Ah, the Notre Dame introduction — a fabled and frequent campus classic. The four or so questions that are so integral to Welcome Week and Sylly Week are supposed to give our classmates a glimpse into who we are and help connect our names to our faces.
Supposed.
If you’re anything like me (which I’m sure most of you are), you’ll sit, knee bouncing, waiting for your turn to pipe up inside Debart 219 or O’Shag 129 until at last, you answer carefully and clearly: “Name. Hall. Major. Hometown.” With a sigh of relief, you’ll pat yourself on your back once you’ve successfully introduced yourself without any voice cracks or embarrassing “ums” or “ers.” You’re not really paying attention to what your classmates are saying, and if you do, you probably won’t remember that their name is Alyssa or Patrick or that they’re from Jersey or Austin and they live in Carroll, PE, or Duncan.
It’s an infamous tradition that we’re taught the moment we arrive on campus — tiny, twitching, wide-eyed freshmen marching our way towards Domer Fest. But how much does the ND intro really reveal about us, and how much does it leave behind?
Name. “Gracie Eppler,” is what I say.
What I really want to say is that my real name is “Grace Kateri Eppler,” but there are only really three people out there that refer to me as this: my childhood best friend, my next-door neighbor and my mom when I’ve done something to annoy her. Kateri is after the saint, the one my mom prayed to as she lay in her hospital bed on that frigid spring morning having just delivered me two months too soon. Weighing only 3 pounds with a heart monitor and an oxygen tube strapped to me, my mom asked for Blessed Kateri Tekawitha’s intercession. I was, and still am, a miracle baby, and maybe that’s why Kateri is now a saint. And “Eppler,” German for “Apple-picker,” reminiscent of my dad’s roots. His great-great-grandmother was shipped off to America and sent her daughter on a covered wagon that would end up in Missouri. Four generations later, her great-great grandson would wind up bumping into my Mom (then “Ramona Del Rosario”), the daughter of two Filipino immigrants.
But I don’t say all this.
Major. “Business Analytics and English,” is what I say.
But what I really want to say is that English is my first love. From the first time I got ahold of my Tito Gerry’s dinosaur-aged laptop at 8 years old, I was typing away. Words became sentences became characters became worlds became stories and plots and creatures that existed only in my imagination. With many feeble attempts, I try to transfer the images in my head to the blank screen before me. But most of the time I fail, and so, I study English to help me learn. I read the works of the greats and examine their voices coming through the pages. Business Analytics is the major that’s supposed to keep me financially stable. The original purpose of my venture into Mendoza was to keep me afloat if I never do become that world-famous author I’ve so dreamt of becoming. And yet, I’ve fallen more in love with Excel, accounting and coding than I ever thought possible.
But I don’t say all this.
Hometown. “St. Louis,” is what I say.
What I really want to say is 30 minutes west of the old trading city on the border of Missouri and Illinois—a city that was once destined to be the greatest in America. I live on the border between suburbia and rural farms. I am from strip malls and square backyards, from wheat farms and red barns. I am from a city riddled with crime, a county brimming with wealth and a small town filled with Cowboy boots and a large Catholic population. I am from parish picnics where we congregate in the parking lot of my church, whirling around on the Ferris wheel in the peak of summer heat. I am from a hidden neighborhood smuggled deep in the woods that once used to be a farm. Tragedy struck in the 70’s, and the old farming couple sold off the land to build my neighborhood. The farming couple’s son still harbors a deep resentment for the residents that occupy his land. I am from a household always full of sounds—never ending laughter, a piano and guitar matched by my sisters’ loud tones and constant arguments and quarrels that end in reluctant yet peaceful truces. I am from a home where the minds of young women are emboldened, where we play Jeopardy around the dinner table and stay up past midnight challenging each other in Mahjong. I am from the heart of America’s farmland, and yet have also been raised by an immigrant mother, who has taught me to love her culture through her food, dance and language.
But I don’t say all of this.
If I did end up saying this, it would probably take an awful lot of time and would definitely be really, really weird. Still, I have hope that somewhere out there, there’s a much more efficient and clever way to get to know our peers around campus — a way that would really get our names and faces to stick the way the ND intro is supposed to. Maybe we could try introducing ourselves by our favorite pie flavors (French Silk), our least favorite songs (Mr. Brightside) or our most unpopular opinions (Spoons should be the only utensil). Or something.
Gracie Eppler is a sophomore Business Analytics and English major from St. Louis, MO. Her three top three things ever to exist are 70’s music, Nutella and Smith Studio 3, where she can be found dancing. Reach her at geppler@nd.edu.
