The moment I realized Berkeley had rewired my identity happened unexpectedly on a misty Mendocino morning, crouched beside a stranger's golden retriever. My fingers buried in soft fur, I found myself engaging in the most natural banter with the dog's owner, who stood before me wrapped in that unmistakable cardinal red Stanford hoodie. "We can make a temporary truce, right? For the dog's sake," I heard myself say with theatrical gravity, my roommates nodding solemnly beside me while barely containing their smiles. The woman laughed, scratching behind her dog's ears as she replied, "For the dogs."
What struck me wasn't the exchange itself, but the effortlessness of it—this automatic, good-natured ribbing that now lived in my bones. When had I transformed from someone who simply attended Berkeley into someone who was of Berkeley?
I remembered my freshman orientation, when the Stanford rivalry seemed like a quaint tradition—something to be acknowledged with polite interest, like a cultural custom observed from a respectful distance. I participated in the ritual booing when Stanford was mentioned, but it felt performative, a tourist attempting local customs without understanding their deeper significance.
The transformation had been gradual—a slow accumulation of moments rather than a single conversion experience. There was the afternoon Downtown when I instinctively grimaced at a Stanford water bottle, catching myself mid-reaction with amused self-awareness. The visceral pride I felt watching the women's swim team dominate. The way my heart expanded when peering over the campus from the campanile on the clearest day Berkeley has ever witnessed.
It wasn't just about sports rivalry, though that was the most visible manifestation. It was about belonging to something larger than myself—a lineage of thinkers, activists, innovators, and dreamers who had walked these same paths before me. People who had stood on Sproul arguing passionately about ideas that mattered, who had made discoveries in labs overlooking the bay, who had formed lifelong friendships in the shadowy corners of Stacks.
I remember calling my parents after my first Big Game, voice hoarse from cheering. "I get it now," I told them, trying to articulate the inexplicable sense of connection I felt to thousands of strangers united in blue and gold. My father—a die-hard fan of the Florida Gators—laughed knowingly. "That's what college does to you," he said. "It gets in your blood."
But it wasn't until that Mendocino morning that I recognized the full extent of my transformation. This wasn't performed identity anymore; it was authentic integration. Something about Berkeley had become fundamental to how I understood myself in the world.
There's a particular sweetness to this realization—recognizing that you've been shaped by a place without conscious effort, the way water shapes stone not through force but through patient presence. The institution had become more than just the setting for my education; it had become a character in my personal narrative. This is the subtle alchemy of belonging—the way chosen communities remake us through thousands of small, often unnoticed interactions. Each "Go Bears" exchanged with a stranger wearing Berkeley merch in an airport terminal. Each moment of shared frustration over the labyrinthine layout of Dwinelle. Each collective intake of breath as the sun sets over the Golden Gate Bridge from the Campanile's observation deck. The Stanford rivalry, with all its playful antagonism, is really just a delightful manifestation of this deeper phenomenon—a way of affirming who we are by playfully defining who we are not. There's no actual animosity behind my reflexive teasing of Stanford affiliates; there's just the joy of recognition, the pleasure of participating in a narrative larger than myself.
Perhaps this is what education means in its fullest sense—not just the acquisition of knowledge and skills, but this gradual transformation of identity. We don't just pass through institutions; they pass through us, altering our internal landscape in ways we may not recognize until we find ourselves making Stanford jokes as naturally as breathing.
As I walk across campus now, I experience it differently—not as a collection of buildings where I happen to study, but as a living entity with which I'm in a relationship. The rivalry, the traditions, the shared vocabulary of experience—these aren't superficial aspects of campus life but essential threads in the fabric of belonging. So yes, I'll continue to playfully tease anyone brave enough to wear cardinal in my presence. Not because I bear any ill will toward that other institution across the Bay, but because in doing so, I affirm something precious about who I've become during my time here—a transformation as subtle and profound as the fog rolling across the Glade at twilight, changing everything it touches.