College students are quite possibly the only citizens who have both temporary and permanent addresses at the same time, have to leave the town they live in to vote, and have live-in babysitters to look after them. First there's childhood, then there's college, and then there's adulthood. What could possibly happen within those four years to turn pants-too-short, acne-all-over-their-faces, tripping-over-their-own-feet teenagers into qualified, mature, job-worthy adults?
Four years later, they're about to release me into the real world like letting a rehabilitated animal back into the wild. I still have some acne on my face, which I hope clears up before commencement.
Then I will have a degree in English. I can successfully say that I am now capable of writing a paper. I can not only read, but read faster now. I worried about this a lot when I declared my major as English. What kind of skills can I possibly graduate with that qualify me to hold a position in grown-up society? I can't put in an IV, I can't teach math, I can't design bridges. But hey, I sure can read.
I talked to my professor about this. I really want to go to graduate school for social work, I lamented, but I'm not sure how my English degree will fit in with that. She laughed. She told me that of course an English degree prepares you for social work, because you read about all different sorts of people and relationships and understand peoples' places in the world. Of course I knew she was right. I had just been so busy listening to people telling me that English was a bullshit major and the only job I'd be able to get when I graduate would be in the human resources department of some insurance company that I had started to believe them. I may not know whether to apply heat or ice to a bruise, but I sure do know people.
Now that I've learned to read and write and understand people, I actually need to face them. In 89 days, I will need to survive on my own. I will walk in the ceremony amongst thousands of others in the same position as me. I will pack up my entire life from my fabulous little on-campus apartment and move back into the house I grew up in. I will once again have to survive in close quarters with my parents and siblings. My mother will once again expect me to go to church with the family on Sundays and all holy days of obligation. I will work the same minimum wage job all summer until I can finally get away again in September and join Americorps and move away for the next segment of my life (oh God, please let this be true). And after that, I know nothing.
Nothing at all. For all I know, at this time next year I could be married and pregnant. Or still living in the room I lived in as a child. Or living in Paris as an ex-pat drinking in cafes at ten o'clock in the morning, Hemingway-style.
Will I ever know? At what point in life does one finally say Ah, yes, this is the way my life is going to pan out. Living like this for the rest of my life will make me completely happy. My roommate Stephanie and I were discussing this the other day. We were thinking maybe when we're forty, or fifty, we could be completely happy. Maybe then we could truthfully and assuredly tell ourselves that everything in life was okay and that everything would turn out just splendidly. We would be settled, with none of this transitory in-between business, but firmly settled in our lives. We would be happy where we were. After all, isn't fifty years enough to cement who you are and have everything planned out? In college, this is nowhere near possible. So, we're just going to live our lives patiently awaiting the day (perhaps our fiftieth birthday, or fifty-first at the latest) when we would wake up and think to ourselves, Finally! I am happy right here and plan to be until the day I die. But, I'm sure this will become more clear to me after I switch my tassel from the left to the right and get that $70,000 diploma. Of course.
Have I even done everything I wanted to before I leave this place? After four years of wanting to get out of Storrs, Connecticut (and believe me, I still do), I find myself oddly attached. Do I have enough Husky apparel? Did I rub the mascot Jonathan’s nose enough times to get my good luck? Have I seen the cows? I mean, just the other day I found out where the president’s office is. Can I really leave here and feel fulfilled?
89 more days. My roommates (who are juniors and don't have to worry about being tossed to the wolves come May) like to remind me of it. Last semester we had a countdown on our self-made chalkboard fastened to the wall in our kitchen. Thirteen more weeks of riding the green line bus, twelve more weeks of crossword puzzles in the Daily Campus, eleven more weeks of exams. Until eventually it got down to zero and in the midst of cramming for finals and planning my winter break I realized the semester was over. That meant only fifteen more weeks of classes in the spring and then it would be over.
So this semester, I have prohibited them from making a countdown till the end. They of course got around this by making a countdown till spring, but even that was less intimidating than a countdown till graduation. I am looking forward to the warm weather as well, but not anytime soon. Because warm weather means mud, and mud means walking through it, and walking through mud means walking to the co-op and purchasing my cap and gown, and purchasing my cap and gown means actually, physically, and really graduating from college.
Wasn't I just tripping over my own feet, wearing pants that were too short, and trying to cover up all the acne on my face?
Well said!
ReplyDelete