Longing For School

Yesterday, August 25, marked thirteen years since the passing of Edward Moore Kennedy, Senator of Massachusetts for forty seven years and brother of President John F. Kennedy, Senator Robert F. Kennedy, and Ambassador Jean Kennedy Smith. He died at the age of seventy seven in 2009. I wanted to pay my respects when he lay in state at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, but at that time I was unable to go. I was in a very dark period of my life. I had just dropped out of school in my early twenties, and I felt completely unmoored. I had always hoped to meet Senator Kennedy. He had witnessed so much history, he had known ten presidents since entering the Senate, and he was the youngest of the siblings of his generation.

Yesterday was also the traditional Move In Day at Harvard University, when incoming first year students arrive on campus in late August. That sight made me sad as well. It reminded me of when I was a young college student full of anticipation. Now I feel like wasted potential. I wish I had their opportunities, their forward momentum. I sometimes fear that my possibilities are behind me, not ahead. Because of this, I decided to write a personal entry to confront something that has haunted me for years.

Several years ago, I left school for a mixture of reasons. I did not have enough money. I was not disciplined enough as a student. And the responsibility was my own. I cannot gloss over my failures. If I had worked harder, I would have finished. Instead I find myself trapped in a situation I do not know how to escape.

When I entered college as a first year student at the age of twenty, I was frightened. I had been bullied in high school and feared it would continue. I was shy and timid. To my surprise, I became well known on campus over the next three years. I developed an interest in politics, and both professors and students encouraged me to pursue that path. I listened to speeches by John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Bill Clinton, memorized their words, studied their techniques, and drew inspiration from their messages. People jokingly called me Mister President. I often shook hands the way a politician does while campaigning. I tried to be friendly to everyone, though not all friendliness was returned. For the first time in my life, I felt valued. At home I was seen as an outcast for wanting deeper conversation and intellectual challenges, but on campus I felt that I belonged and that a future was possible.

I loved school so deeply that I hated returning home for holidays and summer breaks. I felt confined among my small minded relatives. Each return home felt isolating. I longed for campus life. I miss the diversity of thought and the freedom people felt to express themselves. I crave an outlet where I can engage with ideas and learn in a peer centered environment. Sharing ideas with classmates taught me that the world was much larger than my hometown. I dreamed of graduating in 2010, traveling to places like Rome, and even one day meeting President Obama in the Oval Office. Even the difficult days felt meaningful because they were part of a promising path.

The greatest day of my college years was December 2, 2008, when I met Senator John Kerry of Massachusetts. He came to my college for a public discussion on the economy. Before he arrived, I asked my friend Meagan, who had a camera, to take a photo of me with him. Senator Kerry walked in at six thirty to applause. I thought, “It is really him.” After the mayor introduced him, he spoke for about an hour, then took a few questions. He mentioned he had to leave for an event in Charleston. I told myself, “You are not leaving until I get that picture.” When the meeting ended, most of the crowd moved toward the front entrance, leaving space near the doorway. As he stepped out, I called, “Senator.” He looked up. I hurried toward him and said quietly, “I am actually down here.” When I had his attention, I asked if I could have a picture. He said, “Oh sure.” I shook his hand and motioned to Meagan to take the photo. Afterward he said, “Good luck in school.” I replied, “Thank you, Sir,” and we shook hands again.

I was elated for the rest of the year. I had just shaken hands with a man who debated President George W. Bush, sailed with President John F. Kennedy, worked with Senator Ted Kennedy, campaigned with President Bill Clinton, and supported Barack Obama. I watched videos of his speeches the very next day, still amazed. Some people told me this encounter would push me further toward politics, and they may have been right. I was at the height of my happiness. Those were the best years of my twenties.

But the happiness faded. I procrastinated. I focused on courses I enjoyed and ignored those I did not. I spent too much time on my social life because I was filling the emotional void left by unloving relatives. These are not excuses, but they explain my mindset. I was placed on academic probation. With no remaining money for school, I had to withdraw. I was devastated. I felt as if my life had ended. I knew the uphill battle to return to school would feel as impossible as climbing Mount Everest. The pain came from knowing I was capable of more. I had deluded myself into fantasizing about greatness instead of disciplining myself to earn it.

In the years that followed, I attended forums and lectures during days off from my job as a dishwasher. Those opportunities allowed me to meet three governors of my state, two senators, two mayors, two congressional representatives, two ambassadors, a prime minister from another country at Harvard University, four presidential candidates, and even to receive a letter from President Obama in early 2017. These moments brought intellectual stimulation and gave me temporary relief from the reality of being a college dropout. They were small triumphs. But I still felt inadequate compared to my former classmates who had moved forward in life. I felt like a fraud when posting photos on Facebook. People assumed I had a career in politics, when in truth I was struggling in obscurity.

Almost a decade after leaving school, I moved closer to the Boston area because my college friends urged me to start fresh, find better work, and eventually return to school. But even now I am still stuck, without money to continue, and with few prospects. Each day I fear I have no future. I often wonder if my existence still matters. I do not want to live an aimless life working joyless jobs for ungrateful people. More than anything, I want to return to school.

What hurts even more is how I have tortured myself for not finishing my degree. I now live four miles from Harvard University, a place where eight presidents graduated. At first, I visited the campus to find peace, to be surrounded by history and academic energy. But recently it has become a place where I mourn my failures and worry that I am running out of time. It is a place I love and hate at the same moment. It represents everything I desire and everything I feel barred from.

One weekday afternoon, after a job interview near the campus, I walked through Harvard Yard and saw a group of students seated in a circle with a professor leading a discussion. I wanted to sit nearby, take notes, and listen. But I knew I was not a student, and I would not belong there. I later walked through the Harvard Kennedy School and saw students eating together, laughing, sharing camaraderie. I wished I was fifteen years younger and part of their world. I walked away, feeling wounded, and cried alone where no one could see me.

On another night in the spring, unable to sleep, I walked more than four miles from my apartment to Harvard Yard. It was past two in the morning. Students were still out talking near the statue of John Harvard. I sat on the steps of Memorial Church, looking across at Widener Library, thinking about my life. A young couple walked hand in hand up the library steps, laughing and chasing each other. Their joy sharpened my awareness of my own loneliness. I have never married or even had a girlfriend, and I mourn the emotional wounds that make it hard for me to open my heart. After hours of silent tears, I walked back home drained and defeated.

This was a difficult entry to write. I had to confront myself honestly for the first time in a public way. I also feared that future employers might see this and judge me unfit for work in government, education, museums, or universities. But I needed this outlet. Writing helps me steady my emotions and try to heal my mind. Even now I feel I have not fully captured the depth of my sadness. I may return to edit this entry in the future.

Above all, I want to return to school, finish what I began, redeem the time I wasted, and finally graduate. I know there will be challenges. I will be older than most of my classmates, and I will probably feel alone, but I will also be more focused. I hope that when I do return, I will find clarity about what comes next. I want to become a historian like David McCullough, one of my heroes. I dream of writing and publishing at least nine books, and perhaps meeting presidents and world leaders along the way.

I struggled to find a proper conclusion for this entry, so I turned to the words of Senator Edward M. Kennedy, spoken at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard on October 25, 1991. He acknowledged his failures and promised to do better. If he could strive for redemption as he faced tragedy and public scrutiny, perhaps I can strive as well. He understood humiliation, suffering, and being underestimated, even within his own family. His story reminds me that becoming better is always possible.

He said, “Individual faults and frailties are no excuse to give in and no exemption from the common obligation to give of ourselves. I feel a special obligation to those who share my hopes for this state and nation who in the past have given me their help and often their hearts. My views on some issues have made some people angry over the years and I accept that as the price of fighting hard for my beliefs. I am painfully aware that the criticism directed at me in recent months involves more than honest disagreements or the usual objections from the far right. It also includes the disappointment of friends and many others who rely on me to fight the good fight. To them I say that I recognize my shortcomings. I realize that I alone am responsible for them and that I must confront them. Today more than ever before, I believe that each of us must struggle not only to make a better world but to make ourselves better too. And in this life, those endeavors are never finished.”