Samuel Johnson wrote, "He is no wise man that will quit a certainty for an uncertainty." When I graduate in June and leave Dartmouth to enter the world-at-large, I will be quitting a certainty for an uncertainty. By Johnson's definition, this means that I am no wise man. That comes as no surprise to those of you who have read this column over the past few years. But, as I've come to terms with Dartmouth and found a comfort-level here, my columns have gotten less critical and even farther from the type of wisdom that Johnson alludes to. So, after so humble an introduction, I present you with the following:
I look at the things Dartmouth gets criticized for and I realize there really is a whole hell of a lot wrong with this school. I've seen fraternities literally ruin people's lives. Dartmouth boasts a "work hard, play hard" ethos that leaves us with more of a "culture of pong" than an actual intellectual community. When I first came to Dartmouth, I loved that about the school. I liked that we didn't get too wrapped up in ourselves, that we didn't take ourselves too seriously, that we always kept things in perspective and understood the importance of an outlet for stress. Now, however, I lament that feeling because I'm leaving and I realize that perhaps my hours spent in frat basements prevented me from getting the most out of Dartmouth. I can't be in two places at once, and while I was living the life I've documented and defended in my initial columns for The Dartmouth, there was so much more out there to learn, so many more conversations to have, so many more books to read, lectures to attend, opinions to weigh in on.
But in the end, does it really make any difference? How did it change me as an individual to put down the pong paddle and attempt to transcend the muck of frat basements in favor of the hallowed halls of the intelligentsia? I spend very little time at my house now, and I'm often extremely critical of what goes on there. But does that reflect growth and maturity on my part, or mere arrogance and an overblown sense of self-importance?
To be able to name-drop Lacan and Foucault, to be a 22-year-old capable of deconstructing a world you haven't ever really even lived in yet, what does that mean?
These are stupid human tricks. These are all hollow talents, no less tragic than the ability to boot-and-rally or play seven games of pong without blacking out. None of it really means anything. I could be drinking tea at Rosey's with a professor and talking about the Derridean implications of postmodern culture or I could be playing a game of ship in Chi Gam with my white, suburban, upper middle-class friends while blasting Wu-Tang on the stereo system and trying to identify, to make sense out of a life we'll never know. What makes one any less phony than the other?
It sounds like I'm now bitter and resentful towards everyone, but that's just the way the words are coming out. In fact, it couldn't be farther from the truth. I'm at peace with everyone. I'm not bitter or resentful at anyone, because I'm finally beginning to see that these are all just different ways of coping with the same ineffable crap.
Life isn't something we can ever fully understand, let alone begin to deconstruct. Nobody's take on life has any more inherent value or truth or correctness than anybody else's. I guess my realization of that has evolved slowly over time, in the four years I've been here. There was no blinding bright flash of epiphany (there never is). And maybe that's what makes it so difficult for me to continue writing. There are no bridges left that I can burn; I can't criticize the administration, because it's doing the best it can; I can't criticize all the fountainheads of anti-Greek sentiment, because they're mostly right and I can't criticize the Greek system itself, because, flawed as it is, there isn't a single individual or organization faultless enough to cast any stones.
