The doctor strode into the room, a clipboard in his hand and a grim look on his face.
“Tell it to me straight, Doctor. What–what is it?” I stammered, coughing dramatically into a handkerchief.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, dear. You–you exhibit all of the symptoms. Increased lethargy, decreased mood, nausea, vomiting, feelings of crippling inadequacy…”
“No. Doctor. Don’t say it–”
“I’m afraid I have to. It’s… it’s Ivyitis.”
Now, let me make myself perfectly clear. If you chose to go to Brown entirely because it is an Ivy League university, I hate you. All other reasons are perfectly valid. It was the best school you got into? Understandable. Your friends already went here? That’s good too. You have an irrational infatuation with bears? More power to you. But don’t tell me that for you, it was Ivy or nothing.
However, it isn’t fair to ignore the fact that Ivy League schools have a reputation–one of privilege, of legacy, and of quality. American culture has made “Ivy League” synonymous with “excellent college,” and although there are some outside the league that are better and some inside that are worse, for the sake of brevity (and of catchy names), we’re going to stick with “Ivyitis” to describe a disease that actually covers a much broader scope.
Now, what is this fictional ailment, the one the fantasy doctor in my head described in such grim detail? Well, scientifically speaking, it’s a complication of the confidence, brought on by the attendance of a high-quality university. Personally, my first symptoms appeared during an orientation-week conversation with a random assortment of other first-years. The innocent question was posed: “What did you do this summer?”
“Oh, I was actually in Milan on a study scholarship doing research on Celtic history.”
“I didn’t do anything, much. Worked on a tech start-up with my friend. Google just bought it for 500k.”
“I spent most of it on the moon.”
Are you kidding me? I’d been so prepared to tell my new acquaintances about the time I flipped a pepper shaker off a table and it landed right side up. That was my big summer accomplishment. And I, Captain Coordinated, was supposed to attend the same university as a bunch of freaking Zuckerberglets?!
My first two weeks of class only exacerbated the Ivyitis. I was rejected from not one, not two, but seven different acting roles, not to mention two other writing opportunities. I know, I sound really cool right now. But it actually really hurt–and still does, sometimes. In high school, I was used to being one of the best at those things. Here, I’m not even a blip on the radar yet.
I really thought that the stress of constant evaluation was going to go away after I got my acceptance letter. I mean, I got in, right? Shouldn’t that indicate that I belong? But scenarios ran through my head of a nudged application file falling from the heaping rejection pile into the paltry admissions pack. I saw a mix-up in Common App where my application was switched with the other Ali MacLeod’s, the one who built an orphanage with her own two hands. I looked around at all the amazingly bright people I was meeting every day and knew I could never, ever belong with them.
My recovery from Ivyitis finally began in my Intro to Acting and Directing class. We were seated in a circle, trying to draw inspiration from our own lives to create a theatrical piece about “issues,” no matter how personal or broad. When my teacher asked me for a suggestion, I shakily began:
“Well, I don’t know if any of you feel this way, but I kind of think that I’m… you know, not good enough for this school.”
A chorus of snaps met my suggestion.
As it turned out, every single freshman in that class had felt the same way, at some point. Including one who had literally been on a TV show, and the one who had had roles in 25 plays in the last five years alone. The winner of an international computer science competition admitted the same feeling when I talked to him about it a few days later. Even a grad-school-headed senior I met at the football game nodded along in solidarity when I explained my condition to him.
The stress that came with Ivyitis affected me so much because I felt I had to make every moment here count. No lazy Netflix Sunday afternoons. I had to prove and improve myself, try to fit in, because I was so lucky to be able to go here. And I am so lucky, but I thought so because of the wrong reasons. There are hundreds of others who aren’t able to attend this incredible school, who are equally or more worthy of being here. But I earned my place, so I should make every moment count. However, that doesn’t mean constantly comparing myself to others and not allowing myself a break. It means growing with my Brown education, and allowing it to become something personal and precious and perfect for no one else but me. And the more I start to believe this, the less nervous I feel.
Yes, the cure for Ivyitis ended up being inside me all along.
(Awwww, that’s so cute.)
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