Very Professional

One of the benefits of being an upper-level college student is that all of your classes tend to be in the same building. Gone are the days of having to book it halfway across campus from my biology class to my completely unnecessary but required American government discussion section. For the past year, the most I've had to do is climb the stairs and occasionally cross the street. I like it like this.

As my credits accumulate, my circle also shrinks. There are more than 40,000 students at my school, with approximately 650 public relations majors, but there are four or five of us who are always, randomly, in all of the same classes. I like this too. We're friends. With one exasperated look, I can convey to them, who the fuck is this guy? Not every media law case is about porn. A single eyebrow raise says will that dumb girl ever wear more than spandex running shorts and a sweatshirt to class? She looks like she's naked.

Sprinting towards the finish-line for my B.S. in PR, I seem to have stumbled over a couple of courses I tried to forget I had to take in order to graduate. So it was with extreme doubt and a hesitant expression that I crossed the street, turned the corner, ascended the steps and yanked open the heavy glass door of the liberal arts building.

My first thought, upon entering my English elective class titled Modern Drama: DOING IT and situating myself in a desk towards the back corner of the room, was: who are these people, and where do they shop? The public relations department seems to have an unusually high concentration of really good-looking people. More than that, they are all super-groomed. Falling somewhere between preppy and trendy, we understand the value of wearing full make-up and high heels to class. And what's with the hair? This class is midday, surely you had time to shower and blow dry it? Don't you people know that you can buy a straightening iron for less than $30? The times when I choose an extra half hour of sleep over hair care, I always regret it, if only because of my insane jealousy over that girl's perfect bangs, or the other girl's gorgeous new highlights.

All public relations classes begin in the same way. The students assemble in the classroom at least 10 minutes early and flick through various magazines and newspapers while adjusting their lip gloss, checking their vibrating cell phones while rolling their eyes and clicking 'ignore,' gossiping with girls in their sorority or flirting with the token cute boy, and generally giving off an air of smug confidence. Then, also immaculately groomed, the professor enters, throwing down his plush leather brief case (or, in some instances, her oversized Coach tote) and accessing the PowerPoint presentation he's put together. Attendance is taken aloud, and if anyone is marked absent, the class ripples, collectively wondering where the hell this person is. After all, we are all Very Professional. The professor begins a long monologue about his or her extensive educational and professional background, often engaging in vicious name-dropping. Far from being offensive or off-putting, we have all come to expect it now, and an absence of bragging sets off bubbles of doubt regarding a teacher's credibility. Usually, the teacher will then specifically ask each student what his or her goals are for the class, his internships, his career, his life, in which city he wants to live and whether or not he's in it for the money. (He is. Actually, we all are.) Then, lecture can begin in earnest, punctuated by lively discussions because we all want to Kick Ass.

Modern Drama: DOING IT began with a 70-year-old man bounding into the classroom, slamming the doors shut and proclaiming his love for all of us ("my babies!"), the written word, the theatre and extremely liberal politics. Appointing a class "censor" to warn him when he was going too far into a Bush-bashing rant, he skipped bragging and launched straight in to telling us stories about his life. I, however, had missed a step. Dressed in faded jeans, a too short t-shirt and old sneakers, my instinct was to call the campus police and inform them that a bum from Turlington Plaza (a.k.a. activist central/advocacy corner/crazy people hangout) was attempting to teach classes and should probably be sent to sleep it off in a cell up in Starke. Or at least sent to SuperCuts to fix his mop-like iron gray bob.

When did I become this judgemental? It's an important question; one that is partially answered as I doodle Greek letters in the margin of my notebook. But I can't really blame the sorority; it's more of a magnet for already polarized young women. Maybe it's just a facade though, and I can't help but become interested as I hear stories from this man's life.

Apparently, this professor is a civil rights activist, and marched with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. for several years. He's been through riots; attacked with tear gas, cattle prods and guns by ignorant, bigoted people. He runs a theatre program for underprivileged children, and never wants to retire. He leads the class in a meditation exercise he learned from Dr. King, the upshot of which is that it's the process, and not the results, that matter in life. It's about learning to enjoy experiences, and take things slowly.

As the class ends, I feel a bit calmer than normal, a feeling that lasts until I enter my next class, a public relations one in which the professor calls roll by reading off everyone's resumes, which she has previously researched.

I love public relations, and all of the crap that comes with it. I'm fairly sure I don't want to be a touchy-feely English major, and I know I'll never be one of those zen-like happy people who loves the world and walks at a slower pace. But, I think the point is that you can't exist in isolation. The "real world" isn't divided into academic buildings, and that's a good thing (Martha).

Maybe good hair isn't essential, but it sure as hell helps. I've got to find that happy medium. Do they sell those at J. Crew?