Approaching the circular brick walkway just outside Kendall and Lane Halls, my feet falter, uncertain which way to go. It has been two years since I came to Hillsdale, and I still hesitate at this utterly benign juncture. It’s a simple decision, of course: Which way do I go?
Appropriately at these moments, I am reminded of Provost David Whalen’s arresting words to us new students from Fall 2013: “We are going to mess with your minds.” Okay. I was a bit confused but intrigued. It was the last thing I expected him to say. He meant, of course, that education is an adventure — risky and fraught with perils. There are no set paths, no one way for how this thing called “a student’s journey” is supposed to take place. There are also no guarantees. It is entirely possible to leave college having taken no part in the adventure nor experienced anything transformative. Thankfully, that is not my story.
Whalen’s words took on new meaning as I confronted texts and ideas I had never heard of before or properly understood. Under the steady guidance of my faculty, I wrestled with, among others, the original Big Three, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle; Hegel, his progeny, the Progressives; and their offspring, the Administrative State. I also came to appreciate the intrepid spirit and sheer moxie of our Founding Fathers. But the first awe-inspiring moment was when I read (of all things!) Lincoln’s concluding remarks in his “Speech on the Sub-Treasury.” And the awe that I felt would not have been possible had I not trudged through the previous 20-odd pages of perfectly fine but utterly uninspiring political speech-making. The last few paragraphs seemed to come out of nowhere, but that’s not true. They were there all along — in him, just itching to come out and be said.
So here’s another open secret I learned: No matter how much I think I know about a particular idea, person, or time in history, there is always so much more to learn. To approach great texts, fascinating people, and provocative ideas with a fresh perspective requires an ongoing posture of humility. That, I think, is what C.S. Lewis meant when he wrote, “Look. Listen. Receive. Get yourself out of the way.”
So I walked away that evening in September with the Provost’s words floating about in my head — the head that was going to be knocked around, apparently. But I understand now what he meant that day. And that knowledge is etched within my being. Even though I may hesitate about which direction to walk, I know this place — and the people within it and those who support it — are precious. I have had the privilege of learning alongside fellow graduate students and many undergraduates as well. It is with mixed feelings that I approach graduation. It is both right and fitting to leave, to move on, but I freely admit that my heart aches at the thought.
It has been a wild ride, and I would not trade it for anything.
