Spending one’s late teens and early 20s in a community that supports intellectualism, personal growth and the autonomy necessary both to have fun and make mistakes is an effective way of becoming really smart and, if you so choose, getting really drunk.
This is all good, and I don’t know any Whitman students who persistently regret having gone to college. Perhaps this is due to the nature of the average Whitman student: there is little chance that the type of person who would seriously consider attending Whitman would at the same time consider skipping college altogether: but a large element of this positive sentiment comes from a philosophy that places a high degree of value on the individual and his or her development as a “total human being.”
I wonder if the extent to which this philosophy determines one’s experience at Whitman makes us the worst kind of selfish: intensely aware of, and ostensibly even concerned about, the tremendous ills of the world but at the same time spending hours in class every day talking about obscure modern poetry or the igneous rock cycle: or writing this article.
Yes, a degree from Whitman, and the experiences that piece of paper implies, most likely will be helpful in contributing something of great value to the world someday, however subtle its expression; but I also find an extension of this dilemma in spirituality. Amidst this tremendous opportunity for self improvement, do we irretrievably abandon contact with our souls at this auspicious time of emerging consciousness? Would four years in a monastic setting bring us closer to that emerging consciousness? What if this monastic setting was attainable even outside religion at a place like Deep Springs College? If you want to put a new perspective on Whitman, check out Deep Springs. Is this even desirable at our age or are we too naive to handle that sort of exposure?
First, though, I’d like to begin exploring the ways in which Whitman may provide, in its experiential totality, a spiritual experience. I’ll be engaging this topic from a different perspective each week, but I’ll start with the most palatable: partying.
It’s early in the semester and there’s little work to be done (well, still a lot of work, but framed by finals past and finals to come, relative perception reigns). While the acrid taste of procrastination mixed with guilt seems to envelope every sip of Keystone later in the semester, now is a pretty care-free time to have a beer, or a joint, or a line. Or all three, or some method of inebriation as yet unknown to me.
While we’re no Reed College, I get the sense in talking to friends at other schools that Whitman rages pretty hard, as evidenced by the numerous fraternity and off-campus parties that occur regularly, irrespective of the day of the week. When we wake up in the morning, or even before then, upon the celebration of X number of boat races won or the last paper in a pack of King-Size Zig-Zags, we must confront the reality of our existence here. We must ask, who am I, what am I doing here, and why does my head hurt so badly? Though one may respond to these questions in a variety of ways, or not all, the sheer unavoidability of their asking represents a forced reflection on the way in which we live our lives, an atonement of sorts.
Partying has its undeniably positive aspects, the joyous collective pursuit of the Bacchanal among friends being one of them; we need the Hellenistic balance to our lives as committed scholars, such that the atonement is genuine: There has to be some reconciliation of values. For that alone, we would all be remiss in denying the spiritual relevance of four years of college, particularly Whitman College.
As part of this atonement, however, we must weigh the relative values of what we hold in our hands: Is my sensual being shamefully selfish when I choose to hold a 40 over a rosary, and a bong over a Bible? Answers to these and more will follow: just let me finish my beer first.
