After graduation next month, plenty of seniors will be heading off to medical school and law school. Some will have lower-level jobs and internships, in hopes of rising up in the world over time. Then you'll have two other fairly large groups of graduates: the cats and the squirrels.
I'll give you a moment to let that sink in.
There's no denying it. This school has a strangely large number of squirrels and cats roaming about its grounds. And allowing my mind to wander as I fail miserably at completing the problem set I have to turn in tomorrow (side note: if you're going to be a math major, make sure you absolutely love it first. If not, stay away. Stay far, far away), I've realized that these squirrels and cats create an interesting metaphor for what most of our seniors will be when they graduate next month.
First, there are the cats. And these cats are, quite frankly, creepy. I rarely see them during the day. When they do emerge, they are quiet and reserved, in an "I-know-something-you-don't-know" sort of way. They lurk within the shadows. They have little concern for social interaction.
Some of them seem to have given up all interest in personal care. Take, for example, the gray cat always loitering around the food dish outside the Physics building. Tufts of fur cling to his side, and-even for a cat-he generally looks rather disheveled.
These, my friends, are your academics.
Not that I'm making a broad, mostly unfounded stereotype or anything, but let's be honest: some of the hardcore academics are truly, shall we say, unique.
They lie hidden in their labs for hours on end, often emerging only for food (though hopefully not the kind served in a dish outside the Physics building). Having an active social life hardly tops their list of priorities. And if it does, that probably just means it plays into their research in some way. Their eyes are bloodshot and their hair unkempt from hours of poring over scholarly journal articles.
They seem a far cry from the squirrels of the world.
The Duke squirrels (note the critical modifier: these are not ordinary squirrels), as you know, are a ruthless bunch. They don't flee when you approach them, but rather, they inch their way forward as if to say, "Bring it." Well-fed from who knows what scraps people drop on their way across the quad, they are not lacking in abundance. They stroll confidently along the sidewalks of campus, almost too proud to muddy their paws on the lawn. This is their turf.
These are your investment banker, your business executives, your graduates who enter their field near the top, having successfully completed their studies at a highly ranked university.
They do not have to beg for food, but they are offered it in plenty. They seem to own the ground upon which they strut. Terribly successful and laden with money, they always look well put together and on top of the world. These squirrels do not cower when met with a problem, but they attack it, head on.
Undoubtedly, the cats face many of their own problems, which they address outside the witness of others. This is not to say that the squirrels are better than the cats in any way. These breeds simply approach life very differently. Priorities and lifestyles vary.
Come May and the real world, I wish all the best to the squirrels and cats of the University, as well as all the other less distinctive creatures. Pre-meds do not require an animal analogy-they are a unique breed unto themselves.
Allie Vergotz is a Trinity sophomore. This is her final column.
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