fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium . . .
About a week ago I dreamed I was back at the College. I don’t remember what happened, exactly, just that I felt detached, aloof, like an anonymous ghost casually dropping by its old haunts, then drifting on its aimless way.
I heard about the professors yesterday—and my ghostly detachment is real enough that I didn’t feel it until this afternoon. Whereupon I came home, drank tea, and watched "Joan of Arcadia"--all of which helped me de-stress. And now I'm listening to Over the Rhine and writing, because that helps me make sense of the world, or at least make sense of how I feel. ("This is not the first time something ends in just tears.")
A college, particularly a small one, is made of people; and when the people have changed, is it in any important way, the same college? It’s like the metaphysical ship problem: you have a wooden ship (let’s cal her the Pegasus). Over time, some of her planks wear out, start getting leaky, or warp, or whatever ship-boards do, so you replace them. Eventually, if she’s a lucky ship and doesn’t sink, the entire ship will be replaced.
Is it the same ship? At what point did it change?
When I was a freshman, the College had maybe 12 full time faculty members. A year after graduation, all but four have left or are leaving. That’s 2/3 of the faculty gone, in 5 years. Is it the same college?
It’s a question we all answer differently, I think; and that’s not a bad thing. For me, though, all the professors who influenced the way I think, the way I write—the ones who changed my noetic structure, or taught me fun words like “epiphenomenalism,” or had me over for supper—they’re all gone.
And apparently the way they think about the world, the way I think about the world—the way of approaching life, and art, and philosophy, that I thought was the foundation for the College’s existence—isn’t, or wasn’t, or won’t be anymore. So for me, this feels like goodbye—like a confirmation that last spring meant what I thought it did:
My college, the one I loved (and occasionally hated); the one where I suffered, and struggled, and stayed up all night writing papers; the one where I ran around the lake in the rain, and argued over books in the dining hall; the one where I found out who I am, and who I’m not, and had friends and professors who changed me, mostly for good—that college is gone.
And if I ever do make it back, I’ll be a ghost.
(. . . fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium et ingens
gloria Teucrorum . . .)
I heard about the professors yesterday—and my ghostly detachment is real enough that I didn’t feel it until this afternoon. Whereupon I came home, drank tea, and watched "Joan of Arcadia"--all of which helped me de-stress. And now I'm listening to Over the Rhine and writing, because that helps me make sense of the world, or at least make sense of how I feel. ("This is not the first time something ends in just tears.")
A college, particularly a small one, is made of people; and when the people have changed, is it in any important way, the same college? It’s like the metaphysical ship problem: you have a wooden ship (let’s cal her the Pegasus). Over time, some of her planks wear out, start getting leaky, or warp, or whatever ship-boards do, so you replace them. Eventually, if she’s a lucky ship and doesn’t sink, the entire ship will be replaced.
Is it the same ship? At what point did it change?
When I was a freshman, the College had maybe 12 full time faculty members. A year after graduation, all but four have left or are leaving. That’s 2/3 of the faculty gone, in 5 years. Is it the same college?
It’s a question we all answer differently, I think; and that’s not a bad thing. For me, though, all the professors who influenced the way I think, the way I write—the ones who changed my noetic structure, or taught me fun words like “epiphenomenalism,” or had me over for supper—they’re all gone.
And apparently the way they think about the world, the way I think about the world—the way of approaching life, and art, and philosophy, that I thought was the foundation for the College’s existence—isn’t, or wasn’t, or won’t be anymore. So for me, this feels like goodbye—like a confirmation that last spring meant what I thought it did:
My college, the one I loved (and occasionally hated); the one where I suffered, and struggled, and stayed up all night writing papers; the one where I ran around the lake in the rain, and argued over books in the dining hall; the one where I found out who I am, and who I’m not, and had friends and professors who changed me, mostly for good—that college is gone.
And if I ever do make it back, I’ll be a ghost.
(. . . fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium et ingens
gloria Teucrorum . . .)
posted by erendis nasard at 8:00 PM
3 comments
