I decided to return to Tennessee for the summer.
It’s not that I didn’t have plans in Boston. In fact, I spent the larger part of the semester prying my fingers into closing doors to land something that would make the coming months worthwhile. And I did land things.
It’s also not because I didn’t have a place to stay. I made a binding agreement to board in a fraternity with friends. And I scrounged enough money to make the downpayment.
It’s also not because I tested positive the day after my last final. I could’ve gotten extended housing to recover, and I could’ve gotten help packing up my room. My roommate would’ve graciously stayed with a friend, and could’ve borrowed a friend’s GrubHub account.
It’s also not because I experienced some of the most monumental loss in my entire life. I could’ve confided in my friends. I could’ve gotten plastered on the Fourth of July, and forgotten about it for the night.
It’s also not because I didn’t do well academically. Besides one P/NR surrendered to the MIT gods, I actually cleaned up nicely.
And yet, on May 19th, I was trudging along the sidewalk to an Uber, suitcases in hand, to fly back to Tennessee.
On the plane, I figured the very reasons I loved MIT were the reasons I dropped everything to go back to Tennessee. I spent thousands of hours of writing programs, and fixing circuits, and taking exams, and typing up problem sets, and editing essays, and researching, and attending meetings. I spent so many nights talking, and drinking, and walking alone, and sleeping in beds that were not my own. This was everything I knew from August to May.
Back in high school, I worked 40 hours a week. I’d go to school from 7-3, and work from 3:30 to 12, and I dictated my college essays into my phone during the commutes. When I got into MIT, I started working overtime. I’d spend hours in a sweltering cargo hold of a truck, throwing boxes above my head and onto a conveyor belt, and then I’d load boxes onto pallets. When I finished, I’d drive home, drenched in oil and sweat, to dictate an essay about What sparks my intellectual curiosity or A time I showed leadership in a classroom.
When I got to MIT, I had to rack my brain for ways to level with kids from the Bay Area. During orientation, they’d show me pictures from their robotics championship or their RSI project. Turns out, I never experienced imposter syndrome at MIT. What I experienced the most was I-don’t-give-a-shit syndrome.
When I started classes, I found more things to not care about. Granted, some of it was enjoyable, and I did so many projects that I thought were cool, but I knew none of it mattered. Even when I started research, which I expected to matter more, I quickly realized that it only truly mattered to about a dozen department intellectuals. Regardless, it was interesting, so I still did it.
By the time the year ended, I spent so many hours slaving over interesting things, only to delete every morsel of my year’s work from my computer on the airplane and play a stupid game on my phone.
When I got back to Tennessee, I really wanted my job back. I craved manual labor. I craved not having to circle around about the abstract or meet to go over the exam. I wanted to spend hours in the sweltering cargo hold of a truck and throw boxes onto a conveyor belt. When I texted my boss, he told me he quit the job.
He wanted to find something that mattered.
This summer, I’ve continued with the UROP, but I’ve also been working on some personal projects. I have this childlike curiosity about them that keeps me going, but I know it wouldn’t matter whether I finished them, and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling that way.
