When I worked in admissions, I read a lot of application essays. Students grope for topics that they think will stand out, that have gravitas. A popular theme was "how the untimely death of my classmate/cousin/best friend changed my perspective on life." Sadly, you read enough of those and you start to get a little cynical about it. Enough to wonder if there were any teenagers left in the world--the ubiquitousness of the topic made it sound like they were dropping like flies.
But I also had to put that cynicism aside sometimes and recognize that their topic represents more than just a bid for sympathy or an appearance of profundity . The truth is, it can jar the hell out of you when someone you know dies. No matter what your age.
It's happened to me, too--I've found myself trying to find meaning after a friend died after a seizure; an acquaintance had a fatal aneurism; a friend of my parents committed suicide; my housemate's sister was killed by a drunk driver. It makes you think. What are we here for? What would happen if I went like that? What is my legacy? What should it be?
After our friend Stu killed himself, my mom took a hard look at things and decided to retire early. She realized she didn't like her job enough to stick with it, and though it made things a bit less comfortable for her and Dad, it was the right decision. She stuck it out just long enough to get me through college (for which I am profoundly grateful), and then she quit and was a much happier person.
In November, I heard the horrible news that a former professor of mine--a mentor, a friend, dissertation committee member, the man I credit with keeping me sane (well, marginally sane; it's all relative) as I wrapped up the PhD--had died suddenly. Eric was only a few years older than me.
He was gone much too soon, and I think everyone who knew him was convinced the world has been cheated because of what he had left to accomplish. However, in his short life he'd already made quite a mark. His research was important and influential, but to me, it was his teaching and mentoring that really is remarkable. His former students are all over the country, making contributions big and small in our field and in the lives their students. That's one important way Eric will live on.
Sadly, I'd have to put myself in the "small contributions" category. Even before this tragedy I'm been feeling around the edges of this, a little sheepish about the tiny role I play in the larger academic community. My projects are very centered on the question of the moment. I think I could do more. I think I should do more. If I were better following Eric's example, I would be doing more. I've known this for some time but I've not done anything about it.
Those thoughts came to the fore after he died. As I bawled over the news, I thought perhaps this would be the catalyst. Time to think bigger, to invest more of my own time into taking projects to the next level, to do more work with colleagues outside of my office, to re-engage with the scholarly community of IR and Higher Ed. It's worth doing simply because it would help me better realize my professional potential--but it would also better honor Eric's legacy. I feel like I could gain a tiny sliver of sense out of his death if I made it a figurative kick in my pants.
It's been over four months. And while I have THOUGHT a lot about this, I've really not done much. One of the reasons I wanted to put this into an entry is that I don't want these thoughts to go nowhere. So I'm writing this to say that I have not done much - YET. The yet is important.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment