Today, I returned from work to find that my mother had sent me a care package, including Colleen's signature homemade creme de menthe brownies and cookies, pictures of my high school tennis team and a little league All-Star team (Mom wants me to keep this one because I'm standing next to Edmonton Trappers prospect Brendan Harris), and various writing samples from throughout my education, including, but not limited to:
-a packet of exercises I had done in kindergarten, including the number 3 written over and over and lines drawn to connect capital and lowercase A's, b's, and so on;
-correspondence between my parents and the director of the BOCES Young Scholars program, which I entered and later dropped (more on this later) ;
-my sixth grade English journal, which exposed my hatred for everything from nature walk field trips to the Buffalo Bills to school itself (I hope to regale you with entries from this journal in future blog posts);
-every report I wrote for eighth grade health class with Darryl's dad, all roughly 60-70 words of nonsense stretched out to fill three pages;
-an awful (but funny) poem about OJ Simpson as a Black History Month requirement in 9th grade English that could only have been written by a somewhat sheltered suburbanite;
-a short story I wrote in 10th grade about my tight-shortsed global studies teacher;
-an awful recount of the Bay of Pigs Invasion, subtly trashed in red pen by none other than Jim Coccia (of marklow.blogspot fame);
-a sappy coming-of-age novella I wrote in college;
-a copy of
Piecework, Bentley's literary magazine, which I contributed to and helped edit my senior year;
After spending hours reliving my youth, I came to two startling conclusions:
1)I've never written well.
2)I've wasted almost all my talents.
Throughout the box, I found letters to my parents, standardized test results, and progress reports all indicating the same thing- this is one brainy little bastard.
"Bryan has so mush to offer his classmates"
"Bryan recognizes numbers to 5... and beyond"
"Bryan is meticulous. His focus never leaves the task at hand"
"Bryan uses humor with skill and sophistication"
"Bryan (in 4th grade) tested better than 96% of 8th graders in math"
"Bryan... won a national award from the league for acheiving perfect scores on monthly problem-solving tests"
"Bryan will be wiping his own ass by the end of the semester"
The list goes on. After reading much of my own work throughout my schooling, I can't help but desagree with those who said I could write, but it's tough to argue with such consistent praise. Which brings me to the question...
What the hell happened? I was a smart kid with promise. I could have gone anywhere, done anything. Here's an update for you, teachers- Bryan lives in suburban Boston, where he pretends to be an accountant for a quasi-religious based non-profit doomed for failure by day and obsesses over a hopeless baseball team (or two) by night. What happened to the kid who won national math competitions and wrote short books at age 6?
I blame college.
There it is, folks. State-regulated public school requirements may have stunted my growth slightly. Teachers who were more fit to stitch NASCAR t-shirts than determine my future (I'm talking about you, Kathleen Burton) may not have helped. But the real reason I haven't amounted to anything at age 24 is Bentley College.
Having realized this, I decided to try to assess which aspects of college I regret and which may have carried some value. Don't take this as wisdom from a self-actualized man, but as advice from a 24-year-old who knows he could have done better, and that there's still time. Here goes the old college try:
On school choice:
Perhaps my biggest regret is choosing a school based on whether I could play singles as a freshman and whether I was far enough from my parents without having too long a drive home. If I could do it all again, I would go to a huge school, where I could change my major to something other than accounting, finance, marketing, or management if I needed to, take classes in something other than the above (perhaps a film class; maybe journalism), meet people who wanted more out of education than to know where to buy the cheapest 30-pack, and perhaps most importantly, paint my face and heckle the opposing team at a women's basketball game without being the only one doing so.
On majors:
There are two basic bachelor's degrees one can achieve; a Bachelor of Science and a Bachelor of Arts. One studies things that are known and can be mastered. The other studies disciplines that grow every day. My BS in accountancy taught me (or could have taught me, if I were paying attention) everything there is to know about accounting. I read, accepted what I'd read, closed the book, and barely passed the test. Is there any better way to spend four years of one's life than learning enough about something rigid and defined in order to practice that science for the next forty years? A BS gives a man a fish. A BA teaches a man to fish. If only I had grown up in an economy where a skilled fisherman could get a job...
On drugs and alcohol:
I can't say with a straight face that I wish I had drunk less in college. Drinking is a major part of the experience and I probably became a more likeable person as a result of my excess. Marijuana, on the other hand, is not a pastime. I do not regret having tried it, and I certainly never took it too far, but spending 95% percent of the first three years of my twenties with people who would rather smoke a bowl than read a book couldn't have helped my ascent into adulthood much.
On culture:
Perhaps my biggest regret about Bentley is the nearly ubiquitous belief that there's nothing more to life than playing Beirut, downloading the new DMX single, and learning how to play the stocks well enough to retire early. I learned everything about Eminem and Adam Sandler, when I could have been enjoying Bjork and Christopher Guest at the least, if not learning about Brahms and Fellini.
On hobbies:
Once tennis practice got out (or once class got out after I quit tennis after my sophomore year), I didn't do a damn thing. I might have played a little Super Mario Brothers on my computer. Maybe I watched the Sox game and had a beer (or 17). Most importantly, I didn't read a book for leisure from age 18 to 21. I kid you not. I always fancied myself quite the writer, and I do have impeccable grammar and adequate form and can employ humor well, but I've never written anything decent in my life. Given my education, this is not surprising. No one my age should expect anything they put down on paper to come alive if they haven't read Kerouac. If you don't care enough about fiction to read Vonnegut, why try to join the ranks of fiction writers? By comparing myself to the people around me, many of whom had nothing more in their future than a life of underwriting for Connecticut Insurance by day and shotgunning Pabst by night, I assumed I could write better than anyone else. I couldn't. And I didn't make myself learn.
I don't want to close this rant on a sour note. I don't entirely regret going to Bentley. I made some great friends there, and got a degree that could potentially earn me some money. It landed me in Boston, which is a much better place than I once thought. I also realize that there's hope for me yet. I'm 24, not 94. I don't necessarily think I need to go to grad school to learn more and become the person I want to be, as long as I find the right hobbies and surround myself with the right people. I've had a life of good opportunity and good fortune, and have many great years ahead of me. Let's just hope I don't spent them in some dank dorm room playing bongoes to Pink Floyd while the fourth bowl gets passed around.
Next time, I'll make it Wilco.
