The Opinion section created the column “Argus Apps” to humanize the college process. Often, we forget that there are people behind Common App essays with real emotions and experiences. These essays are also always looked at within the framework of the college admissions process, so to publish these essays without pairing them with someone’s SAT score and a list of “Argus Apps,” we hear from Photo Editor Lily Faith-Goldfine ’25 about her college application essay journey.

Trigger warning: GOLF

I am an economics and film double major. (I’m aware of the stellar optics.) All my friends are non-athletic regular persons (NARPs) and I was, for the last two years, a golfer—though I’m currently taking a semester off to “find myself.” When I wrote this essay, I was still not sure that I wanted to play college golf, but I truly thought that the themes of the sport defined who I was. 

Now for the unfortunate truth: I’ve never officially played with a pink golf ball, always sticking to a meager white one, despite the fact that a pink golf ball is a central object in my essay. I’m still working on the whole being-secure-with-pink thing. A blatant white lie, I suppose. Other than that detail, though, this essay is my truth. I was drawn to golf because I love making life hard for myself. From the cost of coaching and lessons to the periodic occurrence of being the only girl in my age division in a tournament, golf was never easy. But despite the rationales charted in my essay, this desire for discomfort has transcended to my college life. 

Here are the three certainties I claim: Firstly, golf is horrible for the environment. Secondly, it shares a common thread of extreme inaccessibility, similar to most activities & academic pursuits at the University. And lastly, golf’s perception at the University is insanely volatile depending on the space you occupy. 

Now here is my theory: “Coming out” as a golfer at a Delta Kappa Epsilon (DKE) party, in Freeman Athletic Center, or during my econ class, I would get a “So cool.” However, if I did the same at a frisbee party on Pine Street, at WesRave part 2, or anything arts related, I would get a glaring look of liberal disappointment. 

Those who know me know that I’ve never been vocal about my golferness; I’m calculated about it. First, I want you to notice how cool and Wesleyan and most importantly how liberal I am, and then you can know that I hit a little white (not pink) ball into a hole 300 yards away with a bunch of sticks. 

At some point, golf transformed from a pursuit of validation and approval to a source of partial embarrassment and considerable anxiety. A trepidant fear that my onlooker would begrudgingly filter my words and actions with a giant golf watermark affixed above my head followed me everywhere. 

So why do I become hyper aware when someone discovers my affinity for golf? What is it about their judgment that gnaws at me? Do they actually give it any thought, or does this revelation expedite their assessment of my character?

Maybe I’m just an overthinker, or maybe I’m not considering the judgment I parade about town. When someone mentions they work in a lab on campus, I picture them somewhere between Abby from NCIS and the nerds of The Big Bang Theory. Tell me you work on Long Lane Farm, and I’ll assume you to be a member of Wesleyan’s version of a bourgeoisie commune. Or if someone tells me they do improv, I respond with a Ms. Darbus from High School Musical-coded “Yes, and?” My inexperience with these activities are the reason for my totally accurate and unbiased perception. So maybe Wesleyan students need to be playing more golf—some exposure therapy, if you will.

Of course, I’m conscious of my self-placement in environments where golf isn’t typically embraced. I hold a genuine fondness for both the individuals and the activities within these spaces, just as I do for golf and the people who share that interest. I’m also not sick of these social rapids I navigate through; part of me probably enjoys the thrill of it. But at the same time, it’s probably all in my head. 

Little Pink Golf Ball

On the golf course, it is customary to offer a young woman a pink ball. I learned this firsthand at the tender age of seven; I was no exception. Despite the constant offers, I never opted for pink. I was convinced that if I were seen with a pink golf ball, I would be viewed as a little girl and not as a golfer. Galvanized by my desire to overcome perceived expectations, it would be some time before I achieved the self-confidence to liberate myself from the expectations of others both on and off the golf course. 

The first time that my dad stormed into my room at 8 am on a Sunday morning and announced “I’m going to Dyker” (NYC’s most played golf course), I followed without hesitation. At first, I would go just to sit between my dad and his friend, Lionel, in the two-person golf cart, waiting for the opportunity to show off my NASCAR skills, as the professional seven year old driver I was. As the years went by, I left the golf cart behind, and instead joined my dad on the vast green course. As I honed my stance and my swing on those early Sunday mornings, I fell in love with the game of golf, and it became my oasis. 

My steadfast refusal of the pink golf ball continued as I began to excel in the sport. The more I played, I became increasingly aware of the fact that golf is male-dominated. Every Sunday, I felt as though the eyes on the back of my head were engaged in a staring contest with the plethora of men; to them, I was merely a silly girl dragged along by her father. I was determined to prove them wrong. As I stepped up to the tee and hit that white ball, I didn’t have to turn to see their jaws hit the ground. 

Despite my consistent improvement, I still felt very insecure and out of place on the golf course. Determined to “earn my chops as a golfer” and drop those nerves, I concluded that lessons were a necessity. I met a retired cop teaching at a rundown driving range in Brooklyn. He offered me his services. In exchange, I would help him coach and spend time with autistic kids who were using golf as an outlet. 

At the Brooklyn Junior Autistic Golfers Academy, I taught golf to children on the spectrum. There was a girl my age who would frequent the range. She always arrived exactly on time, skipped the “hey, how are you greetings” and headed straight for the seven iron. Every shot she made was the same and perfect: right to the target. It was obvious that she wasn’t affected by the stares or the doubt in people’s eyes, and I envied her; I wanted to emulate her nonchalance. 

I convinced myself that if I played more golf and honed my proficiency, I would become like the girl from BJAGA. I started to find myself nightly at Chelsea Piers Golf Center hitting golf balls for hours. It was no easy feat to even get to Chelsea Piers. Lugging my backpack and clubs a mere 5 miles would take me at least an hour. Three hours of practice, home at 8pm; this became my life. The stares on the first tees on Sundays dissipated as the seasons went on. At first, I thought it was because I was getting better at golf, but I now realize I had simply stopped paying attention to what others thought or expected of me. Instead of being driven by my insecurities, I gained confidence on and off the course. The lessons I learned playing the game of golf helped me realize that the more time I spent defending myself the less time I had to live my life. I now only play with a pink golf ball.

Lily Goldfine can be reached at lgoldfine@wesleyan.edu.