The beauty of nostalgia is also its curse. It is beautiful in that it means one has had experiences one can savor on the stage of memory, over and over again, whenever the desire flares up. But it is cursed in that it means one has grown old enough to live through (quite possibly) the best moments of one's life and is probably now spying the grave.
Barring any grotesque misfortune, I am years yet from the big sleep, but I am also well removed from my youth, that perfect youth that's insulated from moribund thoughts. And as such I have lived at least long enough to enjoy the blessing of occasional stupidity to reminisce about.
A stupidity (called regret) from which I tried to save a freshman cadet.
The Corps of Cadets represents -- on a good day -- 3 percent of Virginia Tech's student population, so who gives a rodent's airborne posterior what becomes of a single cadet? The individual problems afflicting the ocean of students migrating back and forth across the Drillfield are too great with which to try and empathize. Who has the energy to mourn the academic loss of one of the nameless multitude?
No less for myself, if it weren't for the fact that this cadet's problem represented a problem haunting a substantial portion of the undergraduate population. That is, a monumental lack of forethought.
He wanted to leave the Corps. And I could understand: Not everyone is meant for the regimented life. But when I asked him why he wanted to leave, I was frustrated by his non-answer. He couldn't give me any concrete reason. He wanted to change everything about his life without understanding why. Everything that he said he wanted for his professional life suggested -- no, necessitated -- the training and challenge provided for by the Corps of Cadets.
He wanted to study sociology with an emphasis on criminal behavior. He wanted to work for the FBI or CIA or other such security agency. He wanted to make a difference in our collection and interpretation of intelligence with respect to America's enemies.
But in the end, he didn't seem to know how to get there. I told him that a big part of maturation is learning what we aren't meant to do (I stole that from either Saul Bellow or J.K. Rowling or a film I probably shouldn't admit I've seen lest my social stock plummet, nevertheless, it's a good line) and tried to relate it in the context of my besmirched past. Then, as I talked through my argument for staying, I realized that I was actually affirming his decision to leave.
I realized that there was no shame in his decision. He tried it, and it didn't suit him. And that he accepted that fact was commendable.
Then I was struck with the question: Will he have the fortitude of character to leave school altogether?
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