Standing in Line

Prologue: This writing is one of five produced while participating in an OLLI – Tucson class, Writing for Self-Discover, Spring 2023. This was the 1st in the series.

Standing In Line

This would be one monumental regret. I have a collection (of regrets) that keep sneering at me, reminding of a life unfulfilled, dreaming of what I would never accomplish. College. Now there were several family members, on the Thomas side of my family, 1968, having attended college, but none had completed their degree programs. I was planning on being the first.

Attending college while in the middle of the Vietnam War was critical, especially since my lottery number was forty, which guaranteed being drafted and serving and possibly dying on foreign soil. Along with fifty-thousands men and women my age never reaching legal drinking age.

What I needed was someone, a mentor, guiding me through the process. My parents lacked the experience to provide direction, extended family, no help there, and my character, growing up, lacking confidence and social skills to seek mentoring. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

Somehow, for reasons beyond the limits of my current memory, wanted to be an architect. The University of Arizona was one of the top five programs in the country. How outstanding to be admitted to such a prestigious College, and graduate.

Wait! I recall I had taken a drafting class at Rincon my Senior Year. Among all the occupations I had an experience with, that was my favorite, and I did really well, and my parents for Christmas gifted me with a drafting table, parallel ruler, and drafting supplies. Outstanding. I could spend hours in my bedroom, isolated, never having to interact with real people.

I wanted to become an architect, designer, creator. I completed the admission forms, submitted, waited, and mid-summer received an acceptance letter from the University of Arizona College of Architecture. The process to be implemented from that point until day-one beyond my comprehension. So many pieces of the puzzle, schedules, identification cards, books, materials, parking permits, activity cards, tuition, choices, so many choices and standing in lines, so many lines. Everything requires standing in a line. So many people, all strangers. They all seemed to know what they were doing, where they were going. They seem to exude a confidence, a capacity I was unfamiliar with.

Buildings scattered, filled with people and noise and lines. “Beware of the females. They only go to college to get married,” as forewarned by my mother.

Punch cards.

University handbook.

High school transcript in hand, we are off.

Important point, no such thing as a computer. IBM PUNCH CARDS rule. Not enough time to expand upon how this worked back in 1968, but will offer one example.

Freshman required to take English. Requires a sample to determine placement, English X, English I, or English II. As expected, in my case, English X. Dozens of sections. Walk to the English Department. Is the Section still available? The best times may be gone, leaving late afternoon sections or evening sections. And sections are open in blocks, closed, only to reopen later in the day. You may have to return later. If the section you want, and it is open, get in line and hope it does not fill before you reach the head of the line. Feel lucky? And if, and when, you get a section, the magic punch card, what impact did it have on other classes?

Same for mathematics, women studies, western civilization, Architecture and Society, Structures in Architecture, Social Science class, Architecture Theory, PE, and ROTC. 16 to 18 units per semester.

All your selected sections must fit, some classes held on Monday, Wednesday, Friday while other Tuesday and Thursday. Freshman require taking at least one evening section. You will never end with the schedule you carefully constructed sitting at home, relaxed, never.

Add to this the occasional class that is canceled.

Finally, gathering all the cards, proceed to the gymnasium and guess what? More lines, standing like ducks in a row waddling back and forth until, finally, pay the piper. Done! Nope, now to the bookstore and you guessed it, more lines.

Freshman orientation, the speaker announces that one-half of those in attendance would not be here next year. Could be the person on the left, could be the person on your right. I made it for three semesters. A failure, no support, poor choices, way over my head, lacking capacity, wherewithal absent on so many levels.

Parents considered briefly, “should he live on campus or commute from home?” Home won. Awesome. I could spend hours in my bedroom, isolated, never having to interact with real people.

College deferment received, avoided the draft, until my college exemption expired. I received a letter from Uncle Sam requesting I travel to Phoenix, Arizona, to a downtown YMCA and get a physical. After a day of being prodded and probed (and standing in lines), waited to hear my name called and handed a new Selective Service System Registration Certificate, May 21, 1970, 1-Y. Registrant qualified for service only in time of war or national emergency. This classification abolished December 10, 1971, reclassified 4F, not qualified because of physical, mental or character issues.

Dredging through those days, lamentable.

Finally, thirty years later, figured college out, I did. If only… I had the wherewithal to know what I know now.