By the grace and kindness of The Stute’s leadership, I was granted the privilege to write the Senioritis column last summer. For the past two semesters, this tiny soapbox has let me explore, opine, and celebrate the opportunities, hardships, and eccentricities that have revealed themselves to me over the last four years. Finals are complete, term papers are submitted, and all that is left to do is collect my diploma. The end is finally here.
I will admit, however, that endings are not my strong suit. Whether it be concluding an essay or piecing together the final slides of a presentation, the words never come easy. You want those last thoughts — either written or spoken — to have meaning and captivate the audience, and oftentimes I feel as though I come up short in this regard.
Initially, I wanted the final installment of the Senioritis column to be illuminating and inspiring, not only for myself but for my fellow graduating seniors and perhaps the select few that constitute a very small, but dedicated readership. I’d been soul-searching for the past several days, desperately trying to find the perfect memory and learned lesson to provide the scaffold for the grande finale in my Stute column writing career. But as I sat beside the Torch Bearers statue a little over one week before graduation, I realized that no search was necessary.
The Torch Bearers statue was sculpted by Anna Hyatt Huntington and presented to the university in April 1964. It very well might be the most photographed location on campus, but each time I pass it while walking up to the Howe Building or en route to the library during a tour, I am reminded of what it represents. A fallen runner, with all energy reserves gone, painfully passes along a flaming torch to a naked rider atop an imposing horse, a symbol of the arduous process involved in learning and the passing of knowledge. While I always joke that Stevens wasn’t that bad to prospective students, I will admit that my education was an endothermic process, requiring what seemed to be a reservoir of energy.
But now, the knowledge has been passed; my professors have transferred what they know to be right and true with the hope that we will continue to remain engaged, technically-inclined, and responsible members of society. But what is this knowledge, what power does it have?
I found my answer while perusing the archives of the Samuel C. Williams Library — something I recommend all students do at some point. I came across a commencement speech titled “The Point of View” delivered by Walter C. Kerr in 1904 that was distributed to all of the graduating students at the recommendation of then-President Alexander Humphreys. I was moved by Kerr’s words, especially those emphasizing the value of admitting error and frailty of judgment as a strength, not a weakness — I’m sure he’d be pleased to know the Honor System was established just several years later.
The most captivating aspect of Kerr’s address spoke to the concept of knowledge: “all graduates […] are apt to think that the knowledge they have acquired will become the essence of performance. You will soon find that knowledge hasn’t much to do with effectiveness. It is necessary, only as words are essential to the expression of thought. You will find knowledge a good tool, but not the vital force with which you perform. You will fall back upon human effort and action, and find that it is the human-engine and not the knowledge-engine that does the work.”
For the longest time, I believed that knowledge is power. To a degree it is, but it can only take us so far. The burning torch — the knowledge that we strive to obtain — cannot be passed without human will and interaction, which Huntington so beautifully encapsulates in an armor of aluminum. Without drive, passion, and purpose, knowledge is rendered useless.
So my fellow graduates, we will collect the diplomas we deserve, we will say our final farewells, and we will leave this small campus for a greater, more complex world ahead. Some of us will continue to call Hoboken a home, while others will move across the country. Wherever we are and whoever we mature to be, maintain the joie de vivre that is so evident in us Stevens students so that the knowledge we obtain will continue along as it always has.
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