All the Right Friends in All the Right Places

In elementary school, everyday after lunch was Silent Reading Time. Each classroom was endowed with an extensive collection of genres from science fiction to mystery to fantasy. When it came to books, we had the world at our fingertips and complete freedom to explore. Books were a big part of my life back then (reading them, mostly, though watching the Wishbone rendition on PBS counts too).

The best part of Silent Reading Time was that there was no pressure of teachers keeping tabs on my progress, no stress over an upcoming reading quiz, and nobody telling me what to read. Reading was truly fun. Those were the years I stumbled upon some of my all-time favorites including The Phantom Tollbooth, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe.

I was in the fifth grade when I first discovered the power of written word over human emotion. When writing moved me for the first time. That was the year I read Where the Red Fern Grows. I cried at least four times over the course of the novel.

My emotional attachment to books deteriorated after middle school, when I adopted a more stoic approach. It was starting then that my reading experiences became burdened with banal assignments: searching for themes on which to write an essay; focusing on insignificant plot details for an expected pop quiz; memorizing quotes for that Quote ID section on a midterm; reading the first and last lines of every paragraph and skimming the rest because that's how to read in college. I could list these types of exercises forever.

Last weekend, maybe for the first time since Mrs. Congdon’s fifth grade class, I was reminded just how moving writing can be for its readers. I was at Penn and reunited with a good friend. He initiated our first topic of conversation: the string of my most recent blog entries. Your representation of the real world is so depressing! Every time I read your blog I want to cry. I almost stopped reading your most recent post halfway through because it was such a downer.

As is to be expected from someone with my background, I first tried to attribute his reaction to a psychological phenomenon. The Barnum effect suggests that we interpret general statements in the specific context of our own lives. My friend’s foray into the post-college world will also include the move to a different country. It’s not my writing. You’re probably just nervous about the upcoming changes in your life, I offered.

Unyielding, he began to rattle off one "depressing" post after another. I realized this was a battle I simply could not win (and if you know me, you know how much I like to win).

I also realized something else: Until this point, I have refused to openly admit the merits of the real world. On some level, I feared it would signal that I was beyond college. That I was “over it.” But you know what? Though I miss the college days, the fact of the matter is that yes, I have graduated. I am beyond it. And there is so much about the “real world” that I wholly appreciate.

For one thing, I can read for fun again. My bedtime reading no longer consists of lecture notes to cram for the next day’s exam. I also feel healthier – I am not constantly stressed about classes and grades. I sleep. I go to the gym regularly. And for now at least, weekends are literally weekends. Mine to enjoy however I please.

Above all, my network of friends spans a geographic distance larger than ever before, meaning that I can now visit people, not just places. Visit people in Boston, Philadelphia, and if I leave Debbie Downer behind, London. Visit people in Lost Angeles, New York, and several cities in between. This certainly wasn't true for me a couple years ago. Of course the world is not your college bubble, but it is still small, cozy, and comfortable when it comes to the people you know.

In The Phantom Tollbooth, protagonist Milo leaves the confines of his mundane life to enter a fantasy land. He travels the road to Expectations but never reaches. He learns that the Kingdom of Wisdom cannot thrive without its two princesses Rhyme and Reason. It is this fantasy land that introduces Milo to intellectual stimulation and the world's beauty. That transforms him from a Milo who just "has plenty of time" to one "who now knows the way."

Though I finished reading the book fourteen years ago, it is more relevant now than ever. The fantasy land is a metaphor for the new life which I have been so reluctant to praise until this point. As is discovered by Milo, it takes an open mind and time spent exploring this place before you can know the way. And as long as you keep thinking and laughing, you simply can never get lost.