2B
Managaing Statement Editor:
Lara Moehlman
Deputy Editors:
Yoshiko Iwai
Brian Kuang
Photo Editor:
Alexis Rankin
Editor in Chief:
Emma Kinery
Design Staff:
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Ava Weiner
Emily Hardie
Erin Tolar
Nicole Doctoroff
Managing Editor:
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Copy Editors:
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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