Spring Break is upon us. For some it is a coveted respite from academia, for some it is the beginning of the end. I am of the latter group. Come May, my collegiate experience concludes and in no time the questions hurtled at me from every angle -- What now? Where next? -- will be staring me in the face.
The world is my oyster. I went to Tufts, I can do anything. But I won't do just anything. I am on a track: high school with AP credits, Bachelor's from a good college (at least a Bachelor's), distinguished career, possible retirement in Florida. My degree may be a key to all the world's doors, but if I have been taught anything in my four years, it is that not all doors are worth opening. Our minds have been so perverted by conceptions of success that the road that is supposed to lead us to the most opportunities has caused us to limit ourselves subconsciously.
But the true danger in the formation and following of this path is that the most mainstream route is, in fact, the most subversive. It has been ingrained in us that wealth and the pursuit of property equate happiness. Whether for noble reasons or otherwise, we have essentially been brainwashed.
Too often we strive for something not due to personal motivations, but simply as a thing that is done. I went to college because college comes after high school, not because it was what I wanted. I would not trade my education here for anything, but it shakes me to see myself blindly walking a course set for me by the accepted standards of my time.
And so I have made a promise to myself not to subscribe to the belief that in order for my time here to mean something, in order to be successful, in order to make something of myself, I need to realize some elitist destiny.
Pop quiz. A few months ago a friend of mine got a haircut in New York City's East Village. The woman cutting her hair was a graduate of one of the small liberal arts colleges of the Northeast. She loves living in New York. She loves her job. She is not "using" her degree, but she is happy. Is this woman a failure?
Recently I passed through the living room while the television was on and caught a glimpse of a breathtaking country landscape. Sprawling meadows dotted with trees, a shimmering lake and majestic mountains glowed at me through the screen, and in the middle of it all was the most perfect-of-perfect little country homes. I didn't know why it was on or what it was selling, but I heard myself say aloud how much I wanted to live in a place that beautiful, where I could be greeted every morning by the sights and sounds of America's heartland. But, alas, I thought, it is a life I will never lead, a life I couldn't lead. And then suddenly I realized that the only thing I couldn't do was think of a single reason that I shouldn't live that life. It dawned on me that somehow I had eliminated such a concept because it didn't fit into the prescribed notion of what I am meant to do with my future.
In vying for our prestigious degrees, we have learned the acceptable ways to use the advantages afforded us, and suddenly I envy those who have not had the privilege of being funneled toward achievement. Would I rather be an editor at Time magazine than, say, a ranch hand in Montana? Not necessarily, but I know which one I'm meant to be.
It is not required that an undergraduate have a plan for life-after-college. It is, however, crucial that he take the time to reflect on what he wants to gain from it.
Life is a paradox: it's too short on the one hand, but on the other, it's a life-long ordeal. With respect to the first part of that dichotomy, I defer to Jon Bon Jovi: "It's my life/ It's now or never/ I ain't gonna live forever/ I just want to live while I'm alive." Sure, I'd like to change the world, but I'd also like to snowboard in Colorado, or bum around Europe for a while. The time for that is now, and now goes by as quickly as it arrives. There are so many things to do in this world; I'm not ready to concede to a cubicle and a steady income.
And yet I don't feel the need to rush. A lifetime is a long time. Consider the length of a year, of five years. By the time the average college student reaches 40 he will have lived twice as long -- twice as long -- twice as long -- as he has lived so far. Think of the distance traveled and the feats accomplished since birth. Now multiply it. Now multiply it again.
The caveat is that life leaves a long time for regret. Every missed opportunity holds the potential for years of lamentation. One needn't jump out of an airplane for validation, but the ability to look back and revel in even a single risk taken or diem carpe'd is something for which we should all wholeheartedly strive.
I resent being clandestinely convinced that happiness lies in the capitalist definition of accomplishment. I fear how far I could have traveled before realizing that I've been led by an invisible hand under the illusion that I was doing what I actually wanted to do. Slowly I am shedding the haze that my upbringing has cast about my psyche, and it is now abundantly clear that succeeding in life means much more than being successful.
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