A War To End All Wars

Freshman scheduling at Penn State Behrend is a nightmare. Now, I understand that it has improved intensely in the past 20-30 years, due to my parents' walk-uphill-both-ways stories about hundreds of students scheduling on one computer. But although the actual process of signing up for classes has much improved, figuring out which classes to take when is deadly. Once you figure out which classes to take in order to graduate on time, nail down a major and a concentration, leave the door open for a minor, and consider prereqs, fall/spring schedules, and time slots, all you have to do is wait until the clock strikes midnight on your determined scheduling day.

15 minutes to midnight last night, I was all logged onto my student account, class registration numbers typed in, waiting to click submit. Out of curiosity, I clicked submit right away to see what would happen, and it was accepted! See, the scheduling dates were slotted by how many credits you have taken. At college I've only taken 15, which put in the the second-to-last slot. But evidently Behrend counted my high school AP credits, which would have allowed me to schedule three days earlier. I would have been upset, but I got my classes in before all of the 15-credit students could access them, which meant that I got all of my choice classes. It also meant that I could sit back and watch the much-anticipated event unfold.

From an hour up to ten minutes before scheduling, everyone in the dorm is running around in sweats, frantically clutching the spring 2008 catalog and asking whether we click "Student Schedule," or "Drop/Add," or "Registration." Then, do you type in the course abbreviation or the course registration number? When it starts getting close to 12:00 am, the building falls silent. No music, no talking, no phones, no laughter. Just steady clicking, typing, and the occasional desperate prayer. When witching hour finally strikes, over 200 people in one building breathlessly click "SUBMIT." There is a three-second lull, and the results come back. I begin to hear yells from nieghboring rooms. "It's full? It had 74 seats open!" "8 am? Are you kidding me?" "No, no, I will not take fitness walking! It just won't happen!" "Hahaha! I got the last seat in US History!" "That was YOU? $#%@!"

It's reminiscent of a viscious shoe sale. The whole ordeal is over in five minutes, and afterwards people walk around for days with either a triumphant, gloating air, or a dark, slightly homicidal expression. I admit I am one of the triumphant ones. It probably didn't help that while my neighboors were engaged in a short yet intense bloodbath, I was writing my schedule out on my pastel-colored index cards and cutting and pasting them into a cheerful yellow, green and pink arrangment. Then asking around if anyone had a thumbtack. I suppose I could have been more sensitive.