Season of the Plague
Once upon a springtime there came creeping to this small college a kind of epidemic. Everyone knew it was coming, and what it was, and that nothing much could be done about it. Common symptoms: feet refusing to still themselves for studying's sake; hands firmly affixed to Softball gloves, tennis rackets, and lacrosse sticks; eyes shadowed from nights of cramming the most work into the least time at the last minute; serious pondering catapulted into daydream at a second's notice; skins browned from half-clad lounging on sun-drenched lawns. Of course, we might lump these together as a response to warm weather, but that would fail to account for the telltale sign of the syndrome its preponderance among the campus elders. Each of us, safe to say, has somehow felt the bit of "senioritis."
Does this seem like a worn and roundabout way to start spilling on paper thoughts that have been fermenting in this senior's mind during her last terms at the College? Probably. They're venerable thoughts, though, and the profusion of feelings involved makes them tough to articulate directly. Try to bear with me.
Senior Spring. What an ageless and apparently innocuous caption for the climax of this interlude between the comforts of home and the wide, wide world. In fact, it means one more Dartmouth term like the rest, ten weeks that leave us wondering at the flurry with which they pass. But this "fact" ignores essences. By definition, the term takes on a unique significance since we know, in advance, that no more will follow. After a fleeting weekend of fanfare, we're on our own.
Several ironies play into the anticipation of this "commencement." As both source and remedy of seniors' malady, this anticipation swells as the remaining weeks dwindle. We find time for R & R that would usually be shelved instead of the books time for Mayfest block parties, soccer games, talking, talking, talking. Amazed, we meet classmates whom we've never before laid eyes on and, at the same time, reluctantly admit that old friendships will soon have to cope with long separations in time and space. Why not depart with a bang? say even the diligent. Throwing ourselves into "Camp Dartmouth" makes it that much harder to tear away but the catch, naturally, is that we wouldn't prize it so much if this weren't the last go-round. Later, thanks to the rosiness of memory, we'll tend to recollect the highs rather than the lows; now, suddenly Baker's familiar spire renews our appreciation for this collegiate oasis while jarring us with the realization that four years have elapsed since we first heard the carillon.
Too, the fun of our final fling is shadowed by implicit fears, confusion, and regrets. Perfectionist that I am, I'm not convinced we could end anything as consequential as a college career without some sort of regrets, about people not known, courses not taken, things never done. (And certainly I would feel sorrier to graduate without these regrets.) As for the future, who can help fretting over the uncertainty, indecision, all the question marks: law school? med school? no schoolwhen and where? what for and so what' Whether or not we've considered it this way before, we are facing for the first time virtually infinite possibilities. Our paths have always been predetermined to some degree college was the logical sequel to high school until now. With Life in the making, this vastness of opportunity seems worrisome at the same time as it becomes the most valuable legacy the College bequeaths us.
Ultimately, we depart with the confidence that we also take the College with us. Like it or not, we've been made a part of the Dartmouth connection, and it of us. It may come as a shock to think of ourselves as ready to join the alumni ranks, yet the incoming freshman class seems equally distant. We still do share common ground with the youngsters, however, because prior to adapting ourselves to the postgraduate zone we have to survive the final barrage of papers and exams. In capsule, here lies the pith of this spring of our discontent: We receive the "Undergraduate Bulletin" and our first issue of the ALUMNI MAGAZINE in our Hinman boxes on the same afternoon; we don't quite belong here, yet we don't quite belong anywhere else, either.'
As I suspected at the outset, this coumn has evolved into a kind of personal epistle. To explain here what has been bothering me and I know I m not the only one has helped ease the tension somewhat. By the time you read this. will inevitably be a bit outdated. Who knows where I'll be then. But the topic will soon enough become timely again, as juniors begin to sense the impending countdown. Perhaps it will help them to see proof that someone else has through it. I have my doubts.
