I remember it like it was yesterday. Only a few weeks into my new position as a columnist last year, a beautiful girl named Emily Melson came up to me and thanked me for inspiring her to apply to medical school. While trying desperately to hold back tears (to no avail), she explained how she had given up on even applying to medical school because of the daunting admissions standards. However, she decided that my being chosen as a Chronicle columnist proved that truly anything is possible.
I was flattered. As it happens, unfortunately, she ended up not getting into any of the schools she applied to. In fact, she didn't even come close. Apparently a couple of the schools even reimbursed her application fee out of pity.
For some reason, I felt personally responsible. I couldn't sleep knowing that I had set this young girl up for failure and thus tarnished her dreams. I decided I had no choice but to fix it.
I tracked down young Melson working the graveyard shift at Cook Out. Depressed by her recent rejections, she had traded in her hopes of one day manning the operating room for manning the deep fryer. Seeing her there gave me a pain in my stomach. That pain turned out to be from hunger, and I went ahead and ordered a spicy chicken sandwich.
After I finished eating, I sat down with Emily and told her about the last several years of my life. I took her back to where it all started with my bout with chlamydia. I explained to her about my battles my roommate, Eduardo, and about my date with the stir fry lady from the Marketplace. I recalled my brief employment as a valet at the WaDuke, and my touchdown that was called back because of a holding penalty in the woodwind section. I told her all about my failed attempt to be hired as an intern at the podiatric clinic, and about my experience sharing a room with Dirty Pete during Blue Devil Days. Finally, I relived with her the magic of my record setting performance in the senior citizens' triathlon, as well as growing up with my Uncle Seymour.
I could have kept going, but she stopped me. She was bewildered. How could one person fail at so many facets of life and still find reason to keep going?
It was a fair question, but not one that I had considered before. In fact, when she phrased it that way, I started to get pretty depressed. Just then, I recalled a lesson that my Uncle Seymour once told me he had learned during his time in the Spanish-American War (the fact that my uncle was born in the early '50s never seemed to matter much). The credit belongs to the man in the arena who comes up short again and again, and who knows that there is no effort without error or shortcoming.
Credit for trying but not getting it right? Oh yes, it exists. At school, it's called partial credit, and it is responsible for about 1.3 of my 1.57 GPA.
It seems that an increasingly popular phenomenon nowadays is that of getting smart. People are getting satisfied with doing things "the right way" all the time. This becomes troubling when "the right way" or "the smart thing" means "the traditional way" or "the easy thing." While there is something to be said about playing it by the book every once and a while, complacency can become a habit that makes crack cocaine look like a light hobby rather than a life destroying addiction. What's the solution? Could it be as simple as the occasional indulgence of a new perspective? What about a slight break in routine when nobody's watching? How about a new one-a-day tablet by Pfizer that also cures both high blood pressure and erectile dysfunction? Whatever it may be, I haven't found it. But if there is one thing that can hopefully be taken away from my struggles with Jimmy Schlesinger and Rami Mikati, the enemies of my childhood, it's the value of being able to "stay hungry, stay foolish."
These words apparently did not fall on deaf ears. Emily has since turned in her hairnet and apron, and is back in the classroom. I guess I could've told her that by staying "foolish" I didn't mean majoring in psychology, but one out of two isn't that shabby.
Nick Alexander is a Pratt junior. This is his final column.
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