The only person you are destined to become is the person that you decide to be.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
As his students huddle around him, John Keating, the main character in the film Dead Poets Society, bends to one knee in the middle of his classroom.
There is pin-drop silence as Keating quotes Walt Whitman: “‘O me, O life! of the questions of these recurring, / Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, /.…/ What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, / That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.’”
Looking from face to face and slowing his pace, Keating repeats the last line, willing it into the depth of their hearts and souls: “‘That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.’”
The teacher pauses, rubs his thumb and fingers together, and takes in the moment. He looks around slowly before asking a question… the question. Both loving and daunting, hopeful and huge, the query is equally full of promise, possibility, weight, and gravitas. Keating tilts his head and intones:
“What will your verse be?”
This book has not been about happiness. This book has not been about relationships. It has not been about engagement, or willpower, or choice, or strengths, or nutrition, or sleep, or movement, or mindsets. This book has not been about mental health, passion, goals, choice, or even excellence. This book has not been about any of the topics we’ve covered, or even the sum of their parts. This book has been about something exponentially more powerful.
This book has been about you.
This book has been about how you can make the most of your experiences in college and in life. It has been about how you can succeed in the face of challenge and how you can thrive with the opportunities that lie ahead. The questions and exercises have been about you, when you have been at your best, when you have struggled, where you stand right now, and how you can move forward. Together, we have sought to more clearly articulate your path, your vision, your passion, your goals, and your dreams. This book has been about your experience, from the very first day you wake up to leave for school, through every day that follows. You can set yourself up to make the choices that will help you be the best version of yourself. This book has been about how you realize your potential, how you move beyond what you perceive as possible, and in doing so build a foundational experience that will see you thriving in college and for the rest of your life.
This book has been about the promise of what your verse can be.
Our final class of the semester is always bittersweet. Many students stay behind to have a last conversation with us, and those interactions are lovely but tinged ever so slightly with the sadness that comes from knowing that we won’t see most of them again. Our hearts swell with the feeling we imagine mama birds must have when their chicks leave the nest. We always end up lingering in the auditorium for well over an hour as we speak with each student individually. They thank us for the course, many of them sharing the unique ways it has changed their perspective on college and life. In turn, we thank them for making the class what it is—a vibrant, open, interactive, supportive gathering, where students can share their thoughts about their challenges and opportunities, and hopefully realize they are not alone. We let them know that we, too, are grateful to have learned and grown throughout the semester. It’s a meaningful experience for us and one of our favorite days of the year.
There are often a few students who prefer to wait until the line has dissipated before speaking with us. Sometimes they grab a seat in the front row, and other times they stand to the side, jacket off, bag on the floor, clearly waiting for a moment of privacy. These conversations can be quite personal and deserve to be given space. After our final lecture this past spring semester, one young man patiently waited nearby. When the crowd cleared, he approached.
Jon was a charismatic sophomore with a gleam in his eye and a quick wit. He and I had enjoyed regular postclass conversations throughout the semester, most of which were about how he was integrating the information and assignments into his life both on and off campus. An athlete in high school, he had returned to playing sports during the past semester, and as a result was feeling better and thinking more clearly than he had since arriving at NYU. His interests had broadened. He had realized how grateful he was for many things in life that he had taken for granted. We had a very comfortable relationship that always included a hearty handshake and a good laugh.
Yet something was different that day. Jon had always come bounding up, bursting with a question or observation, but now he looked pensive. He gazed over my shoulder and then quietly down at the ground before finally looking me in the eye. He seemed to be gathering himself for something much bigger. “I promised myself I wouldn’t lose it,” he said, his eyes beginning to well up. I urged him to take his time.
And then it rolled out: the pressures that he had heaped on himself since middle school, the expectations of his parents, peers, and teachers. He had been enormously successful in music and theater since grade school, not only scoring the leads in school shows but touring professionally. He had come to NYU specifically to continue his studies in the field, but had found the experience somehow empty, devoid of the pleasure and passion he once so enjoyed. It was in our class that he realized something he had not allowed himself to consider over the past decade: his opportunity to thrive might lie outside the theater. How could he possibly tell his parents? Music professionals themselves, they had supported and celebrated his path for as long as he could remember. They would surely be crushed.
But he had mustered his courage and shared his feelings with them. They were more understanding than he could have imagined.
What Jon’s parents wanted most for him was a fulfilling life. They wanted him to thrive. And now he was thriving. Jon excitedly talked about other possible majors that he was exploring. He had even picked up the guitar again, finding that love of music that had been absent for far too long. The pressure to please others was gone. He was writing his own verse once more.
Having held it together the way he’d promised himself, he paused, taking a long, deep breath. The next words out of his mouth made me hold back the tears.
“I’m the happiest I have been in a long time,” he said.
Then he opened his arms and gave me a hug.
Jon has been crafting his verse for nineteen years. The challenges he takes on and the opportunities he embraces continue to hone it each and every day.
For the past five years, the two of us have added to our verses as well. Teaching together has intertwined our passions and our friendship. We do what we love, with people we love, and for students we love. This book is the next stanza in our verse. We don’t know what the next page holds, or even the next line, but we are sure that whatever it does, we will keep our families close, our friends by our side, and immerse ourselves in activities that are engaging and meaningful. That is the way we thrive.
The last thing that we do during the final class of each semester is thank our students for spending their time with us, trusting the process, and participating with such open minds and hearts. We hope that they might be that much better prepared to move forward toward being the very best—and the most fulfilled—they can be.
We would like to do the same with you. So thank you. Thank you for your time, your attention, your commitment, and your trust. It has been an honor and a pleasure to share all this with you. Just as we invite our students to reach out if they ever need help, we do the same to you. We are all still writing our verses: please, never hesitate to find us if you need a hand with yours.
This is the book we wish we’d had in college. Now it’s in your hands. May it help you be the best you can be, and may you thrive in college and in life.