2B

Managaing Statement Editor:

Lara Moehlman

Deputy Editors:

Yoshiko Iwai

Brian Kuang 

Photo Editor:

Alexis Rankin

Editor in Chief:

Emma Kinery

Design Staff:

Michelle Phillips

Ava Weiner

Emily Hardie

Erin Tolar

Nicole Doctoroff

Managing Editor:

Rebecca Lerner

Copy Editors:

Elizabeth Dokas 

Taylor Grandinetti

Wednesday, September 27, 2017 // The Statement 

The picture stays in the kid: Plastics

T

he first time I watched “The Graduate,” 
I watched for the romance between the 
freshly graduated Benjamin Braddock 
and the older Mrs. Robinson. The 

second time, I watched for the romance between 
Benjamin and Mrs. Robinson’s daughter, Elaine.

Now, I watch for plastics.
“Plastics.”
It’s one line in the movie, and one played 

for laughs with a brusque and confident, yet 
ultimately not terribly memorable, effect.

But that line, terse and direct, is a perfect 

encapsulation, 
almost 
synecdoche, 
of 
the 

trappings of modern professional aspirations.

Benjamin is at his graduation party, but 

from the guest list, it would hardly seem so. 
Everyone at the party is a friend of his parents 
— they offhandedly toss their congratulations 
to the newly anointed adult in between other 
conversations that hardly concern him.

Mr. McGuire, one of the guests, starts talking 

to Benjamin by the pool. He puts his hand on 
his shoulder and promises the future — business 
success, self-confidence, a house in the suburbs 
with a lawn, a wife and two kids, the whole 
10 yards, because nine yards isn’t quite good 
enough. It rests on one word.

“Plastics.”
Mr. McGuire may have made a savvy market 

prediction — the plastic industry has done quite 
well — but Benjamin would have found his life 
as synthetic as the material itself.

*
I have absolutely no idea what I will be doing 

in one year. For the first time in my entire life, 
the calendar is open. I don’t know where I’ll be, 
what work I’ll be doing, what friends I’ll still be 
in contact with. Will I live at home? Will I be 
self-sufficient? Will I be dead?

The anxiety has set in. I’ve lost the naivety of 

a dreamer. The day-to-day costs required of a 
comfortable life more tactile and consequences 
of failing to find employment are palpable.

My career search starts with wondering 

what I want to do in my life, but that question 
is difficult to answer. Not for lack of hobbies 
or interests, but rather because I don’t know 
whether my work will be capital-I Important 
when I die. I’d love to be a magazine writer, 
but will my writing end up in a landfill? Even 
if it’s read, will it help anyone? How do I live a 

satisfying life if I can never be satisfied?

So there’s that anxiety. There’s also the base 

anxiety of not finding work in the first place. 
Try as I might, following certain writers on 
Twitter is no guarantee of future success.

During my middle school graduation, the 

principal said a significant chunk of our class 
would be working in industries not yet existent. 

The industries are clear now: augmented reality, 
virtual reality and the like. But I lack the skills 
and interest in these lucrative markets. I like to 
write. I like the news. I like art. And jobs that 
reward someone modestly skilled with common 

interests are few and far between.

But even given the opportunity to work 

in such an industry, I’m worried that, come 
my death, I’ll look back on a life that was not 
particularly worthwhile. A life composed of 
small assignments, of one or two viral tweets, of 
a frivolous notion that I might like to enjoy what 
I do for a living. The audacity!

I am plagued by the concerns of a life not yet 

lived. And yet I am troubled by the life that has 
so far passed by — regrets of nights spent inside 
and decisions not made, of sunny days spent in 
the dark and rainy days spent dry.

*
The point of the plastics line is to illustrate 

a gap between baby boomers, disillusioned 
with the future — Benjamin is constantly seen 
underwater — and their parents, many of whom 
labored to achieve a middle-class life. That labor 
included, and still includes, factory jobs, desk 
jobs: working at a company with little personal 
connection, with the ultimate goal of the 
ability to raise children comfortably in a secure 
retirement.

That dream doesn’t seem so appealing to me. 

Once, I thought an interest in law would be 
enough to keep me afloat through a corporate 
law job so I could eventually do less lucrative, 
but more personally fulfilling, legal work. 
Nowadays, the prospect of three years in law 
school, let alone the miserable career that would 
follow, doesn’t seem so appealing.

In a perfect world — or more to the point, in 

a world in which I have a career interest that’s 
fully satisfying and personally rewarding — I 
may not have these concerns. If I were to work 
as a doctor, for instance, each day would be an 
opportunity to save a life or help someone feel 
better. Instead, I feel selfish for pursuing a 
career in media.

Maybe spending nine hours in an office every 

day doing something not that interesting for good 
pay is respectable. But it’s not notable. I feel like 
if I end up in that sort of work, I’ll feel like I’ve 
failed. That I’ve wasted my one shot at life. That 
I’ve given up. But if the alternative is a life that 
is, in the grand scheme of things, only slightly 
more fulfilling and personally intriguing, but 
still ends in the same feelings of regret, then I 
don’t think I’ll feel terribly satisfied either way.

Maybe plastics aren’t so bad.

BY DANIEL HENSEL, DAILY FILM EDITOR

statement

THE MICHIGAN DAILY | SEPTEMBER 27, 2017

ILLUSTRATION BY ERIN TOLAR

