I am asked so often why I transferred from another college to Stanford that I could probably recite the answers in my sleep.
Vassar College, where I spent my freshman and sophomore years, has a depressed town of Poughkeepsie, N.Y. Once an all-women's school, it has an unbalanced male-female ratio and, as a result, an odd social atmosphere that I never got used to.
All of these drawbacks are real. But on a level that's more basic and intangible, I transferred because Vassar was not the right match for me. This surprised me because, as a political liberal and academic "fuzzy," I'm much more like other Vassar students than other Stanford students. But then there isn't really a typical Stanford student, which is one of the many reasons I'm glad I transferred.
When I arrived here from back East (my hometown is Cincinnati), I was astonished by how different Stanford was, how it looked and how people treated each other. I was startled to learn that a quad was not, by definition, covered with grass. I was overwhelmed by the sheer variety of classes, majors, extracurricular activities, bicycles, eating plans and places to live. And I was incredulous at the open-door policy in dorms, in which residents leave their doors open because, well, just because it's nice to leave your door open. I had never met so many cheerful people in one place; I remember thinking that even the Stanford telephone operators seemed friendly.
I worried that as a latecomer, I would not fully integrate into the undergraduate community. This concern proved groundless. I became friends with people in the writing class I took first quarter. I attended fiction and poetry readings by Stegner Fellows, submitted stories to the student literary magazine and soon felt a part of an academic subcommunity. Last summer, I received an Undergraduate Research Opportunity grant, which covered my living expenses while I wrote fiction. I was amazed that an act of such generosity would be made toward someone who had been here less than a year.
The worst aspect of being a transfer is the fractured feeling that comes with attending two different schools and the nagging sense that I am somehow an inauthentic Stanford student. This is a sentiment I used to share with my closest friends, all of whom were transfers. When they visited me in my dorm, they would be infuriated because I introduced them to my dormmates as my "transfer friends." Why, they'd want to know, couldn't I just introduce them as my friends? But at the same time they joked about writing a play called "Transfers! The Musical" and wearing a scarlet 'T' to identify themselves.
It may be unsavory to talk about, but I think students who transferred "up" (coming from a less selective to a more selective school, like Vassar to Stanford) struggle with the feeling of being frauds. When people ask me why I transferred, I sometimes worry that they really want to know why I didn't get in as a freshman. (In fact, out of my housing draw group, which is composed of six transfers, only two applied to Stanford as high school seniors. One was accepted, one wasn't.)
As a transfer student, I had to take a distribution requirement class in
Cultures, Ideas and Values with hundreds of freshmen. The professor would tell us that we, as Stanford students, were superior people. Unlike my classmates, I was not entirely persuaded.
In my second year, I am not always compelled to tell people that I transferred. But when I meet new transfers, I feel as if we're long-lost cousins. I'm immediately concerned about their welfare, and I assure them that everything will work out and they'll be glad they came to Stanford. Not surprisingly, they seem to know that already.
Curtis Sittenfeld is a senior from Cincinnati, majoring in English.
