Life in pen.
Basically from middle school and on I remember our supply sheets always asking for pens and pencils. Fully stocked, we’d all go to class on our first, dressed in our best and ready to start yet another year of school. We used pencils for math and pens for basically any other non-mathematics based subjects (read English, Social Studies, etc).
Eighth grade came. Teachers claimed they throw away our papers if there wasn’t a name on it. It was a bluff for most while some actually stood by their statement, regardless, most students were given a shot to fix their mistake of the missing name before the all mighty zero hit the grade books.
High school started. We had lockers, people were kissing and holding hands in the halls, and football players basically ran the school, at least at my school always. I always knew I was a smart and fairly athletic kid. I wanted people to know me and I wanted them to hear what I had to say. So I became a football player.
In high school teachers were less “lax” than previous years, but that really meant they either gave you more wiggle room if they liked your or less if you annoyed them. I stayed on their good side.
In college they told us to look good, impress the teacher, be tentative and introduce yourself to each professor. I believed that up until I saw a line that went from the stage of a 400 seat lecture hall to the doors in the back. Teachers didn’t really care if they knew you. They could judge, understand and evaluate you based on your work. I had one instructor, Professor Batchelor, who taught Mass Comm & Society. It was an intro course for mass communications majors and, again, filled with 400 or more students. He was more lax than anyone I’ve met. He gave us our assignments, he gave us options and that was that. Our final two assignment had to be no less than 3 pages each. I wrote on eighties pop-culture and on MTV. Seven pages and 12 pages respectively.
About two years later I had him again. On the first day of class he was telling us how “you should be the smartest person in the room,” as well as tremendous writing skills and other things. He pointed at me and said, “Patrick, you were in my Mass Comm & Society class. You wrote really good papers.” While I knew who he was I didn’t think he knew who I was, let alone my name, especially from two years prior, but apparently my worked proved my value. I spoke, he listened.
I should be the smartest person in the room. During my first semester of my junior year, right when I got into the PR program, I realized the only way I could secure my future – the way I wanted – was to do stuff my peers didn’t. I read industry stuff, tech articles, PR case studies, the list goes on. I did what I had to do to be the smartest person in the room, and I quickly became that person. At the end of that semester Batchelor and another professor said Mark Clennon and I may be two of the brightest students they’ve seen. I can’t quite remember who and how it was said exactly but you get the gist. We basically called ourselves the dream team. WE were the smartest in the room.
Throughout school I’ve been told how to prepare and how to meet the requirements and bars set for me. This is how you get an ‘A,’ here is what you do to get stronger, here is how you get smarter. But now, no one is paid to hold our hand. Instead, we are paid to produce. Everything leading up to tomorrow, graduation (unless you are reading today, Thursday May 5, 2011 or another date after) was preparation. Working toward the “heavenly” goal of getting a job after graduation. No one tells you that you’ll be kicked out of the nest, literally, and start paying bills, loans, figuring out health, dental and vision insurance, 401k, how to divvy up 2-5 weeks of paid vacation, let alone how to find a job.
Basically everything up until now has been in sections. We go to school, in sections, with small bumps in our timelines, then move onto another section. What happens when you’re in the “final” section with only bumps to look forward to? I’m lucky enough to leave college with a job starting roughly two weeks after, thanks to my friends and, I’d argue, hard work. But I’d say the transition is harder than anything else. I’m not one of those lucky kids who’s parents still pay for their shit. I’m on my own, 30k+ in loans and regular bills like everyone else, and I still have to find a place to live in NYC which is outside of what I consider normal means. Where is the pencil for that?
It’ll be good though. The problem with pencils is the lack of blemishes. See, with pens if you screw up you have to scribble it out. People see where you made a mistake and then what happened after that. Think of it like messing up and then fixing your mistake. Pens stain clothes, they can poke through your pants and into your legs if you sit down wrong, pens can explode. If you are dumb enough you might even get bad tasting ink your mouth. Pens are the bumps. The first ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, the failing grade on a test, the basketball roster you didn’t make. I like reading papers in pen. You can see the pressure someone wrote with, their feelings, you can see where the messed up. You can see a person.
Here goes life…starting in pen.
