Clare Sheehan: In defense of JSAs

It’s the start of second semester and there is an undeniable sense of dread looming over our heads. Sure, complaints about workloads, library renovations, and post-vacation blues have us all down, but the true root of our anxiety comes from a much deeper, sinister source that every St Andrews student is shuddering from the aftershocks of: the arrival of the JSAs. No denying it – the invasion had officially begun. They’re everywhere, roaming the streets in ugg-clad, mystified hoards.

Now, trust me, I get it. JSAs are annoying. Most of you Americans out there can probably agree that these abroad kids are merely a nagging reminder of why we decided not to go to school in our native USA. They swarm the bars, steal our short loans, buy out our Tesco Value beverages. Plus, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there is something perversely fun about misguiding them when asked for directions or sneering at their shrieking remarks on how much the town looks like Hogwarts. For as long as I can remember I have sung loud and proud the ballads of the anti-JSA retaliation campaign.

That is, until Tuesday, when I was mistaken for one.

There I was in 1413 (who even calls it that?), waiting in line to pay for my coffee before class. I was running a little late, and when the cashier beckoned for my one pound coin, I absentmindedly fished one out of my coat pocket and dropped it in her hand without looking. The cashier, bless her, merely chuckled to herself and told me under her breath, ‘Dear, we don’t accept American currency here.’ I laughed it off, telling her the quarter was an innocent mistake and gave her a pound coin instead. No harm, no foul. When I started to walk out, I noticed these two girls in line, staring at me and whispering. Immediately, I checked my face for any toothpaste residue (a situation that embarrassingly happens frequently for me), but finding none kept walking past them. That’s when I heard it. “Ugh, JSA,” one of the girls said snidely. The other one just raised her eyebrows and shot me a look of disgust as if I had just wolfed down an entire empire pizza in front of her (a situation that also embarrassingly happens frequently for me).

Upon leaving the scene of the crime, my cheeks were burning with shame. Without sounding too after-school special-y, I never realized what being a JSA must feel like in our exclusive little town. They get a lot of shit (I should know, I give a lot of it), and it’s a harsh stereotype to live with. I mean, come on, we all know what it’s like to be the new guy in town. I know I do.

Flashback to my first day in St Andrews, you’d see a seventeen-year-old girl wearing Velcro sneakers from Payless, a neon pink hoodie, and pigtails tied with mismatched scrunchies. (If you don’t believe me, take a gander at my matric card picture). Imagine the little tubby boy from the movie Up, and you have me, minus the balloons but plus an assortment of gel pens and butterfly hair clips. From what I can recall, those first few weeks included a lot of weepy phone calls to mother dearest and a lot of stolen dinner rolls from the dining room I felt too intimidated to eat in with everyone else.

The morale of my story is: we all have a little JSA in us, so we should probably take it easy on the dudes. I’m not saying that their incessant picture taking and questions about Prince William won’t irk us, nor that Carphone Warehouse suddenly won’t resemble the front row at a Justin Bieber concert. But let us all remember our awkward, new kid days and show a little sympathy. Embrace our inner JSA. I’ve been looking for an excuse to bring back my Velcro kicks anyway.

Written by Clare Sheehan, bystander columnist