I wound carefully through a sea of suits. Like oil beads moving in a glass of water, tired briefcase-laden commuters glided past one another, jockeying for a glimpse of the enormous digital board displaying the locations of departing trains. Over the loudspeaker, information blared in an almost incomprehensible dialect of English. Welcome to Paddington Station, London, England.
Just one of the hundreds waiting on the concourse for the train to mythical "Swansea, Wales," I almost blended in with the markedly European crowd. Clad in slim black pants, black boots, and a monochromatic sweater, until I opened my mouth to speak, there was virtually nothing to set me off as flamingly American ... with one large purple exception.
Few Dartmouth students are complete strangers to the L.L. Bean catalogue, and strapped to my back was what most would recognize as the large, monogrammed backpack, fully laden with everything needed for a weekend survival mission.
Back home, I prided myself on my backpack subtlety -- after all, my past is marred with a number of bookbag fashion faux pas. Harkening back to the neon green Eastpack and the giant yellow plastic monstrosity of elementary school, I've certainly come a long way in book-toting style. But even with the comparatively sedate plum model, I felt the bulging growths on my back crying out to the masses, "Hey, look at me! I'm an American tourist!" Europeans do not wear big backpacks. Awkwardly slinking through the crowd, I was a snail trying to hide from my shell.
I know it sounds horribly adolescent to be so self-conscious -- indeed I AM an American tourist -- but in my mind at that moment, I became the backpack. The two foot horizontal extension from my shoulders took on the identity of Julie Sloane. No matter how stealthily I tried to slink between people, my backpack insisted on playing human "whack-a-mole." My cries of "Excuse me. Pardon me." further exposed my Americanness. In truth, I'm sure the tired commuters took no notice, but to me the bag weighed heavier on my mind than on my shoulders.
Blinded by the now obvious fact that not one of those strangers cared what I was wearing, at the time, I was using my backpack to define myself -- and oddly enough, this wasn't the first time I defined myself by external objects. The Ghost of Fall Terms Past began to peer over my shoulder ....
Scrolling back two years in time, I have vivid memories of sitting on the matted, surprisingly absorbent gray carpet of McLane, piteously wailing to my family on the phone, "I'm never going to get an A! I'm just not that smart!" Never mind the fact that I had received only one lonely grade in my entire two week college career, I began college defining myself by the grades that I got. I desperately needed grade validation. Unless I got A's, I couldn't possibly be a smart, successful person. After all, in high school grades were my ticket to a good college and they were what set me apart.
But I've come to realize that simply isn't so.
At this moment, there are books to read for my FSP, and there is considerable research to be done. And you know what, I'm a little behind. But last weekend I saw pristine Welsh countryside. At an American-themed pub, I was hit on by a Welsh car salesman. I'm writing to you now because even though I need to research the Consumer Revolution, I really enjoy writing. These things are not going to help my GPA, but they make me happy and they are a real part of an education.
It has long worried me is that I know many Dartmouth upperclassmen still singularly absorbed in the pursuit of the golden 4.0. While I sped through the Welsh countryside, a number of my fellow FSP classmates never saw past the spine of a book -- not because they loved the material, but purely in the hunt for the grade. In two years at Dartmouth, I have heard far too often the fretting words "I NEED to study" chanted as almost an obsessive mantra.
There is a real need to study and I would never deny someone the pleasure of learning, but opportunity often knocks in a shape other than a textbook, and certain people I care about seem to miss that. Periodically releasing oneself from the voluntary confinement of studying means giving up a measure of control over grades, but in 5 or 10 years, how much difference will two-tenths less of a GPA make? The more I interview for jobs, the more I realize that a GPA is a blip on a resume. Plenty of people have high GPAs, but with the exception of a few career paths, what sets people apart is experience and personality, few of which can be achieved in the '02 Room. Enjoy learning and by all means, make an effort to do well, but when stress and anxiety loom large, remember that who you are and what you've done is not a number. Don't let grades be your purple backpack.
