W
hen I came back to Ann Arbor after a
spring term spent in lakeside cabins, I
began to feel awkward in normal conver-
sations. Something that had felt regular before now
seemed peculiar to me: that people were always ask-
ing me what I was doing, whether I had a job, whether
I was taking summer classes, what I’m studying and
whatever else. I had had these kinds of conversations
countless times before and never thought anything of
it — it was just normal.
We ask each other these questions for legitimate
reasons: Details like what you’re studying, where you
work and what brings you to this school are impor-
tant and can be revelatory in and of themselves about
certain attributes of a person. We’re at a big school;
there are a lot of people here and as a result there’s a
wide range of possibilities as to what someone could
be doing here.
These conversations about what we’re doing here
at the University of Michigan are inherently career-
oriented because that’s what most of us are here to
do — to build skills that will help us make money in
some way or another. This means our conversations
are really about commodities and what kinds of com-
modities we’ll be offering to the world economy when
all is said and done. Pretty dehumanizing, when you
think of it that way.
On one hand it’s natural: What we spend our time
doing greatly influences what we talk about. But some-
times we lose sight of how to just be with each other,
not talking about school, about jobs, about what seven
different organizations we’re involved in. What may
seem obvious, but didn’t become clear to me until this
summer, is that in these conversations people won’t
tell you what they’re about — their sense of humor,
their temperament, what makes them tick. During the
spring semester I spent in the woods, the conversa-
tions I was having with people did bring these things
out — what I didn’t understand was why.
That spring I was lucky enough to participate in
the New England Literature Program, which brings
40 University undergraduates and 13 instructors to
Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire, to stay in
cabins, hike and live like transcendentalists — kind
of. The program allowed me to make some of the best
friendships of my life, taking courses on literature
from the region and doing lots and lots of writing. Just
53 strangers, six weeks and all that writing done in a
journal that becomes the culmination of your personal
and academic experience, both of which will become
inextricably, inexplicably intertwined. We had no
phones, no computers, no recorded music, no Internet.
The screens weren’t digital, they only framed images
between window panes — tall trees against waves of
the water; when you tapped them only a little dust and
dirt shook into the air.
It takes a certain kind of person to want to do that
kind of thing — a certain kind of student who’s had a
certain kind of experience at the University. Everyone
who went to NELP was looking for something new,
and some were looking to escape, for that’s what NELP
inherently is. The program is heavily influenced by
transcendentalist ideals, partly because of the setting
and partly because we read lots of Emerson and Tho-
reau, who escaped an industrializing Boston when he
wandered into the woods some 200 years ago.
There’s a lot to say about Thoreau: He was a fake;
he was an artist; he was a privileged white dude who
wandered into the woods while slaves and ex-slaves
were trying to gain basic human rights. While all these
perspectives are crucial, I also like to think of Thore-
au as a rebel. He rejected the mechanization of life and
the conventional practices of that region’s Christian-
ity, talking about the glory of God in the trees and the
wind and the water.
A huge part of NELP was being weird, doing some-
thing because you want to, because you believe it’s
what’s right or is somehow justified. We made paint-
ings, sang sentences, wrote poetry, and had class sit-
ting on logs because it was the only thing we could do.
This — the no screens, the no social media, the lack
of a University setting and no oppressive classroom
desk arrangements that alienate us from one anoth-
er — all meant our interactions were stripped down,
devoid of so much superficiality that was so ubiquitous
in my life in Ann Arbor. At NELP, we didn’t talk about
all the clubs we’re in because that wasn’t relevant. We
were all doing the same thing there, which allowed us
to skip the surface and just be human with one other.
We defecated in the woods and next to each other in
stalls; we swam in our underwear and read Frederick
Douglass, thought about who we were together and
carved out parts of our identities.
Back in Ann Arbor after that dream of a
time, I felt uncomfortable in these talks
about what we were all doing here
because those weeks in the woods gave
me the choice to just be. It’s easy to
understand that how we spend our time
influences what conversations we have,
but we need to see past the surface
stuff, not forgetting how to just enjoy
each other’s company. Focus on the
song that’s playing that you like, on the
weird hat that guy across the room is
wearing. Simply being together takes
courage here at this school where
grades are important and everyone has
several online profiles, an image or
agenda that they’re trying to promote.
But now simply being — with myself
and with others — is all I can do any-
more to feel any semblance of being
grounded.
3B
Wednesday, October 26, 2016 / The Statement
The Importance of Being
B Y R E G A N D E T W I L E R , E D I T O R I A L PA G E E D I T O R
COVER DESIGN BY SHANE ACHENBACH
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILIE FARRUGIA