Hell Week

I remember hearing shouts coming from the Oval and poking my head out my window just in time to see dozens of naked butts running past as the Freshmen were initiated into various fraternities on campus. While funny, I thought it was kind of stupid--no one's really proving any nettle by doing naked laps, are they? (If so, that's one more club I can cross off of my list.) Regardless, because of tradition, the Freshmen were humiliated for the sake of humiliating them, and the seniors got to feel superior--while in reality the Freshmen were the real winners, having survived and been accepted by a new band of brothers.

The last six months have felt a little like a hazing ritual, what with being the only social American at ECC. The teasing about my homeland is nearly relentless, from the Canadians bragging about famous Canadians (Michael J. Fox, Avril Lavigne, Jim Carrey, Colin Mockery, the list is extensive but not so extensive that they don't repeat the whole thing every time) to the New Zealander adamant that American's aren't the best just because we proclaim ourselves to be (no, but our Navy actually having ships may play a part of it). I'm left feeling a little like a Freshman teacher, sent through the ringer, and wondering what comes next.

And then I realize something. (Okay, my mom points it out.) I'm one of two people genuinely happy with my job. I wake up excited for work--I honestly didn't know that the other teachers didn't feel the same until today. They hate going, they hate doing the job, while it's the absolute highlight of my day. I have succeeded. And in this instance, I am the real winner, and my band of brothers includes a whole swarm of six-year-olds armed with rocks, papers, scissors, and Disney Princess. And that's pretty frickin' cool.