Ethan Craig
Hometown: Hershey, Pennsylvania
Major: Brain and cognitive sciences, and religion
Clusters: Undecided
Career plans: A Ph.D. and a college teaching post

First semester: "I was surprised that a couple of my courses were a little easier than I expected. For a new student, that was kind of a treat. But this semester has come back with a vengeance."

One day, Superman flew up to the drive- through window of a McDonald's and ordered a Quarter Pounder with cheese. He reached into his Spandex, pulled out his wallet, paid his bill, and flew off. A few minutes later, Spiderman swung in and ordered a Big Mac. He, too, paid the bill, and swung off munching on his sandwich.

Finally, an apparently normal teenager walked up slowly, tripped over his shoelaces, and fell flat on his face. Carefully standing up and looking around to see if anyone had noticed, he walked the rest of the way to the window to place his order. The cashier was baffled. Who was this boy? After all, the last two customers were famous crime-fighters; it was only reasonable in her mind that the third customer follow suit. But this boy was so average looking. Who could he be? Some new superhero she had never heard of? A teenage celebrity? A Backstreet Boy? Unlikely. He was too scrawny to be a superhero, and far too plain to be a celebrity of any kind. She was going to have to find out for herself.

"Wow," said the cashier as the boy approached the window. "Did you just see those guys? It's not every day Superman and Spiderman stop by McDonald's."

"Yeah," said the boy.

"So, do you know anything about them?"

"Sure," responded the boy. "Superman, Man of Steel, and Spiderman, the web-slinging guy, right?"

"I guess. So what's your name?"

"Ethan," he answered.

"Good to meet you. Are you friends with those two?"

"Nope, never met them."

"Oh. Well, you came right after them so there must be something special about you. What makes you different from the others?"

It was Ethan's turn to look baffled. What a strange question this was. What did make him special? Everyone must be special in some way, but what made him different? He was good at school, but, then again, so were a lot of other people. He had high test scores, but so did 10 to 15 percent of the population of the United States. He held leadership positions in school organizations and was involved actively with the community. But none of these truly distinguished him. Test scores, grades, leadership-all seemed superficial, only skimming the surface of who Ethan was. So what made him special?

A few possible replies flashed through his mind. Ethan thought deeply about everything from the nature of the world to schoolwork, from the most philosophical, abstract ideas down to the most concrete ones. He could make others laugh, and considered himself a compassionate, caring, and tolerant person. As a child, Ethan learned to appreciate many cultures and lifestyles, and had lived all around the United States. He was also probably one of a very few people who could claim to be both baptized and bar mitzvahed. But what made him stand out against Superman and Spiderman?

Suddenly, the answer came to him.

"I," he finally responded. "Want to order some Chicken Nuggets."

Kelly Chen
Hometown: Kenmore, Washington
Major: A double major in biology and music
Clusters: Biology for natural sciences; music for humanities; undecided in social sciences
Career plans: Physician

First semester: "I like the freedom in terms of choosing classes and in terms of time. You get to do what you want to do."

"I don't think you should be a doctor," Grandpa said. "You're not smart enough."

I was utterly motionless. We were in Europe, my grandfather and I seated next to each other on a train going 150 miles per hour-the strain and the speed inducing the train to tremble-and I was rigid. Did I hear right?

"Not smart enough . . ."

"No. All that complicated thinking would just confuse you. You should be a farmer instead-simple concepts like 'apples' and 'pears' wouldn't torture your mind. You could make a lot of money, too. I could start you up with acres upon acres of farmland; you'd be making money on literally tons of fruit."

The train was threatening to burst. I lay immobile. Not smart enough!? Why would Grandpa do such a thing? Did he intend to hurt me? I thought about it. Considering my grandfather, that wasn't a bad guess. . . .

"No pain, no gain," said Grandpa, and he meant it. . . . I wasn't going to let him know that he had hurt me, indeed. . . .

I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to help people and give them hope and make them happy, something worth much more to me than money. My grandfather didn't see compassion in me, or my love of music, or anything else about me, I realized. What did my grandfather know about my level of intelligence? What did Grandpa know about me, anyway? . . .

Confucius said, "Seek not to be recognized for your abilities, instead seek to be worthy of recognition." I began to take that philosophy to heart. Grades, then, began to concern me less and less, as simply the opinions of the teachers. Because truly, it was impossible for anyone to know all of me, every single unpredictable part of me. What other people thought of me, whatever insults or compliments they chose to give me, would never again have the power that they used to. I would know when I deserved praise or criticism. I would do what I believed to be right.
Grandpa finished telling me what he thought I should do with my life. He asked if I understood. I almost laughed. My dear Grandpa. I felt as if I could fly. I was free and I was myself, and Grandpa's words no longer constrained me. I was going to be a doctor, no matter what Grandpa said. I understood that. So I said yes. The train shook and shrieked, but I ignored it.

Krystle Dixon
Hometown: Westfield, New Jersey
Major: Biology
Clusters: Undecided
Career plans: Pediatrician

First semester: "I've met a very diverse group of people-not just in terms of race, but in terms of their morals and personalities and outlooks-and that's great."

It was around twelve. The sun was exposed by the barren skies, and the heat created a rather thick atmospheric air. The humidity was almost unbearable. It was 96 degrees, and the thought of air conditioning was considered an unattainable luxury for a house that was built over a century ago.

I walked out onto the porch where the breeze was most apparent and in one glance it seemed as if this porch was a window to the entire world. All I could see were miles and miles of neverending verdant pastures: untouched, pure, clean land. And in the center of it was my grandfather's home.

The postcardesque image that people tended to associate Jamaica with is usually the immaculate waterfalls and the palm trees. But here in Four Paths, Jamaica, life did not depict that paradise image. It did reveal, however, a greater appreciation for the simplistic things in life. As I stood on the porch I appreciated those things for this view was a rather drastic contrast from the backyard of my home in suburban New Jersey.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and in a glance I realized it was my mother. . . . "Nice day, isn't it," she said with a smile. She wiped the sweat from my nose and continued to walk into the front yard.

I just laughed because I did not understand how anyone could enjoy this heat. I guess that was something only Jamaicans understood. Although I proudly call myself a Jamaican American, I always did perceive a sense of detachment from Jamaican culture. My mother was born and raised here, and I was born and raised somewhere else. I guess the accurate description for this feeling that I felt was "culturally bereft." . . .

I decided I needed to go someplace to relax and think so I ventured off to the main parlor. I sat down on the crimson colored couch with velvety pillows and looked around. Instantly, I marveled at how rich in history this house was. Everywhere you looked, you could not help but be immersed in photographs and belongings of the past. I saw my youthful grandfather standing with optimism in his eyes. I saw my mother, barely 9 years old, playfully smiling. Then I saw myself, a baby in the loving arms of my grandmother.

I suddenly remembered all the little stories that I have been told and how those stories were as much a part of my life as they were theirs. Immediately, I did not feel so culturally empty. It did not matter that I was not born in Jamaica because all its culture was being handed down to me. Just by being my mother's daughter, Jamaica was a part of my identity. And for the fist time, I could honestly believe that I was a Jamaican American.