On the Ivy

This post was originally published May 12; due to issues with Blogger, it was deleted, necessitating its reposting.  There may be slight differences from the original, as the final draft was not saved by Blogger. My apologies.  Without further ado: 

Herself and I were recently reading a column in Salon.  Cary Tennis, a marvelous writer with sage advice, presented a letter from an individual who despaired at not having gone to an Ivy League School.  The individual felt that only Ivy Leaguers are truly happy people, and envied them their interesting jobs, their fabulous friends, their extensive travels, their wit, money, confidence, and their certain je-ne-sais-quoi that he felt could be attributed to their Ivy League educations.  The individual longed to be friends with the Ivy Leaguers, wanted other people to find him intelligent, and feared automatic dismissal when others found out he did not attend an Ivy League school.

Herself was struck quite deeply by the letter, and found Cary's advice to be both sound and poetic.  Although she could not possibly contribute any substance to Cary's response, she nevertheless has asked permission to use the blog to offer herein her own viewpoint on the long-term impact of an Ivy League education.

She writes:

I have an Ivy-League education – both undergraduate and graduate degrees.  I am extremely grateful for the opportunities that have been afforded to me based upon my education.  Nevertheless, in the more than two decades since I received my first diploma in front of an ivy-covered building, one thing has become abundantly clear:  an Ivy-League education is not a panacea for the ordinary ails of the human condition.  

I work hard.  My Beloved works extremely hard.  Some months, we have just scraped by.  Some days, our jobs are satisfying; other times, they fill us with despair, and we lie in bed at night talking wistfully about what we would do if we won the lottery.   We do occasionally travel – but by camper-trailer in the US, not all over the world, and we stay in trailer parks along with all the other RV campers.   Those are some of our happiest times. 

There are days when I am eaten with self-doubt.  Have I made the right choices?  Should I have done things differently?  The “what-ifs” are just as present in my mind as they are in the minds of any other person.  The secret of life is just as much a mystery to me as well. 

I do have fabulous friends.  I have two absolutely marvelous friends who are balm to my soul.  One attended a state school, and the other attended a college whose name I had never heard before we met. Their alma maters are of no import in my relationships with them.  They are intelligent and caring, and they provide more thought-provoking conversation over a quiet lunch than I ever had in the dorms at my ivy-clad institution.  

And my Offspring:  it is assumed by everyone that the Offspring will attend the same college as my Beloved and I did.  “They are legacies, they will be assured admission,” people say.  Not so.  Given the varied academic performances of my Offspring, it is not necessarily likely that any of them will attend any Ivy League school.  That does not matter, I tell them.  I want them to find the college where they can pursue what they love, where they can grow and be happy.  Will they be “average” without the brand-name diploma?   They are tenderhearted, kind, good and wise, even in their youth.  To me, that makes them extraordinary already.  

It is always hard to know how to tell people where I went to college.  Assumptions are made based on the school’s name alone:  I must be wealthy, erudite,  snooty; a privileged member of a secret glowing society.   Reality is, I am boringly, bluntly, clumsily human.  I awkwardly make small talk with the person in front of me in line at the Post Office.  I debate whether to purchase my favorite fruit off-season, even though my mouth waters for it, because  it is so much more expensive.  I understand so little about so many things.  I yearn for more, even as I try to be content with what I have.

I hope that someday, the letter-writer will come to understand that most Ivy League graduates are no different from himself:  we all, as human beings, try, fail, and try again, every day.  The origin of that diploma does not alter the basic human quest for knowledge, for experience, for happiness, and for connection with other people.  I hope he finds the contentment that has eluded him - and I hope he writes again to tell us all so.  That would be a joyful story indeed.