My babysitters in elementary school were a series of undergrads from a local university. To five-year-old me, they were ancient. Eighteen, even! Legal adults, so potentially married—or about to be—definitely with a linear life-plan ahead. I mean, they showed up at my house, alone, in a car, with their very own beepers—keep in mind this was 1998. Their independence was terrifyingly thrilling.
Even as a freshman at Duke, I looked up to seniors and thought of them as impossibly wise. They’d not only navigated T-Reqs and West Campus—they’d traveled the world. They seemed to know what they were going to do after graduation. They effortlessly balanced a distraction-filled world that moved too fast and even remembered to pay their cool grownup off-campus utilities bills on time.
At the time of this column’s publication, I am 22.01 years old. Older than my babysitters were. Older than the age I once froze as the symbol of adulthood. Older than the protagonists of most of the books and movies we grew up with. Older, even, than 21, which was the oldest foreseeable age I could mentally project to for the last 21 years. I pay my off-campus utilities bills on time—it feels a lot less cool than I thought it would. I navigated T-Reqs, West Campus and a handful of countries during my time here—an accomplishment that was far from effortless. And at some point I became the Self Assured and Cool Senior I once idolized—I capitalize letters for irony, okay?.
The issue, though, is that I’m at a crossroads with a lot less closure than I thought I’d have. I look back on freshman year and laugh at how naïve I was, when I made my decisions based on FOMO alone. I’m savvier now, more independent. I was dumb back then though, so that’s not saying much.
I know that if four years have molded me to this extent, I must still be incredibly plastic. We all are. We’ve changed so much but we’re still just nuggets.
I still have plenty of mistakes to make—I’m confident I’ll find a billion more ways to screw up. I’m definitely feeling 22, but I was way off about what 22 would feel like—for the record, so was Taylor, since I’m not happy, free, confused and lonely at the same time.
I have a plan, but I also have a habit of changing my mind. I wish someone had told me years ago that at 22 I’d be totally fine with that.
I’m about to graduate and join the real world, Kimmy Schmidt style. I’ll work, get my own place and leave behind an apocalyptic cult—not such a ridiculous comparison considering we routinely chant around sacrificial bonfires after major sporting events. And suddenly, as if I have any credibility answering something so audacious, I’ll routinely get asked the question: “What do you do?”
Answering that question is the part I’m most nervous for.
If you could summarize senior year in a question, it’s Tell Me About Yourself. In the job-seeking process, that question became fun to answer. We’ve spent years—a lifetime, so far—forming the answer to that question. We’ve developed hobbies, honed skills, tried to be well rounded—whatever that means—and worked hard to be interesting. I’ve just gotten good at telling my story.
So why is it that after graduation, “Tell Me About Yourself” becomes “What Do You Do?” In the real world, “What Do You Do” has a concrete answer that comes on a business card. Real adults don’t characterize themselves with stories, they self-identify with a word or two describing their profession. Yet I just spent a good part of this year perfecting my ability to articulate something richer, more permanent and more personally relevant.
I wish someone had told me a few years ago that at 22 I’d somehow know how I want to be but not what I want to be. That I’d not be sure what I want to Do With My Life, but I’d still have a job I’m really excited about. And most importantly, I wish someone would’ve told me that at 22 I’d be okay with all of this.
According to a survey on the Career Center website, over 25 percent of Duke students going into the workforce in 2012 went into finance or consulting. There’s a stigma on this campus for some of these jobs—that people who choose them are buying time or selling their souls or in some way passionless for pursuing them.
I think we’re all still too nugget-y for accusations like that. If you already know how you’re going to Make The World A Better Place, power to you. But if you’re with me, you look ahead and see plenty of time, a profound lack of legitimate skills, lots of learning to do and mistakes to make and a lot of opportunities to develop a story rather than the words on a business card. Suddenly, what we do immediately after graduation matters less than how we choose to live our lives and define ourselves.
I’m ready for the polished self-importance of walking around with business cards. I’m almost ready for a new city, a new playground to explore.
But I want to live in this moment forever—a moment full of possibility, unknowns, self-reflection, existing at the top of our worlds. To hold on to the ability to tell my story for as long as possible and not switch just yet to a card. I’m only 22, after all.
Elissa Levine is a Trinity senior. Her column runs every other Thursday.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.