If the following sounds immature or juvenile in any way, well, I’m not apologizing. Sometimes it’s healthy to get on the ground and do a little childish fidgeting. After all, if this University has no issue with dipping to impossibly low standards when dealing with its students, the little people, then I’m right where they’ve put me anyways; on the ground, yelling up to the Big Man intent on screwing us over. Let me know if any of this sounds familiar.

In the days immediately prior to pre-registration, I received a bill from the Bursar’s office to the sweet tune of $810. It caught my interest. “What could it be,” I thought, “that has been sitting in the dark annals of Whitmore, accumulating such sizeable charges?” I was interested enough, in fact, to take a trip to Oz itself and seek out the man behind the curtain who held the answer to my sudden state of debt.

What I met, of course, was simply the curtain, and half-expected a spanking for trying to peek behind. My query, I thought, was simple enough: “What’s the $810 for?” If you’ve ever had to shell out close to a grand for anything, you’ll understand my concern in determining the finer details of the transaction.

They, of course, would tell me nothing.

Well, that’s actually a bit unfair. I was told the charges were for something, it seemed, but what specifically they couldn’t tell me. “So,” I said, “I have to pay a bill that the school itself can only explain in the vaguest of terms before I can register for a single class?”

Yes, of course. Makes all the sense in the world, right?

Needless to say, I did what has come naturally to me many times before: I curled up in the fetal position and called home. Dad made a call.

Well, folks, there must have been something magic in the air that cold, November morning, for lo and behold, he received a specific rundown of the bill. Great. Having physically stood in the office that my father called, I’m still puzzled and offended that my own business was withheld from me. And not just me, but the countless other students I’ve spoken with that have had their wrists slapped, their own affairs spit on by the personality devoid employees manning the desks, and been sent back out the door, feeling foolish for having asked. God forbid we know a little something about ourselves.

Knowing this, I can’t help but feel like the bad guy, the immature college student who can’t keep track of his own ass. Another faceless number the administration has no time for.

Like new life from death, however, another problem rose from the ashes of this dilemma. The Bursars office says I’ve been billed all along, at least once a month since the beginning of the semester. It’s not true. I haven’t. Nor have other people I know. No, the first bill I had a chance to lay my eyes on came a few short days before pre-reg with the proclamation “Thou Shall Not Register.”

Tell me, UMass, where the fairness in that is.

The charges and specifics of the bill I understand and accept; while far from thrilled that my parents have to come to bat for me unexpectedly, I realize, finally, the charges are legit. Trust me, UMass, this number will find a way to fill your sour belly. Giving us notice just before registration, however, and thus interfering heavily with one of our most important responsibilities as students is a painfully cheap way to practice your business. It’s unfair and you damn well know it.

To my surprise and genuine gratitude, a kind professor of mine made a call and got the hold lifted, so that I could both register and head back to Whitmore to discuss the particulars. Which was wonderful until the hold fell from the sky once again, leaving me with a schedule in flux and feet firmly planted back on square one.

To whoever lifted that hold: if you weren’t supposed to do it, you shouldn’t have. I wasn’t actively lobbying for it. To dangle it up and down over my head with zero explanation, and then do away with it as you please, unannounced, is complete B.S.

College is interesting enough without the administration actively trying to screw us to the walls. I’ll be the first to admit my shortcomings and insecurities: it’s taking me five years to graduate from this hole (that’s right, UMass: I’ll be keeping your heat on for at least one more year), this vacuum that carelessly shuffles our records, keeps our personal information to itself and squelches our voice when we try to raise genuine concerns. It goes beyond bills; this school makes an alarming number of mistakes each year and dodges the blame each time, leaving us to stay afloat in the disorienting wake. To find housing when they continually over enroll. To find $800 in the space of five days. To find space in classes we need to graduate. The list, as I’m sure most of you are familiar with, goes on. Perhaps what I should have been trying to find all this time was a new place to call home.

If any of you have encountered similar problems, however insignificant they may seem, pick up the phone and give ’em Hell. UMass needs to hear us. They need to know what we sound like, everyone, because the sound of us being dragged through their own crap is apparently not loud enough.

I’ll pay your bills, UMass, but you can still kiss my pale, white ass. You play the game unfairly, and cheapen every last one of us in the process.