This column was actually authored by Carl.

Whitties seem to be riled up and impassioned about everything. Race. War. Poverty. Injustice. Hypocrisy. Bigotry. Duck rape. If there’s something perceptibly wrong with the world, there’s sure to be a club of activists trying their darndest to fix it. My favorite phenomenon is when the same few people seem to be the ones who are passionate about everything––all at the same time.

This is not to say that I hate passionate people. If I were to psychoanalyze myself I’d probably conclude that I’m jealous of them––”them” being the true zealots, as opposed to the ones who simply jump on the passion bandwagon––and their unshakeable verve.

This is also not to say that I’m not passionate about anything. Because I am––about the old dead guys whose literature I study, about cats, about what I’m going to eat for dinner, about getting the job done the right way, about how I’m going to best avoid living at home after graduation. The list is long, but it has its exceptions.

Take the environment, for example. It’s arguably a Whitman student’s favorite thing to be (un)pretentiously concerned about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, pollution sucks, waste is bad. The world’s resources aren’t going to magically start renewing themselves anytime soon. Global warming is probably happening.

Most days I’m pretty good about tempering my inherent planet-killing ways. But seriously, if I have the sudden urge to eat a banana or a mango or a kiwi, I’m going to eat one, regardless of its “carbon footprint.” And I’m probably going to buy it from Safeway––when it’s out of season.

I’m probably going to use that unnecessary piece of paper towel after I’ve probably wasted water (and soap that probably isn’t environmentally friendly) by washing my hands when they probably aren’t that dirty. I’m going to take that 20-minute shower after I’ve had a rough day (followed by a late night and most likely an early morning in the library).

Sometimes, I’m going to opt to just throw out that scary jar of that mystery condiment that’s been living in the back of my fridge whose lid is crusted shut, rather than plugging my nose, prying it open, facing the horrible mutant within, cleaning it out thoroughly and recycling the appropriate parts.

If it’s raining really hard and I have a nasty cold, I’m going to increase my greenhouse gas emissions and drive to my meeting in Reid rather than slogging through the downpour without a raincoat or umbrella like the average Whittie would. And when I get there, after checking my mail, I’m going to take the elevator up from the basement up to the top floor instead of reenacting my step aerobics class on all those stairs.

In studying all those aforementioned old dead guys and their aforementioned literature I must have learned that man is mortal (or maybe that was “The Princess Bride” . . . I can’t remember . . . ). Either way, humans aren’t flawless. We sometimes fall victim to one of the classic blunders (e.g. : Never get involved in a land war in Asia; never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line; never leave the water running when you’re brushing your teeth; etc.). It’s impossible to be genuinely passionate all the time.

And don’t even get me started on politics or global events . . .