Plastics

My favorite scene from Mike Nichols' landmark 1967 film "The Graduate" involves Benjamin Braddock, played with a sweet naivet?(c) by Dustin Hoffman, being grilled by the guests at his college graduation party as to what he is planning to do with his life.

"Plastics," suggests his neighbor, absolutely sure he has offered Benjamin the most valuable piece of advice he is going to hear. A life of formal education is now over, as he boldly steps into the world of ultimate freedom uncertainty. It's daunting to him to have everything in his immediate reach, not to mention Mrs. Robinson, his future girlfriend's mother, in one of the most famous scenes in all of American filmdom.

Well, my life isn't a movie, at least not yet, and I have yet to be advised to go into plastics. But there's very little difference between that Benjamin and this Benjamin.

When I was a young child, not yet old enough to read or write, I would gallop around my house with a rather false authority telling everyone what I wanted to be when I grew up.

"I want to be a 'make'," I would announce, unaware that I had not only improperly used the language I had yet to master, but had in fact invented a profession.

"I want to make movies. I want to make songs. I want to make cookies." I couldn't narrow it down; I wanted to make it all from the comfort of my sandbox and bathtub. I was three.

Seventeen years later, at the ripe age of 20, I have found that my previous aspirations of being a "make" were in fact not so premature. I didn't know then the roadblocks I would face later in adolescence and young adulthood.

A handful of resignations and a few dropped classes later, I see now that there is no certainty in the "plan" I was at some point expected to follow. It became clear my map had to be redrawn, and so I went back to the drawing table.

I recognize the best thing to do for my future is to be happy now, in the moment, void of any lingering expectations or suggestions offered to me by those who don't really know me or my strengths. Nurturing my artistic abilities into worthwhile pastimes is something I have always done. I acted on stage at age seven, I played piano at age nine, and I began reporting for a newspaper at age 19. The path I was on took years to pave and would take the wisdom that comes with older age to know how to travel it.

I was raised by two parents who always encouraged me to not only do whatever I wanted to do, but learn all that I could; they implored me to be wise in my planning so I didn't lose track of my real passions. Had Benjamin Braddock listened to THAT advice, it might have given him a little more confidence against Mr. "Plastics," but I digress.

After the tumultuous death sentence of social torture known as middle school, I entered high school with the newfound hunger for the possibilities that surrounded me. I joined drama club, became active in the music department and even entered a few writing competitions. (I won one of them, a proud day for me and my ego). It didn't matter that, at first, I was more shy than a clam and knew very few people who expressed any interest in the talent I insisted on having. I grew out of that. I had a mission, a mission to "make."

Fast-forward to senior year, home of the dreadful college applications. I knew I wanted to be surrounded by smart people (for reasons of self-esteem), I knew I wanted to expand my ongoing studies of the arts and business (for reasons of practicality), and I knew I had to be in a big setting (for reasons of humility, a dying art in today's youth).

So here I am, at UB, a mini-metropolis in my own backyard. I am surrounded by people, smart people, and combining my business training and artistic talent into one huge . one huge . mess. Mess?

Yes, mess. Like Braddock, I am deadlocked in the crossroads of my life, and like the dusty intersection Tom Hanks' character faces at the end of "Cast Away," I don't know which endless road to take. Am I destined to make films? Was my molecular structure fashioned to write newspaper articles and books? Or was I blessed to teach young children? All of these possibilities float around in my marshmallow of a head and create the kind of interference that only cellular phones in the Student Union can; there's no room to breathe.

I have come to yet another unsatisfying conclusion: No one will walk up to my door and hand me a pamphlet outlining the steps I must take to be happy. I know that VERY few people, whether they're students or not, have ANY idea of what happiness is or how to even begin their quest to find it. I am no different.

I was 16 when my stepfather suddenly died, and 17 when my father died, also unexpectedly. I know firsthand the reluctance to sit on my rear end and cry and moan about my uncertainty and difficulties in life. That seed was mercilessly planted in me when I first experienced these losses and will be with me for the rest of my life.

Hopefully, the seed my passion and professional drive will grow from will be that premature, uninformed and unashamed dream to "make." As long as it isn't plastics.