An Ode to OAs: My Experience in the Neon Yellow
Story by Emelia Marshall ‘25
Why I keep coming back to don
that eye-catching t-shirt.
EMELIA MARSHALL // FLAT HAT MAGAZINE
“Mom, do not ask her for directions,” I pleaded from the passenger seat as we passed the girl holding the unmissable “GREEN ROUTE” sign for a second time. My mother indulged my fantasies of success as we looped around the campus once more, under the illusion that we were finally heading in the right direction — until we stopped passing Green Route signs entirely. On our third go, I resigned myself to the mortifying ordeal of being known as I rolled down my window to ask the neon-clad student where, exactly, the Green Route was. I stifled a scream when she informed me that she was standing in front of it and had been the entire time.
We pulled into the makeshift parking space abutting Lion L in Green and Gold Village — affectionately referred to as GGV — and were met with an even larger group of these highlighter-hued helpers. Dripping with sweat from a mixture of nerves and Williamsburg weather, I struggled to pull myself together enough to leave the safety of my car. Meanwhile, these people were dancing like their lives depended on it. I couldn’t help but wonder, What are they on?
The following week was filled with similar questions, as my Orientation Aides (OAs) showcased a seemingly endless amount of energy regardless of the occasion. My bewilderment peaked at “Cheers to Your First Year,” where they, along with all the rest of the GGV OAs, performed some sort of song-and-dance routine that left us new students equally as confused as we were proud. My freshman friends and I shared a good bout of laughter at the scene, but I looked them in the eyes and asserted, “I could never do that, I’d be so embarrassed.”
Considering I had already made up my mind that I would never be capable of being an OA, I’m not sure why I applied to be one. Maybe it was the rose-tinted glasses I would throw on every time I reminisced on Orientation or the striking similarity between being an OA and my summer job as a camp counselor. There is also a nonzero chance that it had to do with the Orientation Area Directors (OADs) being some of the coolest people I’ve ever seen, but that seems only tangentially related. The main driver, most likely, was the false sense of confidence I had when I went home for winter break after having thrived in my first semester at college. I can show other people how to do this, I probably thought to myself as I filled out the application.
Over the summer between freshman and sophomore years, I largely forgot about the imminent terror that was “Cheers to Your First Year.” The online modules that Student Transition and Engagement Programs (STEP) assigned for OAs over the summer were strangely reminiscent of those I had completed as an incoming student. From the look of the Blackboard page to the assignments submitted through Google Forms, I could have almost mistaken myself for a freshman. However, the reality of my new position as both a sophomore and an OA became abundantly clear when I arrived on campus to begin formal training.
EMELIA MARSHALL // FLAT HAT MAGAZINE
On our first night together, the smiles and energy of the Returning OAs (ROAs) were a blend of contagious and intimidating. Running to each other as if it had been years since they last spoke, ROAs hugged, squealed, screamed, and caught up with one another. Overwhelmed is an understatement when I recall the stress of finding my co-OAs among the bubbly crowd and subsequently meeting every single one of their friends and former-staff mates.
One of the first things I noticed as a New OA (NOA) was that returners wore the number of their former students who applied to be OAs like a badge of honor. The bigger the number, the bigger their bragging rights. Every OA shares an unspoken goal throughout their tenure: Do a good job, but not only a good job. Rather, do such an incredible job that your students want your job. I had never been in an environment where you so badly wanted others to want your job that you even encouraged them to apply for it. Yet, that is the modus operandi in the Orientation Aide program at the College of William and Mary, and I have come to love it.
I love it because it pushes people to do better and to care more. I love it because of how invested you become in your students as a result, and how it makes you feel about your co-OAs. I relish the sense of community that we build around this common goal of doing the best job possible, and although the motivation at first sounds selfish, I promise it isn’t.
Of course, bragging rights hold more power on the William and Mary campus than they might in other places, and I would be lying if I said that I don’t enjoy social validation as much as the next person. However, when I reflect on how OAs talk about it, it doesn’t sound selfish. If you listen hard enough, you just might catch a hint of school pride, which they are often chock-full of, but you’ll never hear them admit it. I think we, as Orientation Aides, simply love William and Mary and want the absolute best for its future.
Maybe not every decision the college makes is met with resounding applause, and you will certainly encounter students that you wish were not students here. But “those who come here belong here,” as they say. Helping a fresh-faced group of new students acclimate to the campus entails showing them that they do, in fact, belong here, but we wouldn’t be able to show them that without already feeling it ourselves. Considering we work unpaid for up to 16 hours a day, it would be immensely difficult to lie through your teeth for the duration of that time without concrete motivation. So, we don’t — and we don’t have to. We love this school, and we hope the new students love it as much as we do. If we do our jobs well, they just might; if we do our jobs to the absolute best of our ability, they’ll become OAs.
I also can’t speak about being an OA without mentioning the people who make it so incredible. I have met some of the bubbliest, funniest, and most loyal people through my time on the Botetourt staff, and I would probably never have met them otherwise. The constant, stomach-pain-inducing laughter that echoes throughout the Botetourt Complex during Orientation makes the work entirely worth it. My downtime is filled with racing rolling chairs across the lounge, making memes about niche comments from our students, and fostering friendly rivalries with the other floors and staff. I would love to recount my favorite stories, but you wouldn’t get it because you had to be there. Believe me, though, if you were, you would understand why, on my worst days, I only want to see my fellow OAs around campus to bring the light back into my life.
I feel silly reminiscing on my second performance at “Cheers to Your First Year,” when my freshman-year self was so determined that there would never be a first. But here I am, and when I do remember that night in Zable Stadium, I can still feel lingering remnants of the energy and excitement that radiated from the Botetourt staff. Jumping around to Bot-themed renditions of Rihanna, Taylor Swift, and Barbie, I didn’t want it to end. The togetherness and joy and pride, all blending in the beautiful summer night and punctuated with cheers from our first years … revisiting it is bittersweet. I love it, I miss it, and it’s a punch to the gut that it’s over.
At Opening Convocation, the last official obligation for OAs, all of our students walk through the Wren Building to officially begin their careers at the College. I have cried each time, and I understand how my parents must have felt when they sent me off to school: I’m worried you won’t need me anymore, but I’m proud because I don’t think you do. Then comes the hard-to-swallow truth that I will now watch my students grow into themselves from afar, hearing the latest news through quick chats in Swem Library or posts on Instagram. I’m always here if you need me, make good choices, and stay safe, whispers the parently OA in me. But alas, I have returned to being just another student, with my neon shirts tucked away in the closet until next year, when my favorite week rolls around again.