I have a confession to make: I don't hate finals. In fact, perhaps due to some strange cerebral masochism, I find the dash toward the end of each semester oddly enjoyable.
I feel a bit disingenuous writing this. After all, I spent this past weekend decrying the discipline of political science for burying me in research papers and greeted early December consumed in self−loathing for my convenient disregard of the second half of syllabi.
But much like the dashes to the basement amid tornado sirens that inspired childhood exhilaration, the frenzied crisis−mode of finals arouses a rush of amped adrenaline and excited resilience.
On the one hand, the all−out intensity of finals allow for an enticing escape from our real lives. The various roles and responsibilities we normally take on can meld into one coherent figure, as our identity as "student" takes precedence. It's strangely liberating to not have to make decisions on how to spend each waking moment. I don't feel guilty that I'm not crafting a way to empower the women of the developing world, or that I am as of yet unemployed come May. There's no shame that it's been weeks since I've confronted piles of laundry mounting on the floor of my room. Finals time, we can all agree, is the ultimate get−out−of−jail−free card.
There's something more, though. It stems from the unique sensation of experiencing wrestling challenges in the company of an entire community. The camaraderie of a shared 4 a.m. race to the 12th page, the hurried breakfast exchanging last−minute questions, the wave of shoulder stiffening upon the first skim of the exam and the communal exhalation after propping down a completed Blue Book — these are the moments I feel the most unity with my fellow Jumbos.
It's not as though being overwhelmed is exclusive to this time of year. Each of us has our quiet flashes of personal doubt and demoralizing anxiety. There are nights where we feel our breaking point looming imminently, and mornings we awake to alarm clocks screaming of agony and unrealistic to−do lists.
These moments are rarely felt in sync with our peers. Instead, we hear squeals of others' successes as we contemplate our own inadequacies, our anxieties analyzed against the backdrop of a friend's internship offer, or suitemate's mastery of Bio 13.
In these private encounters with stress, we feel compelled to force a smile, to go out when we should be finishing a problem set; to attend a club meeting and make it to dinner and call our grandma and practice good hygiene.
This time of the year, all those other pressures are permitted to melt away. Our raw apprehensions can be unapologetically exposed and even embraced. Suddenly there's an unspoken bond between the girl sharing your outlet in Carmichael; the line for coffee becomes far more intimate than a cramped crawl toward a keg, and tired eyes connote tacit affinities between strangers with shared sufferings.
Tufts doesn't have an expansive stadium that trembles with the excitement of thousands on Saturday afternoons, or a moment to bellow the fight song with common passion. Hell, we don't even have a night of sanctioned nudity anymore.
But we do have a library brimming with vigorous scholars, tables teeming with heaping books and crumbled equations, calloused fingers and aching necks. We regroup after the automated voice at Tisch announces the close of the third quarter, feverishly scanning the playbook and plotting our final sprint during Late−Night Study.
Our minds ablaze with theories and numbers, contagious energy propelling our extended sleeplessness — it is in these moments that our hearts swell in a concurrent gallop. Even if you don't admit, you probably enjoy it too. After all, this is truly what it means to be a Jumbo.
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Amanda Johnson is a senior who is majoring in international relations. She can be reached at Amanda.Johnson@tufts.edu.
