Icicles in Miami
In the past three years or so, I've explored and written about utopias (historical and current views) and the American dream (its birth, death, and supposed resurrection at the hand of New Urbanists). These have been architectural, historical, and somewhat theological explorations. Not until the past week or so did it become a physical notion - one that, like an icicle, took a long time to form but shatters and is trampled-on once it hits the sidewalk of reality below.
I'm not the first to write on it, and certainly not the first to realize it, in fact, thousands upon thousands of twentysomethings realize it every spring and every winter when they find themselves having just graduated and sitting in some mundane cubicle in a lifeless office staring at a computer screen for eight hours a day: college is utopia.
It is a bubble within our society that is set up to be an advanced democracy where not only men, but also women, are all on equal terms. The bubble is maintained and organized by intelligentsia and learning is the main focus of the society. There is ample free time to socialize and explore individual interests. In addition, health and fitness are a common preoccupation for all. Of course, this starts to approach the human-provided faults of the system (especially in a place like Miami) where the look of a person determines so much more. This utopia, like so many other failed ones before it, demands a narrow definition of heterogeneity. You can be different, just not too different. "We like to be reminded of how young and healthy we are. We will take on the world (if we ever decide to leave, or if our parents make us) because don't forget that I'm guaranteed to be a success (and I like to hear you tell me it). . . And we will absolutely not allow you to remind us of the world outside of our bubble."
As all of this was gelling in my mind last week, an unexpected visitor to the School of Architecture solidified it and then took a bat to the icicle. I never got his name and I only got a brief look at him from a second story window, but I hope I never forget him. He was wearing an old red sweatshirt stained with who knows what. He had khaki pants on that were tattered and forming holes. Blonde hair turning white hung limply over his eyes and blended in with his unkempt beard. What little skin I could see had been aged from long exposure to the elements. He talked and carried on with a lecture hall full of intent listeners in his head. He was wonderful.
Upon sighting him, several of my students became upset and wanted me to do something about it. So I just stood and watched him, studied him, and smiled. They continued to ask for action and I wish at this point that I could say that I just let him be, that I talked to them about reality and how not everyone's daddy can buy them a brand new jag when they graduate high school, or that I went down there and invited him up to look at their projects and to comment on them. Convincing myself that it was for the students' safety, I regrettably succumbed and found an administrator. I flat out felt like a traitor. My only victory came when the administrator later told me that they couldn't find him. My smile returned and inside I hoped that he had walked right through the middle of campus and as many people saw him as possible before they carted him outside of the bubble.
Two days later, I was sitting at my thesis site downtown and met a guy name Mark. He is a sergeant in the reserves, having served for 12 years as army intelligence. He graduated from college with a psych degree and is in Miami waiting for his girlfriend's return from Cuba (she is there attending to her dieing father). I don't know his exact situation, but for the most part I'd say Mark was homeless. We had a great conversation for about a half hour or so. I count it an honor to have shaken his hand. He was a blessing to me - a reminder of just how good I have it, how easily anyone can fall on hard times.
I enjoy sitting and talking with Mark's people. I like it when the dirt and sweat of their reality rubs off on me. I wanted to do more for Mark, but conversation and some change was more than enough. I hope I see him again. This too is part of my deconstruction. . .
I'm not the first to write on it, and certainly not the first to realize it, in fact, thousands upon thousands of twentysomethings realize it every spring and every winter when they find themselves having just graduated and sitting in some mundane cubicle in a lifeless office staring at a computer screen for eight hours a day: college is utopia.
It is a bubble within our society that is set up to be an advanced democracy where not only men, but also women, are all on equal terms. The bubble is maintained and organized by intelligentsia and learning is the main focus of the society. There is ample free time to socialize and explore individual interests. In addition, health and fitness are a common preoccupation for all. Of course, this starts to approach the human-provided faults of the system (especially in a place like Miami) where the look of a person determines so much more. This utopia, like so many other failed ones before it, demands a narrow definition of heterogeneity. You can be different, just not too different. "We like to be reminded of how young and healthy we are. We will take on the world (if we ever decide to leave, or if our parents make us) because don't forget that I'm guaranteed to be a success (and I like to hear you tell me it). . . And we will absolutely not allow you to remind us of the world outside of our bubble."
As all of this was gelling in my mind last week, an unexpected visitor to the School of Architecture solidified it and then took a bat to the icicle. I never got his name and I only got a brief look at him from a second story window, but I hope I never forget him. He was wearing an old red sweatshirt stained with who knows what. He had khaki pants on that were tattered and forming holes. Blonde hair turning white hung limply over his eyes and blended in with his unkempt beard. What little skin I could see had been aged from long exposure to the elements. He talked and carried on with a lecture hall full of intent listeners in his head. He was wonderful.
Upon sighting him, several of my students became upset and wanted me to do something about it. So I just stood and watched him, studied him, and smiled. They continued to ask for action and I wish at this point that I could say that I just let him be, that I talked to them about reality and how not everyone's daddy can buy them a brand new jag when they graduate high school, or that I went down there and invited him up to look at their projects and to comment on them. Convincing myself that it was for the students' safety, I regrettably succumbed and found an administrator. I flat out felt like a traitor. My only victory came when the administrator later told me that they couldn't find him. My smile returned and inside I hoped that he had walked right through the middle of campus and as many people saw him as possible before they carted him outside of the bubble.
Two days later, I was sitting at my thesis site downtown and met a guy name Mark. He is a sergeant in the reserves, having served for 12 years as army intelligence. He graduated from college with a psych degree and is in Miami waiting for his girlfriend's return from Cuba (she is there attending to her dieing father). I don't know his exact situation, but for the most part I'd say Mark was homeless. We had a great conversation for about a half hour or so. I count it an honor to have shaken his hand. He was a blessing to me - a reminder of just how good I have it, how easily anyone can fall on hard times.
I enjoy sitting and talking with Mark's people. I like it when the dirt and sweat of their reality rubs off on me. I wanted to do more for Mark, but conversation and some change was more than enough. I hope I see him again. This too is part of my deconstruction. . .
posted by Sojourner at 12:23 AM
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