Chemistry for Non-Dummies

Last year, I nonchalantly signed up to take second-semester organic chemistry, a k a Orgo. My friends thought I was a maso-​chist. The class is reputed to be the hardest at Brown, and rumor has it that its sole purpose is to weed out pre-meds. Nobody else takes it except chemistry majors. I had come to the conclusion that I was not going to apply to medical school, and it was unnecessary for me to take the course for any other reason. Still, I figured I could always change my mind about the med school thing. And how bad could it be?

EXPERIMENTAL CONDITIONS
According to statistics posted by the Orgo professors, averages on the midterm exams ranged from 47 to 65 points out of 100; by semester’s end, half of the class got C’s or failed (there are no D’s at Brown). This does not take into account the large percentage who ended up dropping the class. I know many students who failed the first time and had to take it a second or even a third time. Others retook it over the summer at pushover schools like Stanford and waltzed out with an A+.

SUBJECTS

Orgo students in pre-med carry the textbook with them wherever they go, and they always seem on the verge of panic. The chemistry majors always have smiles on their faces, either because they relish the pre-meds’ pain or because they truly get a kick out of doing organic chemistry.

One of my friends is a chemistry major, and sometimes he would help me study. When I would ask him how to do a problem, he would just tell me the correct answer. He could never explain how he had found the solution, only that my answer was wrong and his was correct. This led me to conclude that chemistry students are born with an innate and nontransferable ability to understand Orgo.

PSYCHOLOGICAL EFFECTS OF ORGO

I sometimes found it interesting to study my own reactions as I sat in class or tried to do homework problems. I found that Orgo activated my sympathetic autonomic nervous system, more commonly referred to as the “fight-or-flight response.” The response is frequently activated when a creature is placed in a situation in which it needs to attack or run away. Unfortunately, it was difficult to “attack” Orgo, and running away did not seem like a useful alternative, either.

Surviving the bubonic plague

I was a lone biology undergrad from a college uptown who skipped most classes and read a bunch of junk. And I frequented this place.

“Adios, amigo.”

The engineer-at -large ambled out of the pub after having finished her last shot. “See you around.”

White noise echoed across the pub—the hum and chatter of the television and the people inside the bar seemingly attempting to outdo each other. The volume had been turned up, the loudest the idiot box glued to the walls would allow it to be, and the final leg of the Federation Cup was on for all to see.

The players were in top form. They had played undersized passes and ended with a few goals to count. “Yes!” cheered the crowd. “They played well. They missed a lot o passes though. And this was enough for us to avenge that year’s shameful defeat,” said one fan. “Both of them played defensively; dwarf passes and all. They brought this all the way from the pitches of the pitches of España, diga y despedida,” said another.

The tough chap sitting opposite my table ended up saying, “I can’t take this; acting like first year college kids when they’re playing professional ball! I lost 500, plus time.”

“Pass me a beer,” he said after a while. “Pass me the lighter too.” Pass me this and that; this seemed to be how the tough guy went.

A grumpy old guy on the counter opened his mouth displaying his caffeine-tainted teeth. He recalled a historic match that had taken place between the Brits and the Argentineans against the backdrop of the Falkland war. “It was then that Maradona had scored the Hand of God goal,” with a sugar-coated voice.

“Shut up, will you? I can’t hear myself think,” said a guy from one of the other groups in the bar. His comment created silence, a ‘pin drop’ silence one might add, in a place that was buzzing with noise only a moment ago. This silence was challenged by pooches barking at backpackers outside on the street. Another football buff suddenly stood up, opened the door with a thrust, stepped outside and slammed it hard. The night was growing older, like the old man on the counter. The fans now moved out, lighting their cigarettes, leaving behind only a few strangers.

The pub stood by one of midtown’s few engineering colleges. It was the kind that served the regular supply of liquor, fags, teas and in-betweens.

In the name of house spirit

"And in that dorm room with thirty beds, we slept as dead men. The softest noise could trigger the warden’s black box.”

I won’t tell you I am Spiderman or something. I am not amazing. When Andy Dufresne escaped from Shawshank prison in 1966, I didn’t even exist. But I went to a Shawshank too, my own Shawshank.

Dad brought me to live in a hostel as a naive kid. No sooner, I was promoted to a house where rules were both strict and weird. A tall, fair guy with brown hair and a well-shaped English accent was our housemaster, our warden. Up to that moment, I didn’t have the slightest of idea. My life in hell was about to begin.

Like Warden Samuel Norton, our house master believed in two things: discipline and duty. We were bound to both. A lot of discipline, and a lot more duties. Everybody knew what he meant on our first night when we were all instructed to get to the study hall.

 “What have you brought for the house?” he had asked. The answers came in all forms. Sir, I am good at Mathematics. I can win trophies to decorate. I like painting. I could print banners and placards if the house needs it. I love sports and can represent us in the Track and Field Meet. I can sing. I can dance...

The warden was unimpressed.

All of us huddled together in a U-shape we stood, as if at some sort of Scouts ceremony. Everybody said something. It seemed they had all brought gifts to the house. My turn came too.

“Aah...I am fond of gardening sir and ...”

I could never complete the sentence. But I tell you this—I had never done as much gardening as I did that particular year.