When, for years, your daily life is spent entirely in the world of Stevens, it’s very easy to forget that Stevens isn’t the only world that exists. Everything changed for me when I first moved into Castle Point Hall — my routine, the people I talked to, etc. Because of that, moving to Stevens almost felt like a rebirth. What my life contained and what I could do within it had radically changed quite literally overnight, so why shouldn’t it?
Well, if orientation is birth… does that make graduation death?
From the way I’ve heard some seniors talk about the end of their final year, I would almost think so. I’ve seen friends reluctant to finalize their resumes as if somehow that document was their last will and testament, or speaking about job offers as if they were choosing their final resting place.
I’ve seen recent alumni, walking ghosts, around Hoboken. I’ve heard them speak of the afterlife. Of the place where all the things I do now are not done, and all the people I see now will not be seen, and all the memories I make now will have no import. These ideas seem scary to me, and not only because of the terrifying proposition that I will be completely unprepared for whatever comes after. A far more harrowing prospect is the idea that there is some grander scheme that renders anything that happens here unimportant and fleeting. The idea that, because there is an unavoidable time limit on Stevens-life, eventually Stevens-death will arrive and render null every accomplishment and memory I could possibly achieve here.
This notion will seem very familiar to anyone who has ever so much as looked at a book on philosophy. The question of “We’re all going to die, so why even live?” is probably the most basic and fundamental philosophical question that can be asked. I think what makes Stevens-death an interesting phenomenon, though, is that it happens so quickly — you get four, five, or maybe six years, and then it’s done.
I’m immediately reminded of the film Blade Runner, which I saw for the first time somewhat recently. In the film, human-like robots are forced to confront the idea that they only have four years to live. The film presents a counterargument to the more existentially-terrifying aspects of that concept — to directly quote a line of dialog from the movie, “The light that burns twice as bright burns for half as long.” I instinctively want to agree with that sentiment. I want to believe that the reward for keeping myself far beyond busy for four years of my life is that I’ll leave Stevens with some measure of a positive impact, and carry the memories with me into the next world. But a much larger part of me believes that I only feel that instinctively because it’s the easy answer. It’s the answer that gives me the most reassurance, the one that requires me to think the least and conclude the fastest.
Resisting the urge to console my thoughts, the obvious next step is concluding that the only truly meaningful parts of life at Stevens are the parts that prepare me to leave it. I guess, in a way, the people who do nothing during their undergraduate time here except go to class, eat, study, and leave with a 4.0 are the monks of the Wesley J. Howe Monastery. Perhaps they are the ones most prepared for the next world, most ready to make the transition into ghosthood.
It strikes me as obvious, however, that being a Stevens monk and ultimately preparing for leaving it does mean that you realistically leave nothing behind. Personally, I think that if the most exciting part of Stevens for you is how much you’re going to be able to distance yourself from it, you’ve made a mistake somewhere. That’s quite the paradox, though. I mean, the whole point of college is to be able to get a job to afford college, right?
Maybe I’ll feel differently about this subject when I’m a senior myself, but for now I think I really don’t have an answer as to what the ideal Stevens experience is, or whether I’m having it. All I do know right now is that eventually I’ll be a ghost myself. I hope the after Stevens is as fun as Stevens is.
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