If you have been reading The Chronicle lately and find yourself wondering how life at Duke became so abominable, so dominated by the "nattering nabobs of negativism," as the adorably corrupt Spiro T. Agnew liked to say, you are not at all alone.
Social pressures to ceaselessly yearn for "effortless perfection" and "effortless cool" need not reduce our zest for life, nor our abilities to pursue the Good, the Beautiful and the True. Everywhere, from neat soap dispensers in the men's restroom to luscious Pauly Dogs, powerful instances of inspiration await discovery. And for those of you who like patterns, there is a common thread running through them all; they would exist even if you didn't.
Dr. Bill McNairy put it well in physics class (I paraphrase): "When you were a freshman you thought that the world revolved around you. Well, it doesn't. You don't matter, but y'all can all contribute." And that is a splendid place to begin, because therein lies the secret to good mental hygiene. You are insignificant: your grades, your weight and your ambition, the lot of it. Someday you will be gone and forgotten, your suffering for perfection of no consequence: Why not enjoy life and appreciate the marvels that surround you?
Consider all of the good things that a Duke student will encounter across the span of a typical day. Suppose she arises near 11 after a blissful nine or so hours of sleep that included her first two classes, and--being hungry--decides to depart and have brunch without waking her dozing lover. On her way out the door she encounters someone from the housekeeping staff, like the cheerful Dan, Wayne or Lela, who are responsible for the spotless perfection of the section of dormitory where I live. After exchanging greetings and a short conversation (she knows better than to be in a rush) she heads out into the warm sunshine and, walking past the beautiful gothic buildings, has brunch at the Great Hall.
Afterwards, she picks up copies of the Herald-Sun and the New York Times, both free, and makes her way toward the bus stop to go to her early afternoon class, taking time to laugh at the cats as they try heroically, albeit unsuccessfully, to catch squirrels on the quad and, somewhat more successfully, engage in the process that leads to more cats.
On the bus she is exhilarated by the way the driver competes with his own speed record between campuses, opening up the throttle all the way whenever possible, and amused by how the vibrations of the quaking bus inspire erections in her male peers. After class, she takes a walk to the Duke gardens, where she watches the ducks at play and the rapturous lovers rollicking in the Asian bamboo, all while strolling alongside a ponderous lake ringed with verdant shrubbery.
Stopping for a snack and a cup of coffee she chats with friends, trading jokes and smiles with the ebullient staff of the Perk before heading downstairs to the computer lab to use AOL Instant Messenger, surreptitiously look at porn beamed in on the high-powered broadband connection, and work on a paper due the following week, later wandering back upstairs into the current periodicals section where she spends several hours reading popular psychology magazines and trying to rouse enough courage to ask the librarian for the specially protected Playboy magazine, locked away in a special room of its own.
And in the early evening when she goes out for a restorative jog in the brisk air of the Duke Forest, she feels grateful that she is not at all like the man who hides near the trail wearing purple spandex biking shorts--lowered, naturally--staring at the joggers as they pass. But, being of modern temperament, she realizes nonetheless the importance of diversity in society, and is equally ready to accept genetic explanations for many varieties of misbehavior and addiction.
These are but a few insular examples of the things and people that make Duke an inimitable institution, bursting as it is with opportunities for bliss and meaningful contributions, Joy consists simply in seeing these possibilities, and in losing sight of oneself.
Matthew Gillum is a Trinity junior. His column appears every third Friday.
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