, drank a lot of coffee, attended all my scheduled courses and work, then spent the rest of the time doing homework -the whole time crossing my fingers and hoping I would make it through. The trouble was that the time left over wasn't always sufficient to enable me adequate preparation for my exams. However, the paradox lay in the fact that there was no other choice. Taking out more loans would only put me further into debt, not working would leave me homeless, and not sleeping at night meant I would sleep through my courses, which meant I wouldn't get much out of lecture. Can you see the domino effect?

Having spent winter break and spring break, as well as my entire summer, working overtime as a server at the Adobe Lodge, I had made student supervisor by my senior year and also managed to save enough money to pay for most of that year's rent. Being able to work less enabled me to take on a position as ESL Coordinator for Santa Clara Community Action Program (SCCAP), as well as become senior class senator in the Current Universities Issues Committee (CUIC) for student government. Additionally, and more importantly, working less enabled me to sleep more as well as to study more efficiently and effectively.

The SCCAP staff spent countless hours in the office planning the ways in which we would change the world. When I interviewed for the position, McKinsey Miller and Joe Albers asked me, "If you could be any cartoon character in the whole world which one would you choose to be and why?" "Ariel," I said without hesitation. I would be Ariel because in the same way in which Ariel felt imprisoned beneath the deep dark sea, I too had felt imprisoned beneath the dark shadow of communist Romania. I too wished I could be part of the brand new world of the U.S., a world of peace, liberty and justice for all. I wanted to be able to give back to my community and knew of no better way of doing that than volunteering to teach English as a second language.

SCCAP became a big part of my life and I will cherish the friendships I made there and the times we spent together forever. This organization enabled me to meet a phenomenal group of individuals who really cared about and wanted to make an impact in the world around them. From debates over the latest current events, to rallies for human justice and peace in Iran and Iraq, to demonstrations in front of the San Jose City Hall in an attempt to improve the housing situation for the homeless population in that area, together we challenged each others beliefs and ideas, probed further and further to discover truth, and fought for liberty, justice, and universal human rights.

I remember learning in my Theology of Marriage class that fidelity is intrinsic to a marriage like yeast is intrinsic to baking the perfect cinnamon roll. I churned this statement, made by Katherine Wallace, over and over in my mind and realized that this course did not only teach me about marriage but that it also taught me about relationships in general. It is then that I thought about my sister, or as I call her, my best friend, Miss Adai Tefera. Through good times and bad times Adai was the floatation device that kept me above sea level. I can't imagine having made it through without her.

Graduating from Santa Clara University with a biology degree is no walk in the park. Thinking back I realize that it required an extreme amount of dedication, discipline, and hard work. But above all I believe that the key ingredient was endurance. The sciences are extremely competitive, and I found that being the best was almost impossible. I think about the lessons we learned in psychology and the belief that like Pavlov's dogs, a person's work and reward systems functioned similarly. However, in my case it seemed as though no matter how hard I worked I would never get the bone, or that A I had always hoped for. The force that propelled me forward in continuing to study biology sometimes makes little sense even to me. Why would a person work so hard when there is literally no reward? It is then that I realized that I didn't want to take the easy way out. Although I did not excel in biology as I did in the arts, I had an unquenchable thirst for the study of life. Biology intrigued me beyond belief. There came a point in my undergraduate career when I made a decision to study biology for the sake of studying biology, not for the sake of my grade report. I am very grateful to have made that decision; it made all the difference in the world.

As I sat through graduation, I thought back over my college days and my Santa Clara experience. I felt my stomach tighten up in a knot and tears stream down my face while my heart worked in overtime pumping blood throughout my system. I didn't want to believe it was all over. It dawned on me that I had graduated from Santa Clara University. I felt proud and accomplished in having completed a biology major and French minor. I thought about the friendships made and memories that would remain imprinted on the tablet of my heart forever. I didn't know whether I wanted to cry or laugh out loud, but I knew beyond a doubt that my life would never be the same.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank all of my friends and family, especially my cousin, Daniel, my mom, Emilia, and my Aunt Estera, for being a continuous source of inspiration and strength. I would also like to thank Adai, Rakan, Ivy, and Andrea for always putting a smile on my face. Last but not least, many thanks to Mr. Masaeus for helping me find the courage to take the road less traveled.