J.D. SALINGER convinced me to leave school
I’ve been digging a hole for quite a while now.
The figure probably stands at just above seven years. For reference, my twentieth birthday is four months from now. Use your subtraction skills and that brings us back to about thirteen years old: the acne years.
Actually, who am I kidding… I still have acne.
Let’s place it at seventh grade—Middle School (alternatively Junior High School). I had finally outgrown the day-care of lesser grades and found myself stuck in a collective of sexualizing backpacks and bra-straps, surrounded by windowless concrete and cynical teachers.
But seventh grade introduced more than just social classes and self-consciousness. For the first time in my life, I realized there were expectations. Well…I felt the expectations. It probably wasn’t until high school that I could identify them.
An aside: my thoughts on the plight of the middle-class suburban child aren’t unique. I’m not looking for pity or excuses. The restlessness is just too great to ignore, and I need to throw it somewhere.
From my placement into an advanced mathematics class (my first “honors” course) was born a curse—an obsessive desire. Quickly I found myself consumed by an insatiable need to achieve. Ever more. And ever better.
Grades must be high; course load should be superhuman. Even in Middle School I dreamt of greatness, and school could give it to me. My identity was so tied up in academic success, any part of me that didn’t contribute was sacrificed. My curiosity, for example.
It was an addiction. Every year it burrowed deeper. Even if I had caught it surfacing (and more than once I nearly had), I don’t think I would have done anything differently. Because wasn’t this the ideal? Wasn’t I doing everything right? Study—take the classes—ace the tests—join the clubs—get into a good college—live happily. This is what smart people did.
The most frightening part is, no one told me it was expected. No one needed to.
Seven years. I didn’t always ace the tests. I didn’t always have the highest GPA or get into the best universities. But convention said I was succeeding; I had a bright future.
If I ever felt uncertain, left out, unhappy—I would close my eyes and picture this fantasy: my efforts couldn’t go unrewarded. If I missed a friend’s party or a family gathering, if I didn’t have time to finish that great book or spend a weekend downtown, it was okay. Work hard and suffer the late night at your desk, because soon—very soon—you would leave this high schooler’s world behind and receive an invitation to a better life.
Seven years I kept digging, and it wasn’t until autumn of this year that I put the shovel aside to think for a moment.
The euphoria of freshman year had faded. My second fall of college offered all the realities of university life without the freshness of living on my own to distract me. A thought, shadowlike, crept over my mind. I realized I wasn’t happy. Panic set in before I could understand. Depression. My dorm room became a cage—my bed held me down. Ambitions fell away and I couldn’t see any future. Because what could possibly exist beyond college? What else was there to work for?
School and friends dragged me through the weeks. I was sick of myself. What right did I have to feel this way? I was in heaven: how could I hate it?
It quickly overwhelmed me. I had to stop. To think and look for an answer. I skipped classes. Ignored sleep. Spent those hours writing, meditating, or confiding in my close friends. If I hadn’t actively investigated these fears, I might never have healed.
Questions built up inside of me. Some burst through my consciousness like a brilliant discovery, one epiphany leading to the next.
When, exactly, did I decide to attend college? I couldn’t remember at first; no closer at second. Then it struck me—I never did decide. It was never a choice.
Being fiercely independent, this realization sprained my ego. However, it also comforted me: finally I found an explanation why my motivation had so suddenly vanished.
If college had been fated, choiceless, then of course I was unmotivated. I had no reason to be there. There were the assembly line reasons: I wanted to learn, to grow up, to find my passion. Reasons so generic and acceptable, they could be applied to practically any life decision.
But I had no reason to be there. Me, personally. What did I know of life to decide that college was the key to a good one? I had never struggled or questioned my purpose. Eighteen years I spent cushioned by the love of my suburban family. How could I possibly decide that college should be the next step?
By now my naivety must be frustrating you. I claim I lack the wisdom to make a decision as significant as attending college. But haven’t countless others, most of whom have lived a much greater piece of life than I have, graciously shared their wisdom? According to them, a college education is a comprehensive introduction to adult life. It teaches you to think, to socialize and work together. Furthermore, it gives you the specialized skills and knowledge (and that attractive sheet of paper) necessary for a fulfilling career.
I cannot deny the benefits of an undergraduate experience, nor the secure life it promises if one graduates with a reliable diploma. The collective wisdom of those who came before me could fill oceans; my own could hardly top a fish tank. Yet I will not accept this as sole justification.
Wise as they are, their wisdom has limits. Temporal limits, for one. College does not promise the same treasures it once did, and its price is much steeper. It’s not the only path to success—perhaps not even the most reliable anymore.
And even if it were—
If a college degree were a guaranteed shortcut to wealth, status, and easy-living—I would pass. I don’t want a shortcut anymore. In the voice of Aldous Huxley: “I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.”
I need to struggle; otherwise how will I ever decide what I want, what I don’t want? Others have told me ‘this is wise’ and ‘this is right’. Now I want to see the face of wisdom for myself—experience the world first-hand.
Leaving school was the easy part. I remember the moment I resolved to do it. The moon was full and I was lying in bed just finishing a passage from Salinger’s Franny and Zooey. It was Franny’s barrage against the attitudes of academics: no passion, all ego. I remember my heart beating faster as I listened to Franny’s outburst. I felt every word as if I were the one speaking it.
I kicked myself out of bed and paced around the tight dorm room. As if I had just achieved some great victory, my body felt strong. My pores dripped confidence. Sifting through my bookcase, I hungrily snatched my journal from beneath a textbook. Quick, while my thoughts stand clearly in front of me! I have to put it to paper! Heat lifted from the pages as I wrote. Everything I felt—my anger and my convictions—I scribbled in black ink. Finally, my writing hand cooled. I reached a resolution, slipped under my covers, and fell asleep.
Now I’m out here. Trying to live my words. And I wish I still had the confidence of that night.
I’m frightened. Ecstatic and proud, but frightened.
Will I return to school? I don’t know, and I don’t need an answer yet. However, if I were to return, I can swear this—I would be able to point to something and honestly claim, ‘This is why.’
