When I received my graduation cap and gown in the mail a few weeks before Thanksgiving break, a few thoughts entered my head. The first question: why did I pay over $100 for a cap and gown I will wear once for pictures?
The second was the irony of the tassel: “2020” in bright and bold gold letters, smiling at me. Of course, I can’t wait to hang this tassel up on my car mirrors and reminisce about all the “good times” we endured in 2020 (is it too early to opt for the 2021 tassel?).
It’s nearly impossible to write a senior column in the shadow of what 2020 has amounted to.
I had this piece drafted once in September, a second time before Thanksgiving and, now finally, a third time.
How do you define your college years in 500 words? How do you define these college years in 500 words?
So instead of taking more time to further deliberate over what my final words should be, I decided to write a piece I’ve never written during my three-plus years at The Scout: a letter to my future self.
This is for Anthony, whether he’s reading this in 2022, 2033 or 2066:
This semester has rocked your world. Every fantasy, expectation or goal you have solidified in your mind about college has been altered. As rude of an awakening as it certainly is, it’s appropriately timed as you are about to set forth from your undergraduate education. It’s purely ironic how in high school, you had a graduation party and invited nearly all of your friends and relatives; for college, you can merely enjoy the presence of others through a screen.
If the past nine months have taught you anything, it’s how to enjoy the company of others. Social media does not serve as a sufficient substitute to quench your thirst to laugh, talk and gossip with others. The digitally printed word lacks everything you’ve ever craved.
What makes your departure from college hard to digest is that you didn’t get that final late-night conversation with friends, reminiscing on everything that has proceeded in those early college years. You never got that opportunity to celebrate an undergraduate career well done walking across that stage. Instead, you’ve spent more time with your computer screen than peers and professors in-person this semester.
One day, I hope you will once again indulge in the art of conversation and digest the value of face-to-face interaction. Until then, it hasn’t been the ideal “university experience.” I’m skeptical if the term is even appropriate for any university to promote as an advantage for coming to school anymore. In a pandemic, the only experience you received was becoming comfortable talking to yourself out loud.
But as you continue through life, I hope you remember that complaining about such a loss of an encore is not worth the rancor. As the sands of time drop through the hourglass of life, there is no use in trying to send one grain of sand back to where it came; it has fallen, and the rest of the sand will fall without interruption.
I acknowledge that college is merely a time and a place. Life’s moments are contextual. You can walk across Bradley’s campus again, but never as a student. You can reenter The Scout’s office, but never again as a student journalist. It’s why the final time means so much. It’s not a forever goodbye to the place, but rather a goodbye to who you are in the moment. It’s one grain of sand falling through the glass.
I hope you can take those words with you as you proceed down wherever life takes you. I hope you have crossed state borders, countries and oceans, and traveled to islands thousands of miles away. I hope you are seeking out adventure as frequently as you can. I–your younger, naive and ambitious self–want to hold you to it.
I know the next few years won’t be ideal: my biggest concern now is how I’ll move out of my parents’ attic. I hope the sky is the limit for you, and don’t let anyone stop you from achieving the life you want to live.
You entered college a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed suburban kid looking to engross his life with broadcasting and indulge in television. Now you leave college, still just as passionate about the media, but with a realization of self-confidence and what you are capable of beyond a career. You can be the best journalist, but you can also be the best relative, lover, leader and friend.
Call up an old college pal to see how they’ve been. Treat yourself by treating others. Be happy and enjoy the company of those you love and make you laugh. I–your younger, sensitive and yearning-to-care self–want to hold you to it.
Right now, I am so concerned about the “unexpected.” Just as President Dwight D. Eisenhower, in his 1961 farewell address, warned the nation of the military-industrial complex, I too will give a warning: I’m concerned about how society will define what “truth” is and the conflict that will stem from such a philosophical train of thought.
We are in an era where facts are becoming more subjective; where what is considered “real” and “evident” and what is considered a “conspiracy” and “baseless” is no different. Once we start to question what the truth is, I think there is no possibility for debate; there is no possibility for a national discourse on any issue. Deception, lies and dishonesty bare root at the tree of misgivings, disagreement and self-destruction.
As you can see, you have that fire under your belly. I’m curious to know how the world will turn out. I’m curious to see if you were right or wrong as a young man who had a fresh look at the world he was about to join.
In summary, through your time these past three and a half years, the greatest attributes you have recognized was hard work and honesty. It has taken me to where I am today and will propel you forward to whoever you want to be.
Here’s to good health,
Anthony, 12/4/2020
