Editor’s note: The contents of this column are intended for satirical and entertainment purposes and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the IDS or its staffers. The scenarios mentioned are fictional.
Mike Woodchip is a squirrel. A squirrel’s life is all he has known, one of foraging, scatter-hoarding and evading clumsy-footed humans ogling their phones.
But ever since Woodchip gained consciousness in the warmth of his mother’s oak hollow, he has wanted more out of his expected three to 20 years on Earth. He is an upwardly mobile creature, and not just on trees.
After finding his way home after a galactic mishap as the guinea pig — or, uhm, squirrel — of Indiana University’s new experimental rocket launch program, Woodchip decided to earn his education. Naturally, in aerospace engineering.
Purdue University was simply not an option for a Bloomington-born squirrel. Instead, Woodchip applied to the University of Michigan, home of the country’s first collegiate aerospace program and renowned “Public Ivy.” Academic luminaries to the tune of Marshall Nirenberg, the world’s first interpreter of genetic code, and Jerome Karle, discoverer of a technique to analyze crystal structures using X-ray diffraction — both of Woodchip’s personal heroes — sat in Michigan’s distinguished halls.
His father, ol’ Bushrod Woodchip, grinned with his buckteeth the day the acceptance letter arrived via the Leaf Mail Service.
“Quaa quaa muk quaa kuak,” Bushrod chattered. In squirrel, doubtless you know: “They’ll really challenge you there, son.”
Bushrod hugged his son goodbye. Then Woodchip hopped in his foot-tall, acorn-wheeled Fur-d Focus and hit the road for Ann Arbor.
When he arrived, Woodchip was blindsided by class start times of… whenever you want.
“This is Michigan,” an orientation team member explained. “Show up to class whenever you like, and we’ll just have the refs... I mean, we’ll just set back the class schedule.”
The welcoming Michigander smiled and nodded. As he walked away, he added, “See you at the big game, five days ago!”
Woodchip scratched his head.
“You can’t just hide acorns whenever you want,” he murmured, Woodchip being the first in his family to learn human language. “There’s just one clock, and that’s nature’s.”
Woodchip decided he’d attend class the next day, anyhow. Even if Michigan’s clocks tick wonkier than the rest of the country’s, he figured the classes must be as demanding as he imagined. After all, this is an acclaimed research institution he was at.
When he arrived at the Fundamentals of Aerospace Engineering the next day, however, the class, too, was not what he’d pictured. The professor sat cross-legged on a yoga mat, steadily breathing with his eyes closed. The lecture hall was empty, except for a few students watching movies on their laptops.
Woodchip sat in the front row.
“Welcome…” the instructor slowly breathed, “to… Fund... a... men... tals… of… Aero… space… Eng…i…neer…ing…” He paused. “There… will… be… no… grades… in… this… course…”
The instructor explained the first semester of aerospace engineering was, as any course at Michigan, dedicated to easing students into the fast-paced, squirrel-eat-squirrel environment of college-level coursework — very slowly easing them into it.
“First… a…ssign…ment…” the instructor stood and adopted a crane pose. “I…mag…ine… your…self… as… a… plane… Or… a… dove… Yes… your… inn.. er… dove…”
Woodchip looked furiously around. One of the other students had vanished since class began. Then the air conditioning unit started humming.
“Good… I… can… hear… your… calm… breath… Ox... y... gen… is… key… to… pro… pul… sion… It… sounds… like… ev... er... y… one… of... you... should… pass…”
“This is madness,” Woodchip thought, stunned. He, too, silently pattered out of the lecture hall, determined to find the source of the slow clocks and feckless expectations.
Armed with righteous indignation and a bushy-tail, he marched to the Dean of Students’ office.
“What kind of school are you running here?!” he tempestuously chirped.
The Dean of Students rolled her chair forward and leaned over her desk to see Woodchip. “By removing the pressure of grades and timeframes,” she smiled, “we hope to make it easier for our young and impressionable students to adapt to their new environment.”
A smile crept upon the dean’s face.
“In fact, we should probably extend the policy through second semester,” she said. “And implement an hour of nap and snack times for every half hour of lectures.”
Woodchip, who was used to spending most waking hours on the hard work of finding and scattering food, threw up his four-finger paws in exhaustion.
Eric Cannon (he/him) is a junior studying philosophy and political science and currently serves as a member of IU Student Government. His column normally appears Sundays and Wednesdays. Never miss them or his other opinionated musings on X.
