Something wild and precious
What would you enjoy doing?” I stare blankly at the question posted on our school website. It’s two months before I start my MBA in that dreamy land of Boston, with its walking parks and nostalgic brick buildings. I’m supposed to fill out a Career Assessment form — various professions are listed on the page and we’re asked to rate each one based on how interesting we find it. The form instructs us not to consider “Whether you have the right training; whether you would be good at the work; how much money you would make.”
Are you kidding? Those are all I’ve been taught to consider in looking for a job! I practically based my life decisions on those questions, and now you’re telling me to ignore them? For the first time in my life, someone was asking me what I would enjoy doing, without regard to money, ability or background. I found it surprisingly hard to do. It strikes me that I could no longer detach my actual interests from practical concerns. Somewhere between my fingers clicking those buttons, there was still the $$$ sign lighting up in my head. I was still thinking of those big, glaring words: the future.
How much would you enjoy… becoming a novelist? Oh, yes. Running for office? Maybe someday. Starting your own business? No doubt my next step. Designing a keyboard? Uh, definitely not (proceeding to cross out anything that has to do with computers). Traveling to semi-dangerous places for international negotiation? My lifelong aspiration, which has ironically been preempted by fear of having my life cut short — but if opportunity strikes, I wouldn’t think twice.
The last time I was asked these questions, I was 17, about to make a career-shaping decision on which university course to apply for. I was supposed to know what I wanted to become, a few days after extensively deliberating my prom dress. I remember how I kept going back to the college admissions office, changing my course with a liquid eraser. For years I had wanted to be a lawyer, but I was discouraged by the legal system in the country. I wanted to take public health and become a barrio doctor, but my tidiness skills required of a future doctor were in question. I wanted to be a journalist — three days after I filled out my application, a political reporter was assassinated in public. So much for that. Everyone was taking up business, management or a combination of both. I could do a little math, so I found myself doing exactly that, along with half of my graduating high school class.
I do not regret my course, especially not my school. It’s the kind of degree that will open doors for you. I’ve chosen a very enviable path, and it’s been rewarding in every way promised. Still, I look at my batchmates who have gone down the same road, and I do not share their satisfaction. Many of them already feel a sense of belonging, even though they’re still quite lost. They haven’t found the job they want in the place they want, but at least they’re in the vicinity of where they think they should be. It’s just a matter of working environment, career growth or employee benefits.
On the other hand want an entire paradigm shift. That path may be perfect for 90 percent of the people I grew up with, but that doesn’t mean it’s perfect for me — even if it turns out I have the ability to do it too. What is it that Kate Winslet’s character says in the film version of Revolutionary Road (based on a novel by Richard Yates): “I saw a whole other future. I can’t stop seeing it.” That other future, stuck in some unknown parallel universe, is precisely what makes this one so unbearable.
On two months, I’m finally going to the school that for many years was just a ridiculously ambitious dream — and it feels like I’ve been given a second shot. In the movie Kate’s character convinces her husband (Leo Di Caprio) that they should move to Paris, “You’ll be able to do what you should’ve been allowed to do years ago. For the first time in your life, you’ll have the time to find out what it is you actually want to do. And when you figure it out, you’ll have the freedom to start doing it.” That is exactly what I’m grateful for right now.
After a few years of working, my goals are finally starting to take shape; I actually have an idea of what I want to do. I’ve short-listed the jobs I want, the kind I’ll jump out of bed in the morning for. Everything comes with a price: financial success, personal fulfillment, the luxury of having your own time. At least now I know what price I’m willing to pay, and what I’m no longer willing to sacrifice. Those are things I couldn’t possibly have known at 17, and I’m grateful for the next two years of school when I get to narrow my list even further.
As children, we were taught that we each have talents to contribute to the world. Why then, does it feel like an indulgence to find out what they’re good for? Why does it feel foolish to drop what we are doing simply because we know it’s not what we are meant to do. It’s not practical or sensible, and we’re acting like spoiled brats. Yes, well, maybe I want to be a brat. Maybe that’s why I’ve decided not to have my own family right now, because I can’t be responsible for other human beings just yet. Don’t tell us we’re living in a dream world, that what we want doesn’t exist. It does, we’ve seen it happen everywhere, even in the lives of people we know personally. It’s within our grasp. The world has changed, and we too are different.
Oh, I know people’s comments when I tell them I want to do something else. “So what do you want to do, what’s better than this?” “The world has bigger problems, so suck it up.” “There’s a global economic crisis, just be thankful you have a job.” I know. I get it. The world is suffering from war, poverty and violence. But that’s exactly my point. What if those are the issues I want to do something about, that I want to participate in? Of course hunger and sickness are world crises that need to be prioritized — many are struggling to survive, but is it really better to be stuck in a life you don’t want to live?
I admit I’m not entirely sure of anything just yet; show me a 23-year-old who is. I want to believe that’s okay for now. Isn’t that how we find our answers, by asking questions? The other day, it took me half an hour to cross the street. I realized I’ve never been more afraid to die. What can I say I’ve done in the past few years? Nothing, really. I haven’t done what I’m supposed to do. And now there’s so much to look forward to, a chance to finally stand still and take a step in the right direction. No, maybe not the right direction, I’m tired of that word — but the road I want. I will not settle anymore.
Many of these are just wild dreams. I wish I could be a professional athlete, but I didn’t focus on tennis enough to become a real pro. Still, there were glimpses of hope, things I could still become. “University professor”? Perhaps if I become good enough at something to teach it. “Newspaper columnist”? At least I’ve started doing that (although not often enough, as my editor will no doubt agree). “Building a non-profit organization”? I can’t think of anything I want to do more.
I have an aching suspicion that this conflict will never go away. I will always feel selfish for wanting to pick the less-expected road. Is it really too much to ask for a compromise, finding what you love to do without being irresponsible? I know I have obligations, but do I have to be unhappy while paying my dues? There is freedom in commitment, as long as it’s the commitment I can live with every single day for the next 50 years.
Along Harvard’s corridors, portraits of graduates hang on the wall. Beneath every picture, the graduate answers a question from Mary Oliver’s poem “Summer Day”: “Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do, with your one wild and precious life?” Yes, I have only one — may it be as wild and precious as I imagine it will be.
* * *
E-mail me at drum.please@gmail.com.
