The Octopus At University Of Michigan
Written by Karen Scholl
The University of Michigan
Karen has spent the last 25 years working as a copywriter and creative director for a wide variety of clients, from local start-ups to global brands. She helps corporations, non-profits, brands, and executives figure out what they want to say and how they need to say it. In between crafting web copy about laundry detergent, writing video scripts for financial institutions, and creating thought-leadership articles for executives—oh, and driving her kids back and forth to soccer—she started writing about the relatable absurdities of everyday life and the madness of raising kids who play soccer.
She writes short humor pieces for various publications on Medium and a variety of blogs, and her first book—Surviving Soccer: A Chill Parent’s Guide to Carpools, Calendars, Coaches, Clubs, and Corner Kicks—is available for pre-order.
For Karen, the understated beauty, creativity, and laid-back lifestyle of Central Ohio have always made it a great place to come home to between visiting clients across the country and traveling to soccer fields around the Midwest.
Hosted and produced by Peter Griffith; contributing producer Rob Wallace; narration by Marie Newman; contributing sound Michael Henery.
In this hilarious episode, we meet Karen Scholl, an introverted young woman who bucks her family and the entire state of Ohio by enrolling at the University of Michigan. However, her newly found independence is tested to its limits when all eyes are on her at a glamorous dinner. It will take an iron gut to decide if being the life-of-the-party sorority girl is the person she wants to become. Hear the lesson learned from a platter of octopus tentacles – Living life your way means occasionally putting your fork down.
Published May 14, 2025
Transcript: The Octopus At Michigan
[ appropriate music ]
HOST: Today on campus, it’s 1991.
Curt Cobain and Nirvana are refusing to conform to mainstream music, their song ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ popularizing a whole new genre. A TV pilot that bombs in testing is given a second chance and Seinfeld, a show about nothing, becomes one of TV’s most beloved sitcoms. And a team of female soccer players led by a 19-year-old, Mia Hamm, upend the male-dominated sports world in their quest to win the first-ever FIFA Women’s World Cup
There’s no denying that back in 1991, young people were finding success by departing from the norm.
In today’s episode, we meet Karen Scholl, an introverted young woman who bucks her family and the entire state of Ohio by enrolling at the University of Michigan. However, her newly found independence is tested to its limits when all eyes are on her at a glamorous dinner. It will take an iron gut to decide if being the life-of-the-party sorority girl is the person she wants to become.
Stay tuned for this true account, a lesson in life learned from a platter of octopus tentacles – Living life your way means occasionally putting your fork down.
[ Marching band music ]
This is Once, In College. I’m Pete Griffith. Today’s episode was written by Karen Scholl who has spent the last 25 years working as a copywriter and creative director for a wide variety of clients, including Coca-Cola and Wendy’s. Karen admitted to us that she doesn’t do enough to promote herself or her talents, so we’re more than happy to do a little of that for her.
Besides a number of short humor pieces, she recently had her first book published — Surviving Soccer: A Chill Parent’s Guide to Carpools, Calendars, Coaches, Clubs, and Corner Kicks.
[ Bells from campus tower ]
As the parent of a pro soccer player, I can attest that the book captures the humor and horrors of what was our wild ride. So go get a copy. But not now, class is about to begin. Here’s Karen’s true story from her time once, in college.
[ appropriate sounds ]
NARRATOR: I popped a piece of grilled octopus in my mouth and briefly left my body. It was slimy and then it was chewy, and then—mercifully—it was gone. Every moment disgusting. Everyone at the table on this riverboat in Detroit cheered. Even my date—the beautiful boy I’d just met and somehow convinced to come to this fall formal with me—beamed, like I really was some life-of-the-party sorority girl.
I was pretty proud of myself in that moment, warmed by their approval. Only later did I realize this wasn’t the person I’d left Ohio to become.
The first time my parents drove the three hours from Columbus to visit me in college at the University of Michigan—an odd choice of schools given the anti-Michigan religious fervor that shaped my hometown—I’d been away from home for a couple months. When I greeted them at the door of my dorm room, the first thing my mom said was, “You didn’t dye your hair blue!”
I should explain that I had never once talked about—or even thought about—dying my hair blue, or any other color. I had thick, curly hair that was a rich, dark brown. I loved my hair. Why would I dye it blue? It didn’t seem to have anything to do with it being one of Michigan’s colors. This was 1991 and I think it was probably just the wildest thing my mom could imagine me doing.
I didn’t know then that it was never about my hair. My parents had just expected some sort of big rebellion once I moved out of their house and away from their rules.
The thing was, my childhood wasn’t bound by strict rules. I didn’t need them. I was a latchkey kid who, in elementary school, could let myself in and let the dogs out, microwave Lender’s mini bagels for snack, do homework watching General Hospital on the 5-inch black-and-white TV in our kitchen, and be ready for the carpool to pick me up for soccer practice or Hebrew School, depending on the day.
I grew up in a suburb on the north side of Columbus. Being Jewish made me exotic, what with my eight nights of Hanukkah presents, the peanut butter and matzo in my lunch when other kids were cracking open eggs from Easter, and the whole going to hell part.
Plus, my family didn’t do the normal things like put up Christmas lights, eat ham sandwiches, go to Hilton Head for spring break, or have an OSU-themed bathroom. Honestly, my take was that they were the strange ones. All so similar. I was a voracious reader, and by the middle of high school I’d been to Europe to visit family three times. I just knew there was more out there for me, wherever there was.
So, while my high school friends drank in the parking lot, skipped classes, and spent weekends going to house parties at OSU—their own explorations—I focused on checking every box I needed to flee after graduation. I just didn’t know where I should go.
I was 17 when an older cousin whispered in my ear that I should check out Michigan. “It’s a special place. I think you’ll really like it.” This completely confused me because it ran so far against the historic culture of hatred toward Michigan that Columbus is so proud of. I remember seeing “Fuck Michigan” signs in friends’ houses before I even understood what it meant. All I knew was Michigan = bad. The state, the school, the team—even the colors. And this was years before the entire city prepared for the annual rivalry football game by putting red exes through every capital “M” they could reach on public signage.
My cousin’s suggestion stuck with me though. I researched the school, randomly met a Michigan student on vacation, decided it was fate, and made plans to stay with her for a night during my junior year.
The night we pulled into Ann Arbor for the first time, my mom parked on State Street, which teemed with people. The air smelled like coffee, spices, beer, and books, drifting from Amir’s Cafe, Ashley’s Bar, Shaman Drum Bookshop. It was otherworldly—and it was perfect. I felt like I’d stepped into an enchanted side quest where everything could be a clue to help me figure out who I would become.
Could this really be my life one day? Me, set up in the middle of the coffeeshop in an oversized Michigan sweatshirt, backpack stuffed with novels and notebooks, café table lined with pens, pencils and highlighters next to an empty cup and a heavily annotated copy of Giovanni’s Room? Checking my watch to see if it was time to meet my friends at the computer lab in Angell Hall and walk back to our dorms on The Hill? I was dreaming of places I didn’t even know yet.
The next day, I crossed the busy Diag, marveling at how not everyone was white and many of the conversations that buzzed past me weren’t in English. What was this wonderful place and what did I need to do to convince them to let me come?
Six months later, I would stand next to the mailbox at the foot of my parents’ drive, reading my acceptance letter, letting it sink in. I was really going. This beautiful, intellectual, progressive place where I could both disappear and find some completely new version of myself who was passionate about things I hadn’t even heard of yet, was going to be my home.
It’s been 35 years and I can still feel the current of possibility that surged through me that day when I realized I was going to Michigan.
I was in love with the school, the town, and the pure idea of it before I even got there. And I wanted to tell everyone. But with the exception of my family, people thought what I was doing was traitorous, and that’s not hyperbole. Putting the name of your school on your rear windshield was super-cool at the time and a major—to me—rite of passage. I couldn’t wait to slap that Michigan sticker on my hand-me-down Honda, but my older brother convinced my parents it wasn’t safe; I could get my tires slashed, or worse.
Once I finally moved to Ann Arbor and started classes, the only real surprise was that no one there cared that I was from Columbus. It couldn’t have made me love them more. And yet, to this day, Michigan lives rent-free in the heads of thousands of Buckeyes—millions maybe. For some it’s a playful rivalry, but for many it’s much uglier.
I learned that it’s the Spartans that Wolverines take issue with, but even that rivalry didn’t compare with the hatred and vitriol I grew up with.
As fall semester got underway, I tried to find my spot on the giant campus, to make it a little smaller, while also exploring all the possibilities. High school had felt so limiting to me. College was my chance to discover new, amazing things, and maybe become a whole new person.
It started with rush. I thought a sorority was the only way I would find friends on a campus with 50,000 people. I got a big sister and countless invites to social gatherings to help me bond with the group. I ditched my comfy overalls for cute sorority gear, sang their songs, and drank the alcohol that was always present.
One of the first big events of the fall was a dinner cruise on the Detroit River. Think prom on a boat. I got up the nerve to ask this beautiful boy who I’d just met to be my date. He smiled at me like I was someone special and that undid me. I knew I couldn’t let him see me as the introverted, risk-averse, nose-in-a-book girl hiding behind the Greek-lettered façade that I was.
So, I decided I’d do everything I could to hide her, lest she ruin my college social life before it really started.
Don’t worry. This doesn’t turn into a rescued-from-the-river or rushed-to-the-ER story. It was only dramatic in a self-realization sort of way.
On the boat, we found a table with three friends from my pledge class and their dates. All was going well until a platter of grilled octopus appeared between me—a burgeoning vegan with post-traumatic fish-stick disorder—and the beautiful boy. The sorority had gone all out for what was, in 1991, a glamorous menu. I considered myself pretty cultured for a kid from Ohio, but I didn’t know octopus was something people ate.
Everyone else at the table was excited about this delicacy. For me, that plate of crispy tentacles was a gauntlet and I needed to decide—fast—whether to take it up. Because this wasn’t just a pass-the-appetizer kind of situation, it was a performance and everyone was watching. My first big night out with the sorority, and while showing up with the beautiful boy had helped me pass the unspoken is-she-dateable test, I knew the plate of octopus was more than the sum of its greasy parts.
Politely declining wasn’t going to be an option. Do like everyone else, or be the one who doesn’t fit in.
My desire to be cool in front of the beautiful boy and my new sisters rewired my brain right there at that polyester-covered table, so I ate a piece of octopus.
Minutes later the novelty was over and everyone moved on—bread was passed, entrees arrived, and alcohol flowed. It only sunk in after that I’d just done something I one-hundred-percent did not want to do, something that conflicted with my values and actually repulsed me.
It took time, but eventually I left the sisterhood. And then I left animals off my plate. The beautiful boy? He was actually one of the good parts of my time at Michigan, but we were destined to go different directions, so eventually that ended too.
Turns out my big college rebellion wasn’t dying my hair blue. It wasn’t leaving Buckeye Country for That Place Up North. And it wasn’t even joining a sorority and doing things I didn’t want to do because everyone else was doing them.
It was four years of side quests—whether they happened in a creative writing class on the balcony at Dominick’s, in the Bat Cave at The Michigan Daily, or even somewhere on Greek Row. It was everything I did to figure out what I did and didn’t like. Whether they lasted for months or moments, they moved me closer to the person I am still in the process of becoming.
For a while, I thought Michigan really transformed me. And in some ways, it did. But now, with decades of distance and the life I’ve built since, I see it differently. Michigan didn’t change me—it revealed me. What kind of person was I? A curious one. A principled one. Someone who’s comfortable being different and doesn’t need to prove it. Someone who’d rather read the book than go to the party, and knows that’s not a flaw but a foundation.
The sorority and the octopus weren’t about becoming someone new. Neither were my science classes, Jagermeister-filled nights, Grateful Dead concerts, or that time I went up in a 2-seater airplane. They were about pressure-testing who I already was. And each time a side quest led me too far from that center, something drew me back. This instinct to return to myself has guided me ever since. College didn’t just give me the room to test out identities, but also the clarity to return to the one that felt the truest to me.
Here’s the part I don’t want to tell you. After graduation I went back to Columbus—but not because I failed to escape, because I no longer needed to. I did find my place in the world, but turns out it wasn’t a location as much as a mindset, a life I can live on my own terms.
Thirty years later, I’m still in Ohio. I work for myself—an introvert’s dream. I tell stories for a living, and my first book is being published this summer. While I hope this is hardly my ending, I hope my writing professors at Michigan would describe it as surprising but inevitable.
Maybe the truest thing I learned in college was that the act of becoming doesn’t require a big dramatic event. And it isn’t some sweeping, cinematic transformation either. It’s a gradual, sometimes cringey unfolding. For me, it was sneak-watching forbidden soap operas after school, sampling tentacled appetizers, and joining a club designed around things I didn’t like to do. It was also choosing an unlikely school and taking courses because they sounded fun, even though they weren’t tied to a marketable skill. That unfolding gave me space to try things on and see what felt comfortable. Michigan gave me that. It also taught me that home could be wherever I felt most like me—even if that meant coming back to the place I once couldn’t wait to leave, provided there was no octopus involved.
[ appropriate music ]
HOST: Today’s episode was produced by Rob Wallace and myself, narrated by Marie Newman with the sound polished by Michael Henery.
We want to thank Karen Scholl again for sharing her story with us all. Her experience reminds us that there’s much to be said for living your life the way you want to rather than taking the paths others expect of you.
Karen tells us she is still currently enjoying the understated beauty, creativity, and laid-back lifestyle of Central Ohio. If you’d like to find out more about her or her new book, you can find a link to it on our website onceincollege.com.
How far did you go to fit in at college? Did you fit in? Let us know your story. The biggest lessons learned from college don’t always happen in a class or lecture.
Finally, we’d be grateful if could share, subscribe or give us a like. Any of these would really help us keep producing more episodes and would really be appreciated.
Until then, I’m Pete Griffith, back next week with more stories like this, all from a time Once, In College.<
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