Big Timer. Grown Up Child.

It didn't used to be this hard, living life that is. I would assume that past-Jackson would say, I had the option of being more mindless. Please don't misinterpret my words though, I'm not suggesting that previously I was a pseudo-conscious human being who didn't carry intent and value through most of his actions. I'm saying that I thought I had a lot of responsibility, but really I was an idiot and had no conception of what a lot of responsibility entailed.

The implications of responsibility is what I understand - improperly training my staff on how to correctly navigate a canoe down a rapid could result in endangering the lives of my clients and consequently my life - or failing to know without question or doubt the role, strength and value of each piece in my anchor also endangers my participants lives. I guess I may be mixing "consequences" and "responsibilities". What is happening, I think.. is the meaning of being "responsible" has completely changed now that I'm not guiding, not a counselor, not in school and not living under the roof of someone else. It seemed much simpler when I was directly responsible for the emotional and physical well being of a group of people. Now I have trickier things to worry about.

like..

Time.. and food.

Time management used to mean getting up in time to make coffee, get my kids up, make the breakfast, get them to the things they needed to do in time, already have my stuff together so I can help them with theirs, manage all their needs and wants in perfect harmony with the agenda of the day, address emotional outbreaks in a timely manner and communicate effectively with my partner in order to balance the "responsibilities" and stress of working 24/7 for 16 days in a row.

Now I'm just responsible for myself? What the hell. Why is this shit harder?

Taking the time to do laundry, is literally the greatest feat in my day. I don't do laundry for at least 3 weeks, because I know I can get away with it. Actually, making lunch for future-Jackson, the night before I have to work, so I (present-Jackson) can enjoy food when he gets hungry is the greatest feat of my life - cause you know I ain't making lunch at 5am. I'd rather sleep an extra 30 minutes and be hungry for 3 hours. I have yet to do that, just to let you know.

Yeah. FOOD? Are you flippin joking me, world? No meal plan? No mom or dad offering to make you dinner, no brown bag lunches?? Yeah right. Not no way, not no how. This is insane. I'm either getting take out, buying food at the restaurant upstairs in the hotel and losing money because it's to much money there - or i'm not eating. Because you know why? Because I have to go grocery shopping. Serious? I have to take the time, out of my day off, to feed myself. Woa.

Re-reading that paragraph, I realize my life has been way to privileged and easy, which is odd because my (preferred) line of work/life is so uniquely challenging most adults or humans can't understand how I, or we in the profession, manage to do it. Really I just don't understand how adults do it - "it" being the adult living thing, which I definitely am not doing yet. I guess 'adult' and 'responsible' don't necessarily coincide - that's a future blog post in itself though.

Regardless.

I still am a dude who would prefer to live life out of a backpack, canoe, sea kayak, trusty truck, eat rice and beans 3 times and day, buy bulk rations for 2 weeks instead of freshies every 2 days, poop in a hole, wipe with a rock, never have to re-stock toilet paper, wake up in the middle of no-where with no heat or AC, filter my water by hand from the stream, go to sleep with the setting sun, stir in the night because I rolled off my therma-rest and drink warm beer if it means I get to do it on the side of a cliff overlooking a mountain range..

So I guess that means..
Well I don't really know.
Adapt or die?
Adapt or be inefficient?
Adapt or no more hot baths..
Yeah that's it.
Adapt or no more hot baths.

-Jackson
The child with a whole lot of responsibility.

I want this.

I don't want to talk about how I want to be somewhere else. I want this. I just want to fill up my time with things and be done with it.

This winter, I came back to Philadelphia. The latent steps to my career-ladder were unimportant. The doldrums of the year are the perfect interruption to momentum, and my intent was to rewrite my ambitions. There, the place of my upbringing, served a singular purpose. I came home for a professional intermission, as it were. I didn't want to focus on the next great thing, my resume for a long shot job, or some tirelessly crafted cover letter which would only see one pair of eyes. Life would be so simple. So refreshing. But to my dismay, I am again confined to rock climbing niche I so happily forced upon myself. The collection of relevant jobs in such an unlikely place would have been to any other person, wildly exciting. And I admit, it is cool. Comfortable. But what I came east seeking was not progress, but rather an answer to the questions "what do you want to be when you grow up?" or, "why do you want to be what you want to be when you grow up?"

See, we all dream. There are days when I frantically scribble thoughts down in my notebook on the bedside table at 3 in the morning or squander an hour of precious, precious life studying the crux pitches of the Northwest Face of Half Dome with a jittery anticipation of spring. Everyone has their own, personal Northwest face, of course. I am absolutely happy to continue on living one of many dreams in the outdoors, but a relentless pursuit of these dreams will surely result in the fabulous, roman candle blaze Jack Kerouac so haphazardly described. Maybe self-doubt is as important as self-confidence?

Yesterday I make a collage, and, sure enough, I still don't want to be an artist. But it was worth remembering I don't want to be an artist any more than anyone else wants to be an artist. Art is hard. The same goes for any niche(rut): Make sure it's the right niche(rut).

So make a pit stop somewhere and do something categorically useless. Give your glowing and eager eyes a moment to forget which way is up, or down, or forward. Soon, you'll be somewhere filling the gas tank of your home in the middle of the night with not so much as a molecule of hesitation or confusion, which will feel perfectly reassuring. I want this, I know it.

Riley.

P.S. Merry Christmas, buds! I miss every single one of you.

The New American Road Trip Mixtape: A Book by Brendan Leonard from Brendan Leonard on Vimeo.
This dude preaches, big time. So good.

"Happy Holidays!" A.K.A.

"Happy Holidays!" I said to 4 girls on vacation.

But what I really meant was,

"Go Fuck Yourselves."

Yup. Thats right.

I tried my hand at pedi-cabbing the other night. When I say pedi-cabbing, I mean peddling a giant tricycle around with 1-4 humans sitting in the back of it. We in the biz call this phenomena, "the chariot of destiny". Essentially I was catering to wealthy or drunk individuals - or both - and riding them wherever they pleased. 

"This is a gratuity based service", I would add when asked how much to pay me. 

or..

"However much you would like to pay a guy riding a giant tricycle in the freezing cold for money on his day off from work."

Now, lemme tell you, when you take this job - your signing up to be a servant to the village. You will do anything that needs to be done to get that dollar, within reason of course. So, when 4 teenage girls from mexico want a pedi-cab ride, you best believe I'm giving them the ride of their fricken life. They requested that Aleq (my pedi-cab compadre) and myself race our chariots. To which we said, "racing costs extra." They said yes, yes, yes! So we raced. Talledaga Knights style. After that, they wanted us to ride them around the ice skating rink - so we did. While we were doing that, they wanted me to sing to them - so I serenaded the holy hell outta them, singing Michael Buble n' shit. 

After their ride was done, they started acting real weird, and handed Aleq and I one piece of gum each. 

At the end of their almost 20 minute ride, they handed us... ONE piece of gum.. each. 

Aleq and I glanced at each other, like this was some type of mexican joke, or whatever, and then stared at them. Handed back the gum, and said, "This is not our form of currency."

They again, began acting odd and talking among themselves in spanish.

To make a long ridiculous useless dialogue shorter, they ended up giving us 1 dollar - which they offered to rip in half so we could both have some of it. We handed it back and told them that this is our job, we do this for money, so come back tomorrow or the next day with 10 dollars and we'll give you another ride.

Hours later, I saw 2 of the girls. They walked straight past me, and I said,
"Hey its you! What's up girls!" Very audibly, I might add.

They gave me the cold shoulder! Didn't say a single word! Just kept walking down the street.

So I told them.

"Happy Holidays!"

-Jackson

Happy Holidays y'all,
Sincerely this time though,
With no aggressive undertones.

The Houseless Chronicles, Part 4: A Quenchable Thirst for Freedom

Going to bed doesn't usually feel like the greatest feat of the day - it's often the moment when you can finally indulge in relaxation. However, during "The Houseless Chronicles", at times, bedtime could reveal itself as just the opposite. Whether its playing long games of life size Tetris with the majority of your belongings or not, the adventure to visit Mr. Sandman can actually take days.... It seemed like. I remember a couple of nights being ready to melt into my tiny mattress around 8pm or 10pm - or whatever - and having to search for hours finding a suitable parking spot. You ask yourself; will any security guard want to find me here? Does that spot have too many bright lights around it? Do we have to pay to be here? Where is the free land? Why cant I park here? Are we in America?

Where can I truly be free?

When I set out on this adventure, I had a vague idea about the questions I wanted answers for. I'd been keeping track of them for years and thirsting for their transformation into potential epiphanies.

My family, however, knew precisely what questions needed answering - they were really more like pseudo skeptical inquiries though. Of course it was warranted, they were concerned that the newest college graduate in the family was living out of his truck. They would ask things like, "so where are you going to wash your hands?" or "but where will you go to the bathroom?" I replied, "In the sink or river, and in a hole or a toilet?" Those questions weren't exactly the ones I had in mind... regardless, That's the whole point! Not knowing what will arise - appreciating the value of those simple novel unanswered questions, and discovering a depth to them that was once unimaginable.

You may not have known that you were looking for it, but eventually you find that unadulterated freedom you've been yearning for, wherever it may have been hiding. You know it when you wake during the night to the sound of coyotes, instead of garbage trucks. Or when you turn 360 in the box, open the tailgate and look up to happen upon the sights of an unexpected meteor shower.

How ever long it took to find your spot, to find a place, even though you wasted a hot bath or two, it was all worth it. Because it doesn't matter how homeless you actually think you are, or how much unorganized crap you have on your bed - when the car turns off, and the E-brake is up, your home is where you are.
"This spot looks good."
"Look down there!"
"Oh, that spot looks good too."
-Jackson

The Houseless Chronicles, Part 3: "So do you live here?"

The habitual and forcefully obvious, if we don’t find something in common within the next few seconds this will be awkward – question. “so where are you from?” or “and you live here now?”           

The 4ftx6ft box has become my native lair, a lair for sleeping and occasionally eating upon. By night a dark and mysterious disarray of miscellaneous treasures and tri-cams -- by day, a mattress, costume box, bag of definitely not clean clothes, a backpack stuffed with climbing gear, a guitar, 1 lantern, 5ft x 1½ft  of food and coffee, 5ft x 1½ft  of ropes and tiny treasures, and one gigantic handle of what may or may not be amazing whiskey. It very well could be chamomile tea, but there is for sure only one way to find out. Labels can be deceiving.

            Now that list of belongings is not ordered in any way correlated to how the 4’x6’ box is, lets say, arranged. I have adopted a well practiced form of organization. Its called, “the things I use most are easily accessible, and the things I don’t use as frequently are theoretically impossible to get to.”

Don’t judge. Look we live in a world where I’m not trying to waste time making my shit look good. What ever works and is most efficient… eh? I’m just fighting for that hot bath at the end of each month – that I can afford to take, with all the time I've saved up being more efficient than the rest of the world. I save that time in the hot bath bank, if you were wondering. They have an excellent roll over minute plan  and cancellation policy.

            Its not really a sexy site to see me trying to golden retrieve a needed item from the abyss of my box.  You got to, kind of, vampire your way into the lair. If you can hover, use that to your advantage. Know what I mean? If you can't, then you get your head in the box first, then it is a push up on tail gate/plank/jump motion in the forward direction. However, my big ass gets in the way most of the time, it likes to hit the top of the camper top. It’s kind of hard to explain, so here’s a picture of me trying to clear off my mattress at the end of the day. Also, I'm trying a new "get in the bed" tactic, its working well as you can see. Riley seemed to think it was funny enough to take a picture of. I think that also says something about the time it took me to retrieve – Riley had time to rummage through my crap, find my phone, figure out how to use it, and take a picture.

           

Yeah, I have a living room, and a back porch, and a basement, and a bedroom. It's just like Zoolander though, I might as well be living in a house for ants.

-Jackson

The houseless chronicles, part 2: Fueled by coffee, driven by dreams

The crust of sleep held my eyes in a sleepy-limbo as I crawled from the backseat of my car. We were in Moab and our bellies hurt. Not the hurt you would associate with things like hot sauce or heartbreak or the sudden drop of a roller coaster. It was much more intestinal. Not nausea, not diarrhea, just very-bad-no-good belly ache. The day was Tuesday, or Wednesday, or whatever.

Lately, Jackson and I had been encountering a problem. We had no Internet. Or rather, someone had Internet, but we had to buy coffee in order to use it. I lack the basic confidence it takes to sit down and steal the Internet without buying anything. So, we had only one option: buy coffee. One cup? No problem. Two cups? Well, okay. Today, I will buzz. Three cups? I sip intermittently, waiting for the moment my coffee is tepid enough to abandon.

Jackson and I were in the process of learning a valuable lesson about frugality. Our guts yearned for a simple, inexpensive lifestyle, but our stomachs yearned for a balanced, less acidic diet. One with more food. And in retrospect, one of those desires had much more resolve than the other.

See, Jackson is a good friend. But, a good friend asks hard questions they already know the answer to:

How much is too much coffee?

Riley.

This is what I've been listening to recently in case you're wondering why my ears have been ringing.

https://www.dropbox.com/s/c24zrnwlni9j6b7/December%2011.zip

You work at a gym now.

From: Rock Guide/Camp Counselor

To: Front Desk Attendant at Gym

I don’t know if you know. But you work at a gym now. Yes. The ones that play the hip-hop/dance Pandora radio station.  You will know almost every song and lyric, in the whole Pandora station within 2 weeks of working there. The whole station. Not only will you know them, but in order to get through the day, you will have to learn how to like it. No, you don’t have to like Wrecking Ball or Radioactive but you will end up liking that song where the girl roars.

You’re surprised though. Because you once thought that your major and education would apply to every other job that you would get in the future – but you definitely didn’t know that was the truth. It is though. You’ll find that your rapport building techniques, de-escalation tactics, smile/charm and weird name remembering ability will bring you praise, fortune, and many wives – literally. Many hot middle age wives wearing yoga pants, they will try and get you to come bar tend at their 5 million$ house. Of course you will go, because you like them, and you want to show off your new bow-tie you got in Seattle on your road trip.

In your interview, they will ask you about your ability to handle the rich upper class – oh wait. (Okay, so this gym is in Vail, CO. The epitome of rich ski town get away for most millionaires in Texas and some other states.) So, they will ask you about your ability to handle members of the gym getting extremely frustrated, and in some cases yelling and screaming at you about minuscule insignificant problems. You will reply,

“At my old jobs, I was the senior staff member, or one of two, ultimately responsible for the physical and emotional well-being of a dozen children or college students at one given time, most of which had some type of Learning Disability. I operated in remote locations sometimes days from cell phone reception, and in adverse weather conditions with access to a limited amount of resources. While on these trips, I would regularly get less than 6 hours of sleep a night, and work anywhere from 3 to 18 consecutive days in a row. I’ve had kids have complete mental meltdowns, hurl rocks at me, attempt and sometimes succeed at manipulating the core of my very being, throw punches and in one instance human feces – in every instance I maintained composure, modeled correct behavior and implemented coping mechanisms for the situation.... I think I can handle an angry adult.”

They will ask if you were joking about the feces, just laugh, smile and move forward.
However, after your surprisingly well said response, they will have no further questions. You will be hired.

Members of the Gym will ask you if you have flip-flops for them to wear in the shower. When you apologize for not having them, they say, “Oh, MY, GOD. Are you KIDDING me?!” Before you have a chance to offer a solution, they storm off in rage.

Members will also ask you how to use the machines. You will point at the detailed diagram of an individual using the machine properly. When they still can’t figure it out, you will read the detailed description provided below explaining each step.

Also, some Hotel Guests will come down (they feel entitled to everything) with a beer in hand, headed straight for the treadmill. They proceed to run on the treadmill.. with the beer.

Most everyone will ask you, so where do you live? Where are you from? What did you do before this?  This is a difficult question to answer to people who have had every available luxury known to man at their fingertips for their whole lives. They may not understand Ceremony night or living in a truck (see The Houseless Chronicles).

Just smile and say, Asheville, NC.


Good luck future Jackson,
enjoy the steam shower,
and the citrus smelling cold towels,
and the plethora of yoga pants,

-Past Jackson

Here are some Inspirational Gym Quotes over some pictures:

The Houseless Chronicles, Part 1: Lucy, the Saturn Sedan

It’s a perplexing feeling to wake up knowing at some point you need to army-crawl out of your sleeping bag into the backseat of your car, wrestle your shoes on while your head hits the ceiling, and then open the door to greet both the sunshine of the day AND a family of four walking into Walmart. You smile and squint at them. Maybe you don’t squint, who knows. Either way, they know you’ve just woken up. And they also know, for whatever reason, you were just sleeping in the backseat of your car.

At first, this immediate humiliation every morning is awful. Comb the hair with the fingers, smile really big to wake up the face muscles, push the sleeping bag into trunk, put on the pants. No one will know. I am normal dude, living in normal house without wheels or headlights. This is just car. The sluggish thoughts in my morning brain remind me I chose this life. Be proud. Once, I even crawled all the way to the driver’s seat so I could exit my car looking as if I had just arrived. Don’t laugh, life is complicated.

But soon enough self-consciousness wears off and leaves you with a confidence many would describe as misguided. Or enlightened. Casual smiles are met with smirks or nods. Gasps are met with blank stares. Yes, this is me, spreading peanut butter onto my half-eaten one pound block of cheddar cheese for breakfast. Want to fight? Want to talk about it? What do you mean by "where are your shoes?"

In normal life, you wake up in the same place most days. You go to the same coffee shop and see the same beautiful barista making the same beautiful cappuccino. Uncertainty can still exist, but it must be sought out. Not even running out of gas in North Philly is an adventure when you can just call your friend to come pick you up. And I won’t deny that it’s totally rad. Meeting friends for lunch on a whim is a pastime I cherish more than most things in my new, stationary life. Stability is cool. But there’s nothing like realizing the dream of drinking warm beer on the side of Highway 1 and watching the waves of the Pacific Ocean for the first time. Or backing into parking spaces in hotel parking lots to take a nap. It’s just so easy to find adventure when your whole life revolves around questions like “want to go to the beach?” or “how many hours is it from Joshua Tree to Moab?”

Good to be back.

Riley.

king of the castle king of the castle

Today, I want to be king of the castle. The ruler of all the land, worshiped and praised by all the towns-folk and nearby villagers. I want to be the silver back gorilla, with many wives, that would feed me the ripest of all bananas in the jungle. I don’t want this to just be happening today either, I changed my mind, I want this shit to be true – truer than true – this should be real life - but it only has to be true for a the amount of time you absolutely need, I guess I should clarify. You know why I want this all of a sudden? Well it all came about when my ex-girl, appeared in my home town (where she does not live – and I have not seen her in 6 months or so) at my step-dads reunion band concert. Lemme break it down.

So, my step dads reunion concert was kind of a big deal, so me and me ma went out to the concert. As we be straight chillin at the bar, aside from the main seating area, stage left, or stage right. Which ever one, I spot a familiar striped blue and red t-shirt in the front row. Since I've never seen this shirt anywhere aside from in 2 different states and on anyone aside from one special lady, I decided that it must currently be on top of my Ex. However, why would she be in my home town, at this concert nonetheless. I decide to firmly assert my disbelief and throw this inevitable reality out of my brain.  

You know what they say though, moms will be moms. A while later my ma starts frantically patting my shoulder, like a toddler trying to get your attention. She says in an excited soft loud whisper, the loud whisper that no one is meant to hear, but everyone hears anyways, she’s really good at that one, “Jackson, Jackson, Jackson! Look look look! That’s her right?” I split second glance over at where my mother is pointing and reply certainly, “nope. Definitely not.” She patts more assertively this time, “look yeah it is! It's her!” I look over one more time with undertones of insincere discovery in my voice, “look at that, it is isn't it.” My mom says, “and she’s with her new boyfriend, who lives in Saint Louis.”

I am so flattered at this point. She has decided to show up with her new boyfriend who lives in my hometown to this concert, where my middle school teachers, family friends and relatives are. There was something about this perceived intrusion on my territory, and seemingly my pride or ego or whatever it is when your ex brings their new partner into your life. To be fair, this wasn't just a bump in at the local Shnucks or Piggly Wiggly - although the implications of being the king of the local Pig Wig would be comical. Anyways, I realize the potential for a miracle to take place, and to become the king of this castle. This is when I discover the concept, and with Nick in Italy, of “King of The Castle”.

This is when, the band calls me up to the stage to do a song with them, where I am the lead singer – and my voice is angelic by the way. It would sound like a thousand angels are speaking sweet nothings into your ear, and it would feel like the vibrations of a million kitten purrs, or like kittens kneading dough on you. I would be playing the guitar at the same time, obviously, I might even have a harmonica solo. My teeth would be 10 shades whiter, and my eyes blue-er than ever.  After the song, which would be “cake walk”. The crowd would give me and the band a standing ovation. Mr. John Higgins would get on the mic, and in his deep majestic voice announce to the audience, “Ladies and Gentlemen, that was Jackson! We all know him, I don't even have to say his last name! Lets give him another round of applause. Also, btw, he just got a job working as a NOLS instructor, and is making dreams come true all across the country. He’s doing exceptional, border line immaculate. Lets give him another round because he’s so awesome.”

King of the castle. That’s what I’m talking about. Literally, just the ultimate winner in the room.

Non of that actually happened, but, that's what got me started on the concept, I wanted that to happen so frick'n bad. I wanted to be king of the castle more than anything. ANYTHING! Instead, I just had to be a good son, and hang out with my awesome mom. Which I guess is king enough for me. 

Next time you unexpectedly see an ex, or are being challenged in life in any way at all, try and develop the concept. Just see how far you can be the ruler in the kingdom – even if just for a short while - specifically just for a short while. You can't be ruler forever.
Roll Tide 

-Jackson

PS. Wait.. Maybe you can be ruler the kingdom forever.. is that what Paulo Coelho meant in his book? I think that's more, conquer your own kingdom. I'm talking about the kingdom outside of your control.. For instance, the Piggly Wiggly.

pray for me now in the hour of my death, which i hope is soon. amen.

There are too many of them. Just, too many. Standing there, pretentiously, unmoved by the power of time – they are praised and idolized by so many, especially in this time when their colors are most vibrant. The hugest peacocks I have ever seen. Ruffling their feathers to impress me. ME? WHY ME! They are so monumental, even an archetypical symbol for life and growth, who can compete with that? Who hates the symbol for life? Well. It is the opposite of what you might think, I think. But I do. I only do when one of them says to another, “hey there, you sexy thang.” I only hate them when they start to make love. Sweet, sweet once-a-year love. With a frequency like that, you must only expect this mammoth to mammoth intercourse-fest to be so overbearing that it would be famous across the nation. In fact it is, so famous, that we have named a whole season after its obscene beauty.

Spring.

There are so many of them, and this for me, is overwhelming. Because. I can feel their sex. They are the roommate, on the top bunk, having sex on top of me. They are sexing me in my eyes. Their sex is in my nose. So inconsiderate. Pretentious assholes. Like they can just sex anywhere they want – but the truth is. They can. And they do. And they are.  I have a super power. I have the super power of heightened sense and sensitivity to tiny things like tree sperm.  

I am a sad, sad, little man. 

-Jackson

My ever-evolving senior letter.

Dear Faculty and Staff of Warren Wilson College,

Today was a bad day. It rained. I forgot my raincoat at home. My socks were wet. My best friend’s girlfriend kept flirting with me. I had hat hair. You know, the kind of day that crumbles in your fingers each time you try to grasp its horns. I was sitting there at work, muttering about this and that, when a nice girl sat down next to me. She was a prospective student, visiting from Maine. Her name was Laura, I think. Her hair was short and her voice was sweet. My quiet, cheerless expression must have piqued her interest, because without hesitation, she asked me if I was in the freshman class.

            “Nope. I’m a senior.” I spoke with slow intention.

Out of nowhere, Laura exclaimed, “Did you enjoy your time at Warren Wilson?” I laughed nervously, mostly to buy myself some more time to think of simple, concise words. What was I supposed to say to that? “Yes” isn’t the whole story and “No” just isn’t true. I tried to come up with a story, a plan, or a place that could possibly communicate the intricacies of college. Should I tell her about my life-changing professors? Or maybe about the time I hung my friend’s bikes from a tree by the pedestrian bridge? Perhaps she wants to know how many times I’ve climbed the hickory tree on top of Dogwood since first filing the FAFSA before my freshman year?

With a chuckle under my breath, I told her that was a complicated question. “Wilson is a fun place, you’d like it… I think.”

But she was on to something important: How we convey the complexity of our past reflects not only our basic level of fulfillment, but also our desire to try to take it all back and start again. Depending on whom I’m talking to, I recount my time at Warren Wilson in different contexts. If it is a best friend, I speak of three sections, each corresponding to a connection I made with someone important in my life. If it is an employer, I speak of the time I first learned how to be a leader my sophomore year. But, for the purpose of the growth the college, or the department, or whatever needs to be grown, I speak of two contrasting sections. The first two years of my college career, I was getting the education I was sold as a prospective student. It was fun, but to be honest, it wasn’t mine. Then after two years, I gave myself an ultimatum: Find a way to learn what I want to learn, or move to a place where this is possible. And, as you probably imagined, I figured it out at Warren Wilson.

I had 30 hours of service after my sophomore year because no one was pushing me to find what inspired me to give back. My work crew was irrelevant to any job I would ever have in the future because no one was reinforcing the idea that the work program is the biggest asset to building your resume. The classes I was enrolled in were not enriching because I thought taking classes I enjoyed and taking challenging classes were mutually exclusive. I think a lot of students at Warren Wilson don’t realize the extent of their education’s flexibility. The Triad is only the framework, while it is up to the student to merge the three branches into an education. When I made these connections, I found my energy for growth suddenly renewed. The Triad was no longer a force-fed requirement; it was a resource I could manipulate.

I think the threat of becoming apathetic and uninspired is always present. I felt it two years into my degree. I felt it after every heartbreak I endured during my time here. I felt it even as my professors felt it themselves. Fighting this condition with every ounce of passion is my top priority, as it should be for everyone. One must seek out the new, refreshing parts of one’s life to combat indifference. There is no excuse for not being genuinely excited to get out of bed every single day. I hold this lesson closer than any lesson an over-priced textbook has ever taught me.

Today, while I sat at work wearing soggy shoes, I bit my tongue in the face of this apathy. I stopped being the embodiment of this rainy day. I decided it wasn’t my place to skew what could end up being the most pivotal decision in that wonderful potential student’s life. I truly hope Laura thinks highly enough of any place at all to be able to commit herself to grow there. Surely there are unfavorable things to say about Warren Wilson, but there are unfavorable things to say about any place. There’s no point in being ungrateful for an experience you’ve already had.

The flexibility I had the pleasure of discovering in this school is a quality not found every day. If Laura were to ask me the same question tomorrow about how I enjoyed my four years at Warren Wilson, I wouldn’t chuckle under my breathe and skirt around the question as I did today. I would laugh heartily at the fond memories I have made along the way. I would tell of how I had the ability to mold my education into the curriculum I thought would make me a better person. I would gush about the warming feeling of a Dogwood morning in spring. I would describe the feeling of energy I felt when I realized just how much control I could have.

I have grown so much in the past four years, and for lack of a hand to shake, I express my sincere gratitude to Warren Wilson College for showing me that I direct my own life, for better or for worse.

Warmly,

Riley West

My awesome sister is moving to Paris. She's going to eat baguette and drink tasty, tasty wine. Congratulations, Kira!