Ouachita Stories

One Saturday this summer, my friend and I were attending a talk about Islam at church. I was listening attentively when, unexpectedly, something caught my attention. Like a puppy suddenly spotting a brand new sneaker lying forgotten on the floor, my eyes were drawn to a couple sitting only a few rows ahead. Whether it was some special glimmer in their eyes, the ease with which they wrote down Islamic terms containing too many vowels, or the shiny new diamond ring on her left hand, I knew with certainty these two were Ouachitonians.

Nudging my fellow seminar attendee, I rejoiced over seeing someone from my homeland during the long summer months away from my beloved OBU. There is an indescribable joy we all know and cherish that comes only with the knowledge that another person in the room can correctly spell both “Arkadelphia” and “Ouachita.” While weighing the pros and cons of awkwardly saying hi to two people I have never met but vaguely recognize, three men wearing Greek letters foreign to all other universities slipped in one aisle over. My joy grew exponentially.

Ouachitonians, as it turns out, are everywhere.

Now, some of you aren’t impressed. You are not excited about this occurrence, because you know:

1. I live in the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex, an area richly saturated in Ouachita attendees.
2. The above mentioned church was the Village, a place frequented by ‘in-the-know’ college students who love Acts 29-esque churches, great podcasts and missions.

Having calculated the statistics, and knowing the high probability of this occurrence, you refuse to share in my joy. To you skeptics, I offer this second example.

The summer after my freshman year, I was working as a youth intern on the senior class trip to New York City. Being a fairly kind and giving youth intern, I spent an entire afternoon waiting in the Wicked cancellation line attempting to buy tickets for my students. I had been waiting for about an hour when I noticed a familiar shade of purple moving past the theatre. I stared, fixated, as a girl wearing the generic Ouachita t-shirt we all receive during our official OBU visit pranced past me.

Being new to the now all-too-common phenomenon of running into Ouachitonians at random times, I asked the woman behind me to hold my spot so I could run, screaming, after this mystery girl. Sadly, she disappeared into the city before I could even ask for her name/major/hometown. While I never discovered the identity of this fellow tiger, I did befriend the kind New Yorker who held my spot in line.

As it turns out, her niece had recently graduated from—you guessed it—good ole Ouachita.

 

By Jessica (Scoggins) Lamb, a 2013 Ouachita graduate. Jessica's post was originally published on the blog Stuff Ouachitonians Like in 2011. It is used with permission.