On football Saturdays Camp Randall is a sea of red, all of us cheering for the same players down below. No matter where we are from, Milwaukee or Manhattan, we are united; all that matters is that we, the students of the University of Wisconsin, win this ever-so-important football game. Cut to that Monday, when, upon finding your classroom where your first discussion of the year will be held, you survey the room, scoping out the game that you yourself will be playing for the rest of the semester.

More often than not, there will be cliques more severe than those in your high school cafeteria. There is usually a small group of guys who have clearly grown up together and whose parents have made sure they all register for the exact same classes, so as to have a constant support system while away from home. There is the pair of girls, pin-straight hair, ironed polo shirts and “sloppy” designer sweatpants. There are the kids who are wearing socks with sandals (enough said), and, of course, the one or two athletes, head to toe in Wisconsin attire.

With the start of each first discussion, no matter what the class, there is almost always a period of introduction. This is what, more than the degree of difficulty of that particular class, tortures me the most.

First, I firmly believe that I am the one person who has not one interesting fact about me that I wish to share with the future grader of my papers, as well as 20 other students who are forming their first impressions of me. Second, and perhaps more importantly, it is at this point where the members of discussions go to their corners, rev their engines and wait for the match to start. It is now time to get ready to defend where you’re from, why you came here and anything that you say from this point on. Some of you may be thinking that your discussions do not resemble this battleground that I describe. Trust me, though, they do.

For me, one of the reasons that I came to Madison for college was to meet new people and get away from the East Coast, where I have spent all 19 years of my life. I was looking forward to having friends from the Midwest and even more excited about squashing the stereotypes of Midwestern culture firsthand. Never, in debating the move here for my four years of college, did I anticipate the tension that exists between East Coasters and Midwesterners, or, more specifically, New Yorkers and Wisconsinites, to be such a huge part of my college career.

I will always love New York, Manhattan and all my friends from home. That is not to say, however, that I like being stereotyped as a spoiled, rich, egotistical East Coaster. As the spotlight approaches me during the first days of discussions, and I have to admit, almost confess shamefully, that I am from New York, let alone “the city,” my palms get sweaty and I sulk in my chair, depressed that another semester will come and go and I will still be “the girl from New York.” These stereotypes are hard for all of us to overcome. As soon as dialogue begins in discussion, I find myself siding with my fellow East Coasters. As topics get more and more heated, and people begin making more controversial comments, I can feel the shift in the room intensify. New Yorkers and other out-of-state students mumble about the uneducated opinions of those around them and those speaking glare at the East Coasters, wondering why we had to come to their state school, and couldn’t have just spared us all the stress and discomfort that these situations create.

Leaving discussion irritated and fuming is not uncommon. Often I wonder why everything must become such a production, and although it can be beneficial to all of our participation grades to have something to say each week, it seems unnecessary for there to be such hostility. Brushing past my classmates on the walk out of these tension-breeding classrooms, it always crosses my mind that maybe we should all just combine forces and focus more on the ridiculousness of our TA, rather than each other.

Immaturity takes over, and I continue to brainstorm about a revolt sure to go down in history. The next weekend, discussions long forgotten, I’m once again dressed head to toe in red, cheering in the stands with my friends. Looking down the row, the girls that look back at me are a mixture of New Yorkers, Wisconsinites and everything in between. Scanning the crowd, I catch the eye of a classmate of mine, also in red, also with his friends, and also cheering for the Badgers. He’s from Wisconsin.

Emily Friedman ([email protected]) is a sophomore intending to major in journalism.