Twas Brillig

(This week’s Mr. Linky of other Soap Opera Sunday participants and a link to the rules is posted below this post.)

One of the very soapiest times of my existence was my first year at BYU, living in the Foreign Language Housing. The Foreign Language Houses were used by a very elite group of students—those who spoke (and were passionate enough about) a foreign language, who wanted to immerse themselves into a place where they were only allowed to speak that language inside. Generally, these were older students—smart, classy, well-traveled. Elite. Men and women lived in separate apartments, though we were all part of the same “house.” Every apartment had one resident whose native language was the “foreign language”—that person was supposed to keep us on track and be our language mentor, while still being a peer and a roommate. There was the Spanish House, the German House, the French House, the Portuguese House, the Arabic House, the Russian House, and the Italian House. Probably others too… Obviously some were much larger and more popular than others. The Spanish House, for instance, had about 6 times as many members as the Arabic House, and even so it was still almost impossible to get into.

As for me, I was passionate about German. I’d been studying German for most of my life by this point. I had spent a summer in a German town having a very in-depth German experience. I’d been president of the German club in high school and was one of very few AP German students to actually pass the AP test (everyone in AP Spanish passes the AP test. But German is by far a more difficult language to grasp—and I can say that because I speak both). Also in high school, I’d taken a standardized test for all third-year German students. I placed number one in the nation and was offered a scholarship and an all-expense paid summer in Berlin (which I turned down, having already made other plans).

What I’m trying to say here as that German was my thing. It was what I was good at. It was where my heart was.

So how on earth did I find myself in the Italian House?

Ahhh. Good question. I really had no aspirations for Foreign Language Housing to begin with. But there was a woman in our neighborhood— a friend of my parents’— who was in charge of all Foreign Language Housing. And she happened to mention to my dad that she was afraid that the women’s Italian House would have to be shut down, because there were so few women who spoke Italian well enough and who were interested enough in living there. I’m not quite sure how the conversation went from there, but I know that my father always thinks more highly of me than I deserve and he turned my very meager knowledge of Italian into a great proficiency. And between the two of them, and without ever asking my permission (because I never would have given it), they worked the whole thing out. I therefore bypassed the application stage, the examinations, the teacher referrals, etc. that everyone else had to go through to live there, because my daddy boasted about me and this friend of his was desperate.

And thus I became one of the Italian Women. Even though I didn’t speak Italian. Even though I did speak German. Even though I never asked to be there and I never wanted to be there. And now, I was there, as a Freshman no less, living among brilliant, fascinating, and dedicated people… It carried clout, and I too looked like I might be brilliant, fascinating, and dedicated. But I wasn’t. Not at all. I didn’t belong there. Oh, and did I mention that I was on a full-ride scholarship, which I ALSO didn’t deserve?

Up to that point in my life, that’s kinda how things had gone. No one ever actually asked me what I wanted, they TOLD me what I wanted. They then handed it to me on a silver platter, and told me how lucky I was to have been given exactly what I wanted (even though I never wanted it). Then when I didn’t make the most of it, I was such a disappointment and a failure and no one knew what to do with me. Obviously, it was also very hard on people who DID want the things I’d been given— people who were working so hard to get into these places, people who were starving students with huge loans just trying to make it through college without going bankrupt. When it was all just simply handed to me, they were resentful and frustrated— especially when I was such a goof-off and so obviously didn’t deserve it all.

In fairness to myself, though, it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t want any of it. It wasn’t my fault that things were always handed to me. I couldn’t make myself want it, I couldn’t make myself care. My motivation was always just to not be too big of a disappointment to my parents, and that can only take you so far.

So, anyway, I found myself in the Italian House. I had three roommates: Giovanna, who was a feisty and insanely gorgeous Sicilian on a dance scholarship; Melissa from California, a Junior with beautiful long dark curly hair and the most perfectly proportioned body that made any man with eyes stop and stare; and Karen from New Jersey, a Sophomore who every one of my guy friends fell instantly in love with for her porcelain doll-like features that stood in contrast to her sassy, street-wise attitude.

These were some of the most beautiful girls I’d ever known. All three were smart, gorgeous, and talented. And soon they weren’t just my roommates, but my best friends.

We had a few things in common. I wish Italian were one of them, but, alas, while the three of them spoke it beautifully, I never did quite catch on. No, the things we had in common were much more trivial. We all had dark hair. We all frequently wore black clothing. We all received more than our fair share of attention from boys.

These three things earned us the nickname of “Italian Witches,” given to us by girls who probably didn’t like us very much. But it was a name we wore with pride. It was an honor to be one of the Italian Witches. There wasn’t a boy in the whole apartment complex who wasn’t in love with at least one of us, and there were only a handful of girls who would still speak to us.

And that, dear readers, sets the scene for the many soap operas that occurred during this time. A couple have already been shared here— remember Chad, the Godfather of soapy stories? Or Weird Internet Waffle Guy? Both of those come from this period of time. But there’s more, so many more.

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