Did I Need College? An Exploratory Recap & Reflection

I’ll start by saying that this is a question that has hounded me not recently, but over the greater part of my college “career.” And the very nature of the question is preemptive. After all, I haven’t finished yet, and often clarity comes in hindsight. Yet my desperation for an answer does not undermine the original question.

There’s more than one way to “answer” this question. I’ve often begun by criticizing what I see as a myth about college. I think a lot of young high school kids can’t wait for college. And rightly so: they hear of its tantalizing freedoms and excess, which they then compare with their stifling environments of home and high-school. Their teachers and guidance counselors drill into their brains for four years that college is the necessary gateway to a bigger, better, higher-salaried life, and that without it, good lord kid, you’re screwed. (Despite the fact that the college degree seems to be in a rather perilous bubble-situation, in that its cost is rising while its value stagnates or decreases.) And finally there’s the pop-culture mythology and romanticizing of  college; again, with the excess, liberation, indulgence, and self-expression. So already kids have an expectation of the college life. I knew many kids in my high school that knew from the get-go which college was their dream school. Often, one of their siblings attended such that college. This wasn’t my situation. My older brother never really went off to college, and throughout high school, I never fell in love with any school. So choosing a destination kind of felt like throwing darts in the dark. I sure hoped that whatever I landed with would be good!

This aimlessness became manifest from my very first semester, which I spent attending a community college. The academic culture I come from doesn’t hold community college in very high esteem, I would argue. There was always an unsaid stigma attached to it. Community college was for the underachieving kids; the druggies; the working-class basket cases; the ones who weren’t cut out for a “real” four-year university. The stupid kids. So while all my friends were off engorging themselves on the fresh, new experiences of “real college,” I was, say, taking a freshmen writing class with kids that groaned at even painfully short paper assignments. Perhaps I had brought some of that pretentiousness with me. I’ll admit that I was judgmental of many of my apathetic and corner-cutting peers. But I met inspiring individuals, too. A woman in my ancient philosophy class that was going back to school, and wanted to eventually go to Nazareth College for music therapy. She played piano and was raising a son. An older man in my government night-class who was a retired volunteer fire-fighter. He said that every fall he would pick a class to attend. Learning was an unending activity for him. I don’t mean to give community college a bad rap. In fact, some of the most engaging personal stories come from those that walk its campuses. Persons who are returning to school after bouncing around in the wilderness of “real life” for a while; others who know that their time in community college is the first of many stepping stones to achieving a future dream, or in rectifying a life gone wayward. For some, its their first taste of the classroom; for others, they are returning after decades away from it.

At any rate, I felt like I was tripping when coming out of the starting gate. I decided I wanted to shake up my surroundings -and so with it, my life. I applied to Boston University for the spring semester, and lo and behold, I was accepted. Suburban kid in the big city. I don’t have many journal entries from that semester, so I have to rely on the uncertainties of my memory. But I don’t recall it being all that happy. In short, it was not the jolt I had hoped it would be. But it was not the school, it was me. I never felt integrated into the social circle that, by circumstance, I was placed into. (By that, I mean that I became friends with my roommates’ circle of friends.) I spent a great deal of time during that semester walking the campus and city alone. I would stroll through the Back Bay Fens park. (Seeing the ducks would always remind me of home.) Or I would trek through the blocks of residential brownstones and eventually reach the heart of the downtown. There I would be sure to cut through the Boston Common before exploring any one of the city’s gems: Quincy Market, Chinatown, Faneuil Hall, Newbury Street, Beacon Hill. On two occasions I made the long walk across the Charles River into Cambridge, where I traversed through the well-worn neighborhoods en route to Harvard. The urge to flee from my surroundings and peers around campus was not the primary motive for these walks. I simply wanted to see the city that was then my home. But I did them alone, nonetheless.

In fact, I think I did a lot of things alone that semester. I remember going to the study area on the top floor of our dorm every evening after dinner to do homework. It was like clockwork- I would routinely devote so much of my time each day to working and studying, perhaps because I knew not what else to do with my day. On the weekends I would walk around the corner to the BU Barnes & Noble, grab a book about philosophy or religion or liberal politics, and find a comfortable chair on the second floor, overlooking the busy street below. Boston was also where I learned to eat alone. Actually, that’s not quite true. When I was at OCC, there would be days in which I had long gaps of time between classes, and instead of making the inconvenient and lengthy commute home, I would simply go to the parking lot and eat my lunch in my car. That, I believe, was one of the most pathetic things I ever remember doing. Oh my, yes, this sandwich tastes so much better when you add a dose of solitude and a side bag of sadness! Anyway, this carried over to Boston. I simply accepted eating alone. It actually wasn’t that bad. To be honest, I kind of enjoyed it. I would read and do crossword puzzles, and I began to relish the time by myself. I guess I was beginning to turn over to the other side of loneliness, which is solitude. Solitude necessarily implies, I believe, a feeling of contentedness with your one-ness.

I know this all sounds like the biggest invitation to a pity-party. It wasn’t all that bad, I assure you. I did have friends, and, dare I say, I might have even had really good friends if I had been there longer than one measly semester. And don’t get hung up on all this talk of loneliness; I honestly felt like I learned how to be more independent after Boston. I also gained an appreciation for city life that I had not previously had. But I still left. I was so certain of my impending sadness that I couldn’t bear the idea of another three years there. And in my most tragic move, I receded into comfort: I decided I would go to SUNY Geneseo, which is where I nearly went to instead of BU in the first place. Well, that didn’t happen either. At some point in that whole messy process, I found out that Syracuse University was still accepting applications on a rolling basis. Welp, it beats farmland out in Geneseo, I thought. So I applied, was accepted, and once again found myself in transition. Not that I told any of my friends at BU about this. I gave every indication that I was staying. I lied and lied and lied. I lied about my housing lottery number, telling them that I was going to stay in the room I had. In fact, it was all a lie: every day, giving my peers the impression that I was happy and content with my new school, and that I would be remaining there…it was all false. I only revealed my decision to my friends through Facebook, after the semester was over. To this day I am embarrassed about what I did.

(A brief note: I’m aware that this entry is becoming a kind of “recap” of my college life so far. I’m sure I’ll get to the more reflective aspect of it closer to the end.)

The shame was also, I think, because I had failed, in that I failed to persevere. Transferring to Boston U. was a large leap I made in my life, and I didn’t stick the landing as I had expected. Quite simply, I gave up. I had dreams of strolling through the city with my friends; of starting a band and gigging throughout the city; of writing and reading poetry in some nook of a cozy street-side cafe; of truly owning the city around me, of owning my college experience. In the end, the reality was something far more diluted. Not that the dream wholly died. I can’t wait to get myself back to Boston. I willingly kicked myself out of that city, but next time I go, it’s gonna have to kick me out if I’m going to leave. These days, I can empathize with my fellow students that make the conscious decision to leave Syracuse and transfer. I know that urge to leave a place behind to start anew elsewhere. But give your college a fighting chance, people! Don’t bail after one semester; don’t run away just because it lands the first punch. Give it a year, at least.

Ok, so. At this point, I’m back in Syracuse. So in some ways I’ve come full circle (except without the feeling of resolution). I’m not sure how much I feel the need to detail my sophomore year. It was an intensely personal year, in that it was an emotionally trying gauntlet of months. Curiously enough, it was not the usual hurdles of transferring that proved most challenging; I made friends and adopted well enough to the academic rigor (or lack of it?) at Syracuse. As juvenile as it seems, my sophomore year was defined by the fallout from a breakup. Again, the details are not significant. I didn’t handle it well. And by “not handle well,” I mean that I was a depressive zombie for what seems like a vast majority of the year. I obsessed over the idea of death, and toyed with the prospect of suicide. I’m not sure how close I ever came. Nonetheless, the desire was salient enough; even I was surprised at how much I consideration I gave it. I stopped attending all my extracurricular activities; I went home nearly every weekend; I was, once again, preparing to give up on yet another new school. So sophomore remains a blur that I’d prefer to forget. (Albeit a blur punctuated with small blips of happy memories. There were good times, no doubt.) In our lowest moments, we learn what coping methods are truly effective, and which ones are not. We learn what branches may catch us on our way down.

So true to form, I made plans to study abroad for the entirety of my junior year. I was going to leave behind all the pain that I associated with Syracuse and its campus. First I thought I would split the year between China and Germany. Or China and London. Or London and Germany. Finally I settled on the latter. London and Berlin would be my new homes. It would be, like Boston, yet another prospect at cultivating the Self; abandon all familiar comforts, and in doing so, bring the very substance of my Self to the fore. To put it plainly, I wanted to give myself to the greater world, exposed and vulnerable, so that I would be ripe for change. I wanted to be cradled in foreign culture, rejuvenated in all its revelations. If I could feel secure about myself after the trials of travel, then surely I could steel myself from any pain that Syracuse might have in store for me upon my return. That was the hope, at least. So London was precarious in its offer: my first few months abroad would either make or break me.

Good news people, I did not break! In fact, I flourished! But really, my time in the greatest city on Earth was more than simply super-duper fun. It was the best four months of my life, and remains so.

I could go on about that semi-cliche statement about how I learned more when traveling abroad than I ever did back in Syracuse. (Beware, cliches are often grounded in some parcel of truth.) It’s not that I did more learning in those four months; I did more living. We learn so that we may live more fully. Every day held such potential, such promise! You know, there’s a lot to learn simply in doing your own grocery shopping for the first time. You suddenly have to take a stand for your preferences. You’re faced with a daunting number of choices, and under the constraints of a budget, you ask yourself, “Ok, so what would I buy?” No, not what your mom would pick up for you, but what adult-you would actually like to cook up for dinner.

Ok, I want to stop and reflect a bit, because at this point, this is getting too long to read. I’ll try to do a follow up post later, covering the latter portion of my college days. Ever since my sophomore year, I’ve tried to gauge my attitude toward college by the measurement of happiness. I would, quite literally, map out a line graph in my journal, trying to quantify my relative happiness over each semester. Lots of sharp dives and gradual recoveries. A regular skirmish of disaster and optimism. I’m not sure if this is the smartest way of judging my time here. The point of college -we are told- is to prepare you with the skills enough to make you an attractive candidate for a job upon graduation. In this assessment, I have probably failed. I’ve dabbled in internships, held jobs, and written a great many papers…but I do not feel more…attractive now that the process draws near a close. Perhaps this is because I never truly wanted a regular job after graduation. There are kids here who spend four years in our business school being pruned and primped before shipping off to the realm of corporate profits, and there are others who occupy the depths of our lab rooms and libraries so that they may continue on to spend even more years in the sheltered halls of academia. Kudos to them, if that’s their aim. In every instance upon meeting someone, two inevitable questions -hand in hand- are asked: “Oh, what do you study?” and “So what do you want to do?”

Here’s what I say when I lie:

“Oh, well, I dunno, maybe work on a campaign, or for a non-profit. Not really sure yet!” *nervous laugh*

Here’s what I’m telling myself on the inside:

“BITCH I WANNA PLAY IN A FUCKING ROCK BAND. I WANNA WRITE SONGS. HERE’S AN APPLICATION FOR OUR GROUPIE POSITION YOU CAN FILL OUT.” 

This does not mean that I should have forgone college after high school and dived straight into this. For one, as a young kid in a quaint little suburban town, I did not have the resources, support system, or connections to start a band with any chance of success. And more importantly, I was not mature enough. Both in my own personality, and in the maturity of the musical style that I was cultivating. Simply put, I was not nearly as refined in my style or skill (which I continue to work on, of course!) those years back. And I was a relatively aimless and unsure young adult. I’m not implying that I’m in prime position these days either, of course. For one reason or another (sometimes my own failings of initiative, included), I don’t have much experience playing in bands in college. I’m always working on it, though. But the technicalities aren’t really the point. The point is that I think I needed college to actually figure out just who I am. That’s very vague and cliche in its own right, but there’s truth to it. And isn’t that what everybody should be doing, especially in college- figuring out just what exactly it means to be…you? I think a surprising amount of our personalities remain hidden to us, and trying to dig that out is like trying to hit a moving target. But is that not exciting? I mean, don’t we do, say, and think things that surprise even ourselves? Lord knows I have.

Ok, well, I’m sure I’ll round out more thoughts later when I come back to this topic. More to come, people!

Personal Archeology

I was thinking of how to craft a first line. I reached over grab my mug of tea on the bedside table when I find a hairpin next to my clock radio. It must have been under clock radio, exposed after I moved it a little.

I thought I had removed all these old artifacts.

It’s not exactly the topic I was aiming for. In fact, finding this hairpin jolts me a bit, welling up familiar inklings of discomfort. Throws the light on certain corridors of my memory. Certain triggers provoke memories that I’d rather suppress for a while. During the course of our time she had haphazardly left these little mementos behind on the bedside table. Tiny, bronze-colored hairpins, or a hairband, perhaps. Small trinkets from times spent together. As materials they are of no value. But we all should know by now that the ‘world of things’ is imbued with meaning. To bitterly chuck this little hairpin into the trash -which I will do- before giving it its due would be another lazy act of denial and avoidance. Denying the potency of this small thing, and avoiding the reflection that necessitates within.

Fortunately or not, I haven’t had to do much of this lately. For what seems like the past three weeks, all the efforts and occupations of my mind have been spent writing a senior thesis in political science. I recently purchased a used bike, and with the convenience of transport it privileges me, I’ve made my home at a small, independent coffee shop down the road from the charming, yet stifling confines of my student housing. A refreshing breath of air it certainly was to remove myself from the zoo of student life on campus. The coffee shop was frequented by a more pleasing clientele. Typically an older crowd, perhaps professors, graduate students, or simply “locals,” whatever demographics that may include. More bookish, and conversational. Gentle, restrained. What warmth this cafe already possesses, they add to it. Campus is an ant colony of frenzied young people scrambling about, trying to keep their heads above water as they have overbooked their schedules and, quite plainly, overcommitted their lives. Here, the coffee shop invites a relief from that, saying, come in, stay a while. Several days a week I would ride to the cafe and order the same item: whatever brewed-coffee-of-the-day it happened to be. I would slowly sip that for hours, until, after cranking out paragraph after long paragraph, I would be left with a near-empty cup of cold coffee. Yumma.

And so this was my daily existence for a span of several weeks. I have some reprieve from that at the moment. While I eagerly anticipate the day in which I can return to the cafe and sit in my favorite corner with only a book of poems, I have been making an effort to actually spend more time on campus. Yes, it seems strange given what I wrote several sentences ago. Perhaps it is because this is my last semester, or maybe because I enjoy the delights of unexpectedly running into friends and acquaintances, but I thought it a shame if I should graduate and leave this campus without leaving my foot well tread along its sidewalks and through its hallways and vast corridors. After all, there will come a time not long from now in which I will feel myself becoming ever more stranger to these presently familiar places. There will come a time when, should I desire to read the morning paper in the journalism building’s cafe, I will invite the air of foreignness from the students. I will suddenly be out of place in a place I lived nearly three years. A campus that was “mine.”

I’m getting ahead of myself. Where was I? Oh yes, hairpins.

I shouldn’t give the impression that I actually throw out everything from past relationships. I will throw out the hairpins because, well, they are worthless, they hold no significance for me, and let’s face it, it’d be a little weird for a guy to hold onto old hairpins. Tucked away under my bed back at my (non-college) home are all the old letters I received from one, and I wouldn’t dare throw those away. And why should I? I find it puzzling that I would be so eager to erase parts of my past. Parts that were deeply significant to me. Some of those letters recall the best days of my life. I am not so bitter that I would seek some despair-driven rampage to devalue my past relationships. Though perhaps in my own circumstances I am fortunate to have endured long enough to resist the urge to pour over those letters one last time before casting them into a fireplace. I try not to propagate such cliches. When the day comes that I do venture to unseal those envelopes once again, I hope they serve to remind me of the good days they in truth were. I can only hope they have not spoiled in time and become relics of poignancy, replacing what was once fond recollection with wretched aftertastes. But I have not reopened them yet.

Not to imply this all dwells in the realm of the physical. We carry things with us, even if they are not mere “things.” One imparted a deep love of poetry in me. Another made me want to learn how to dance (and still do!). At times I’ll enthusiastically describe a meal or snack as “yumma!”-yet another quirk of hers now ingrained into my vocabulary. If you start to notice your habits, you may discover minor habits and eccentricities that were not yours to begin with, but rubbed off on you from another. It’s a kind of personal archeology- being honest and assessing who you are, and acknowledging that we are not islands unto ourselves. To use the phrase again, people rub off on us. We become attracted to the peculiar mannerisms and personal traits of others, and perhaps through the forces of flattery and attraction, we adopt them for ourselves. We take them and reconfigure them into our own image, within the contextual boundaries of our own personalities, retooling them for our own use. I see nothing wrong with this. In fact, I see them as gifts from others. Enduring reminders of others’ influence that make their occupancy in the most consequential and expressive places: ourselves.