Two options remained: raise my hand and embarrass myself, or keep quiet and try to refrain from sobbing.

DISLOCATED CONFIDENCE The anxiety and uncertainty of my freshman year were a distant memory as I pedaled determinedly toward Wellman Hall on the first day of fall quarter 1993. I felt confident as I headed for my first class as a sophomore, my hair freshly cut, my brand-new backpack full of color-coordinated notebooks. I had three classes lined up back to back that morning, but I felt no fear. Hey, I was a sophomore, and nothing could shake me anymore. Moments later, as I entered a nearly filled Wellman 2, I felt slightly shaken. I was thrilled to finally be taking Biology 1A, but the dozens of students crashing the class had commandeered most of the seating. Undaunted, I made my way down one of the crowded rows, carefully avoiding the backpacks and Birkenstocked feet that nearly blocked the narrow floor space. There was not an inch of elbow room to be found as I reached my precious seat. In the tiny space in front of my seat I executed the "turn-sit-remove backpack" move I had learned to perfection during my freshman year. But alas, it was during this motion that I looked down to see that I was bending my left knee in a direction that, well, knees just weren't designed to bend. I felt it buckle toward the center of my body, heard an audible "snap" and collapsed into the chair. Stunned, trying desperately not to scream and fighting back tears, I stared at my leg. Nothing looked amiss, but the pain was overwhelming. I frantically reviewed my options. I could get up and attempt to leave quietly, but where would I go? I didn't feel capable of navigating the crowded aisles in my condition, and missing the first day of class would mean I could be dropped. I could attempt to notify the professor, but what exactly would I say? "I am a clumsy moron. Please save my place in your class while I limp over to the health center." My dilemma ended then, because the professor stopped shuffling his papers at the front of the room and began to speak. Two options remained: raise my hand and embarrass myself, or keep quiet and try to refrain from sobbing. My mind was still racing as he ran through introductions and talked about the syllabus. In merciless pain and truly shaken, I had no idea what to do. So I did the one thing I could do: I took notes. After the longest 40-minute lecture of my life, the room cleared out and I bumped into a friend. "I think I dislocated my kneecap trying to sit down for this class," I joked. He noted that my left knee looked a little swollen, but we agreed that such a simple motion could not have caused much damage, probably just a mild strain. He asked if I was going to the health center. "I can't," I said. "I've got another class." With that, I limped to my bike, and in a move that would have made Kerri Strug proud, pedaled to Olson Hall using my one good leg. The campus had never seemed larger to me than it did that day, but I continued my pathetic struggle to get to class. The warnings I had heard throughout my freshman year were taunting me: "Whatever you do, don't miss the first day of class." The next class lasted an hour and a half, but the pain in my knee subsided once I settled into my desk and stopped moving. At the end of the lecture I folded the desk top to the side and prepared to head to my third and final class. To my dismay, I looked down to discover that my normally scrawny knee had swollen to roughly the size of a basketball during the course of the class. And the pain! I was now completely unable to put weight on my leg, and sharp pain gripped my knee with each feeble hop I took in attempting to leave Olson Hall. As I stood in front of the sea of bikes outside Olson, my leg dangling uselessly, it occurred to me that I was dead meat. In less than 10 minutes, my biology discussion was scheduled to begin on the other side of campus. My space in the class would probably be given away before I could do anything to stop it. Moreover, I was completely unable to get myself to my bicycle, much less to the health center. Vultures would probably find me soon. For the first time in my life, I was actually worried that I would faint. Students rushed by, glancing briefly at my grotesque-looking leg and then hurrying to class. I was saved a moment later. A friend I had studied with during my freshman year appeared just then; she was all that kept me from keeling over right there in front of Olson Hall. She calmed my rapidly rising hysteria and ran to a phone to call for help. A campus squad car arrived a moment later, but only when the officer assured me that we could save my discussion space with a phone call did I agree to let him take me to the health center. As I watched the lunchtime activity on the Quad roll by from the back of the squad car, it occurred to me that perhaps I had been a little arrogant in thinking I could cruise through my first day of school, sophomore status or no sophomore status. A few days later I went to my doctor at Kaiser in Sacramento--an Aggie alumnus. He explained that I had indeed dislocated my kneecap. "Playing intramural sports?" he asked. "Sitting down in Bio 1A," I replied. "Well, they did warn me that biology can be a tough major." -- Karen Knops