Why go to college?

Dear Ken,

Kudos to you for taking such a daring adventure. I love the book Walden and you are a modern example of it.

I am 18 years old and in my first year of university. Two months in, and I'm not enjoying it too much.

I cherish simplicity and live as humbly as possible. I hardly spend money except on food and shelter. I even dumpster dive. I know you are the same.

And truth be told, I'd love to live in a van.

That said, why am I, and why are you, in university? I can't find a good answer to this and I'm considering dropping out. I feel like I chose to go to university just cause I get good grades and everyone else was doing it. Also, my family really expected me to go. But the thing is, it's just a piece of paper, a diploma. If I drop out, I can learn all the material on my own, without the stress and money involved. I can work, but my lifestyle wouldn't require much working; just a little bit to cover my minimal expenses. I can spend my days with loved ones and learning. I can take a greater role in the community with volunteering and activism.

Perhaps you can help me by offering the reasons why you've chosen to get a degree and take on the stress and financial burdens. I'm not saying/accusing that you don't have valid motives. I suspect you have very valid motives, and I would love to hear them. It would greatly help me as I weigh my options.

Huge respect,

Nick from Canada

Nick,

Your email made my day. Slapped a smile right on my goddamned face—not just because I’ve learned of yet another kindred spirit who shares this world with me, but also because it’s people like you who, every now and then, renew my faith in humanity.

I normally don’t send emails in the form of an essay, but the subject calls for it. So please excuse me for my formal tone, and for—what will probably be—an unreasonably long and largely uninteresting history of my education.

***

When Thoreau was 31, Harvard—his alma mater—sent him an alumni questionnaire. One of the questions on it (quite innocently) asked what his profession was. Thoreau—in a tone that some might call “brash”—wrote,

I am a Schoolmaster, a private Tutor, a Surveyor, a Gardener, a Farmer, a Painter, (I mean a House Painter) a Carpenter, a Mason, a Day-laborer, a Pencil-maker, a Glass-paper-maker, a Writer, and sometimes, a Poetaster.

If his intro didn’t communicate it, he emboldened his condescension in his letter’s conclusion:

P. S. — I beg that the class will not consider me an object of charity, and if any of them are in want of any pecuniary assistance and will make their case known to me, I will engage to give them some advice of more worth than money.

Thoreau hated Harvard and he didn’t hide it. He famously said that Harvard “[teaches] all the branches and none of the roots.”

My undergraduate education at the University at Buffalo didn’t leave nearly so sour a taste in my mouth. In fact, I was quite indifferent about school, perhaps because I hadn’t reached the level of intellect necessary to bring something into question the way only the perspicacious can.

Like you, Nick, I enrolled in college hardly of my own volition. But, unlike you, it took me a long while before I even thought about why I was there or why I was spending so much money to be there.

It’s tough to explain just why I decided to enroll in undergraduate college, perhaps because there never really was a “decision.” I never weighed pros and cons; I never considered other options. In fact, the only options I thought about had to do with which school was going to get my money. And I point all this out—not because I think I’m an interesting minority—but because I think the way I thought is the way the great majority of young people think about their education at first. And when young people—caught in a vulnerable stage of development—are expected to make a five-digit decision that could affect them for the rest of their lives, they often (and understandably) make decisions that they'll later regret.

My high school classmates and I—like most eighteen-year-olds of our generation—thought less like individuals, and more like a school of fish: While we had the physical capacity to go off on our own, to do our own thing, and to make our own life decisions, there was some overpowering, irresistible force sweeping us all into the halls of an academy like debris into a dustpan.

The social pressure to go to college was—I can’t emphasize this enough—incredible. Throughout my primary and secondary education, no one—and I mean no one—even passively mentioned an alternative to going to college. Sure, some kids were encouraged to enroll in trade schools; and others, to enlist in the military, but I honestly cannot think of anyone who tried to show us the countless options that we could pick from; and these options—by virtue of them being right in front of our noses—were invisible. No one talked about the merits of traveling, or the virtues of work; no one spoke about anything except going to college.

This—in hand with other forces—fostered an intensely competitive social atmosphere. One’s “success” and social status was in large part measured by how highly his prospective college was ranked. Those going to community colleges were considered inferior, and those heading off to top-tier private and state schools were envied.

By school and other forces beyond my ken, my classmates and I were molded into a certain sort of human being, who were then funneled into college—where most would experience further programming in slightly more exclusive pods.

From a very early age, I was programmed to think: “I need to go to the best college I can get into, no matter the cost.” And while it was ultimately my fault for applying to schools that would cost me so much, it’s evident to me—looking back—that it wasn’t just me who made “my” decision to go to school.

For the first couple years, I kind of just drifted through college. Despite my apathy, it didn’t once occur to me that I could leave school. I was mentally incapable of grasping the idea of self-ownership—that my life was my own; that I could do anything I wished with it; that I could—at any moment—cast off the chains that I’d unknowingly wrapped around myself.

My sophomore and junior years passed much the same way: I fulfilled my general education requirements, I sampled courses from different departments, and I mostly listened to lectures in large auditoriums, oftentimes with several hundred students. Occasionally, I’d enjoy a course or a lecture, but for the most part I continued to thoughtlessly drift with the current.

It wasn’t until late in my junior year that I actually began to enjoy college. In the English department, I read Shakespeare; in the history, I studied the Constitution and founding fathers. In my senior year, my classes got smaller. We had passionate discussions in seminars, I started to write for my school newspaper, I interned with a local progressive newspaper, and I developed relationships with a few of my professors. Every day I could feel myself growing: I was writing and speaking better; I was thinking with unprecedented clarity. My curiosity was piqued, my passions roused, and my brain hungered, insatiably, for knowledge. I loved school, so much that I’d stick around for a fifth year. Those last few years represented a period of intense personal growth; it was a renaissance of sorts. I learned that college was worth it after all.

And then I graduated.

I moved to Alaska to pay off my debts, oftentimes working alongside people who had never set foot in a college classroom. In Coldfoot, in the coworker housing unit I lived in—a refurbished forty-room trailer with paper-thin walls that once housed workers during the construction of the Alaska pipeline—I had, on one side of me, Mike—a half-Vietnamese/ half-American schizoid and alcoholic. Mike would kick open the hallway doors while sputtering fake bullets that sprayed from a pair of invisible machineguns that he carried on each arm. On my other wall was Morey—an 18-year-old pothead from Colorado—who I could hear at any hour snoring, blowing bubbles in his bong, or strumming tunes on his guitar. Caveman Dan, a lodge cleaner, saw action in Panama. Paul, a carpenter, brought with him an arsenal of automatic weapons. Chad, a tour guide, had a thirty-strong dog team. I hitched with truckers, rubbed elbows with hunters, and gave tours to upper-crust septuagenarians.

These were just a couple of the many personalities and groups I came to know intimately. Later, I lived in a predominantly black Mississippi ghetto, I delivered packages alongside a homophobic UPS truck driver, and I lived with Alaskan natives in a remote, one-road village at a Park Service ranger station in Bettles.

I moved around for years. I was in a state of constant interaction with a variety of classes and cultures. At first, I thought this was what a real education was—the education I was getting outside of classroom walls. I learned about alcoholism and drug addictions. I saw people living subsistence lifestyles and others wallowing in abject poverty. On the road, along rivers, and atop lonely mountains I was able to continue to "discover" myself.

But it wasn’t long before I started to miss college. More and more, I fantasized about locking myself behind the bars of a university again. That’s because the intellectual capacities that I’d worked so hard to develop were gradually fading: my writing was plateau-ing; I was speaking less articulately; and the thinking muscles I had to constantly flex in school atrophied from disuse.

I tried to compensate by writing daily introspective emails to my best friend, and by reading book after book after book. But nothing worked to retard my regression. I needed back the structure of school.

My cultural experiences were invaluable, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything, nor all the friendships I made over the years. But there came a point when I realized that I still had a lot to gain from school, but little else to gain—in terms of self-development—from the people around me. There are things in the outside world that you can’t get at a university, but there are things at a university that you can’t get from the outside world.

And to be the best man I could be; to give myself the tools to make a difference; to “save the world,” I needed to go back to school.

While Thoreau hated school, he’d eventually come to realize how Harvard had played an invaluable role in his development. Thoreau biographer, Robert Richardson, says:

When [Thoreau] returned from college, Harvard, with all its shortcomings, had taught him how to pass judgment on Harvard, and had in fact prepared him for a life of the mind. Acknowledgment would come later.

At Harvard, Professor Channing helped Thoreau fine-tune his writing. His studies in Greek, Latin, Italian, French, German, and Spanish enabled him to glean wisdom from ancient texts that would later saturate his own.

But, unlike Thoreau, many of the other “greats” didn’t need school. Jack London spent less than a year at Berkeley. Hemmingway and Twain didn’t need a college education, and Steinbeck left Stanford without a degree, traveling and taking a series of odd jobs. Some of America’s greatest leaders—Washington, Franklin, Lincoln—though lifetime learners, never enrolled in college. The most impressive mind I’ve ever come across sits atop the body of a hunter from the rural village of Wiseman, Alaska (pop. 15)—a man who dropped out of college before his first semester ended. The list goes on and on.

Thoreau moved to Concord where he could be near Emerson and other transcendentalists who would provide him with a “graduate education” superior to what any school could possibly offer.

What I’m getting at is: there’s no formula to follow. Some people, like me, need school. Others surround themselves with books and brilliant people and they can “elevate their minds” without having to make hefty tuition payments.

If you know why you’re in school, I think you belong there. If you don’t, then leave and don’t come back until you do. Perhaps, after a while, you’ll learn, like I did, that college really is benefiting you; that there’s a “point” to school. There are merits to sticking it out, even if the benefits of school are not readily obvious to you. But I think this is, for many, a recipe for disaster.

Many students who “stick it out” end up handcuffing themselves to a life that they really never intended to live. They have trouble getting off the career track they put themselves on when they hardly knew themselves or what they really wanted to do with their lives. And the debts that they accrued make getting off that track so much harder.

A college education should provide students with minds that will function in the world at large, not just in the workplace. It should helps us figure out the big questions that will follow us everywhere: what’s worth fighting for; who’s been lying to us; what the point of it all is. A college education, more than anything, should make us citizens before it makes us careerists.

But school, sometimes, does the exact opposite. The university experience—the major we’re forced to declare, the internships we’re compelled to apply to, and the debts we accumulate—too often closes more doors than it opens. It, like high school, winnows us into a certain type of individual. College makes us into “experts”—experts who are great at one thing, but can’t do or think about much of anything else. College helps us become the orthopedic surgeon, the real estate lawyer, the 8th grade math teacher. Every May, a slew of professionals walk off commencement stages with brains brimming with knowledge, but souls severely lacking in empathy, imagination, and the ability to exercise introspection—characteristics crucial for any self-respecting citizen to function within a democracy.

Many of these people walking off stages are not terrible human beings, but they are morally vacuous; they do not care if their job hurts more people than it helps, so long as they earn a paycheck at the end of the week.

"If a man is a fool," says Desmond Bagley, "you don't train him out of being a fool by sending him to university. You merely turn him into a trained fool, ten times more dangerous"

***

To give advice about college, one is forced to ponder, not just the point of school, but the point of “it all.” And this is where I enter murky territory. While I’m in no position to tell someone what ought to be important to them, I suppose there’s no harm in sharing what’s important to me:

I want to the best man I can possibly be. And I’m willing to suffer through a period of misery, sacrifice and discomfort—which a college education often is—if it will equip me with the knowledge, tools, and wisdom that will, in the end, enable me to improve the lives of others. Of course, this goal has been created with self-interested aims, too, for helping people, affecting change, creating original works, and setting myself up to have a real and meaningful purpose will, I suspect, lead to a happier and more fulfilling life.

But college isn’t the only way to accomplish this. Before you’re forced to major and narrow your studies, it would be helpful to know just what you’re passionate about—and such insights rarely come from school alone. So perhaps you should take to the woods, to find the “roots” that Thoreau could not unearth within the confines of his classroom.

I hope that you do not think that you’re in a predicament—No, this is anything but. You are blessed with an awareness that is rare for your age—an awareness that will be an invaluable asset when it comes time to making the big decisions, such as this one.

Whatever you do, I hope that if you leave, you leave knowing that you’re not exiting the classroom, but that you’re merely entering another. And that—even in our most self-interested and solitary endeavors (such as on a journey)—the brotherhood of man continues to run through us all. We’d be fooling ourselves to think that fulfillment comes from selfish acts, and that—whatever your pursuits—I hope that the end goal is not just the betterment of yourself, but the betterment of others. To change the world, as my favorite movie tagline goes, you must first let it change you.

Thoreau would daily embark on long afternoon walks. He lived alone in his cabin for two and a half years. He was, by all definitions, a hermit, and a curmudgeonly one at times, too.

But he came to the determination—based on his education in both his Walden cabin and Harvard classroom—that it would be an irresponsible expression of his life to live just for himself. And that is, I believe, the very reason why he took off on his own; and that is why I’ve cloistered myself within my own upholstered hermitage. Sometimes to play a part in this great big world, we must separate ourselves from it.

But don’t listen to me. Thoreau said it best: “Be not simply good, be good for something.”

Happy trails,

Ken

PS: Mind if I use this as a blog entry?

The "Dare Mighty Things" Scholarship

I am familiar with rejection. I’ve been rejected by colleges (13), potential employers (15+), internships (50+) and women (lost count long ago).

Yes, I’ve been rejected a lot. But, like anyone who’s consistently failed, I’ve developed ways to deal with it.

First, you remind yourself about all the great people who failed early on in life, but who, in the end—with tireless perseverance and unflinching resolve—proved their naysayers wrong. Then you—from the confinement of your home—cast invectives, declare revenge, violently bang your head against a mattress, and aspire to “show” your rejecter just how wrong he was. And then, finally, you get really, really drunk. Works every time.

For some reason, the sting of a rejected scholarship application tends to linger. Perhaps it’s because there are always other jobs, internships and girls out there in that great big sea. But when it comes to getting money for college, you’re shit out of luck if you can’t get a scholarship.

I don’t know how many of my scholarship applications have been rejected. Perhaps, someday, a team of scientists will create an equation that could help me make a reasonably close estimate. But for now, let’s just says it’s “a lot.”

When I applied to scholarships in high school, I didn’t have much going for me. The problem was multifold:

1.) I had a pedestrian high school academic record: I was ranked (a very mediocre) 77th in my high school class of 200, I passed my final physics exam by only one point, and I didn't impress any of my teachers.

2.) I had no interests or passions outside of girls, hockey, football, the Buffalo Sabres and my irrational desire to drive to Alaska. I never volunteered, took part in clubs, or held student office. I was, yes, a slacker. And no matter the amount of gloss I brushed onto my applications, I could never fool the people making the decisions.

3.) I was never right for a scholarship. I never fit the requirements. I didn’t have the grades, the bullshit clubs, or the sports accolades. I had something, but nothing that a scholarship committee could ever see.

My scholarship rejection streak finally ended during the first of my two senior years of college when I won a $1,000 award from the University at Buffalo's history department. But by then, my debt had accumulated to such unfathomable proportions that this little bit of money was too little, too late; it felt like I was approaching a burning building with a glass of water.

Before I came to Duke, I decided to give scholarships one more chance. Besides, I thought, I have a whole bunch of interesting life experiences to draw from and a strong undergraduate record to brag about. I even—I’m ashamed to say—told scholarship committees about my intention to live in the van to hopefully guilt them into giving me their money. Sure enough, all my applications were rejected. By this time, though, I’d known what to expect. It was up to me to fund my education.

So here’s what I want to do. I want to create a scholarship for someone like me; for someone whose potential cannot be measured by a GPA, SAT or GRE score; for someone who’s gotten no help from schools and scholarship committees because each other's goals never aligned; and for someone who is passionate, not just about succeeding—whatever that means—but living.

The scholarship I've made will be for college students (juniors and seniors) on the verge of graduating. Instead of being kicked into career-world or pushed back into a graduate school, I want to encourage students to forget about planning for the future and to focus on living the present. Plus, I think a traveler gets the most out her journey--and the people she meets get the most out of her--when she sets off with a degree's worth of eduction in her head.

***

This past June I wrote a post titled “Belated Manifesto” in which I sent money back to parents and friends because I thought their gifts interfered with my goal to graduate “debt-free.” For good reason, I got some less-than-positive feedback from the readers of this blog. And while my family was good-natured about the gesture, they refused to take the money.

So now I have $910.90 that isn’t mine, that interferes with my goal, and that—most oddly—I can’t get rid of. I decided I’d give it to a charity, but then I thought: why not create a “charity” of my own?

I’m pleased to announce that I will be giving away the first ever “Dare Mighty Things” Scholarship this winter, in honor of one of my favorite quotes (that was penned by the hand of Teddy Roosevelt):

“Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.”

Indeed, Teddy, indeed! My scholarship is designed to support students who wish to embark on an adventure of their own creation. I believe that for people to realize their fullest potential, it’s necessary to have some combination of focused academic study and broad worldly experiences. Each type of learning complements the other. On our journey, we see what’s wrong with the world, and in the academy, we acquire the tools to fix it.

While $900 will do nothing, it’s a start, and I’m hoping I can raise another $100 from the good readers of this blog to round it up to a nice $1,000. If we don’t raise that much, I’ll pay the rest on my own, and if—by chance—we exceed that goal, I’ll just put it toward next year’s scholarship. And I don’t think I have to say this but: know that none of this money will enter my pocket.

Three more things:

1.) I’ve named my best friend, fellow student debtor, and charity expert, Josh Pruyn, the Executive Vice President of the Dare Mighty Things Scholarship Foundation. He’ll help me sift through applications. I intend to advertise this on scholarship websites, so hopefully we'll get a good pile of applications.

2.) For more info about our mission and requirements, you can click this link, or just click on the tab below the photo of me standing next to the van titled "Scholarship."

3.) The winner will have his/her application essay posted on this blog; and hopefully we can get pictures/stories/etc. from their journey.

Oh, and if you care to donate, just press the “Donate” button below. Thanks so much!

Letter to Duke Administration

[I wrote the following email to Duke administration--which will probably wind up in the hands of their parking department--to express my opposition to a proposed parking regulation that may prohibit students from living in their vehicles in the future. While I realize my letter will not deter them for making their proposed changes, I thought it would have been remiss of me to do nothing. Allegedly, they were going to change their regulations as soon as a couple nights ago, so I only had a few hours to write this sucker. I'd like to polish it up some because I have plans to do something "bigger" with it. So please--if I've left out any arguments that you think may help me make a stronger case--do share!]

To Whom It May Concern:

It has come to my attention that Duke intends to change its parking regulations. I’m specifically referring to a regulation that will prohibit students from living in their vehicles in the future. If this is the case, then I courteously request that this letter be considered before such a change is made.

I’ve been living in my van at Duke for close to two years now, and it is difficult for me to understand why such a regulation is necessary. I could go on for hours about the many benefits of living in my van, or “vandwelling,” as we vandwellers call it.

I could share with you how having a quiet, solitary hermitage has allowed me to focus on my studies. I could tell you about the simple joys of feeling more in touch with the natural world, experiencing changes in temperature, falling asleep to serenading insects, and waking up to cheerful birdsong. I could tell you about how living minimally has been an education in itself and how I will carry these lessons with me for the rest of my life. I could tell you how I have a much stronger purchase on what I think my few wants and even fewer needs are. I could also tell you about how much money I’ve saved. In fact, I will tell you about this one.

Just before I came to Duke, I had $4,000 in the bank and no possessions of any significant value. I bought my van—a 1994 Ford Econoline—ten miles south of Raleigh for $1,500. Between tuition and fees, I’d pay about $2,500 that semester. That is $4,000 spent on those two purchases alone. Thankfully, I was able to pay my tuition that semester in installments--convenient for me because I would have otherwise been broke from the get-go. But, needless to say, I was strapped for cash. And when I factored in other necessary expenditures (food, gas, car insurance, cell phone), I knew I’d never be able to afford rent for an apartment or some other conventional mode of housing. Yes, I could have taken out loans like most students. And yes, I could have postponed my entrance into graduate school, electing instead to continue to work and save, so that--when I did finally came to Duke--I could afford conventional housing. But I’d been out of school for 2.5 years and was dying to get back into the classroom. And going back into debt simply wasn’t an option. That’s because I just paid off $32,000 in student loans from my undergraduate education. While I was able to pay that debt off relatively quickly, it was something I never wanted to be obliged to do ever again.

These past two years at Duke I’ve saved thousands of dollars in apartment rent alone. It seems like the going rate for a modestly priced apartment in the area is about $450 a month. According to my calculations, by the time I graduate (May of 2011), I will have saved $11,250 ($450 x 25 months). Any student at Duke—either from a wealthy or poor background—would agree that that is a lot of money. And when I think that I’d be in five-digits of debt again if it wasn’t for the van, whatever “sacrifices” I’ve made are negligible. Living in a van and saving this money has been worth it, and I say that without the slightest hesitation.

Debt, I’ve learned, is part of the university experience. We students are taught that debt is not something to be avoided, but that it’s normal; that it’s expected; and that it’s “how things are done.” To buy something, the university experience doesn’t teach students to save and then pay for it; it teaches us to buy it now and pay for it later. My point is that universities teach their students—whether they intend to or not—to be financially irresponsible.

Not only will this way of thinking plunge thousands of students deeper into debt, but it impacts the way they will handle their money for the rest of their lives. Freshmen, sophomores, and juniors at our university are prohibited from seeking off campus housing and are forced to pay for exorbitantly priced meal plans. And now that students may soon be barred from living in vehicles, another cost-saving alternative will be eliminated, and the university takes yet another action that needlessly forces its students to make irresponsible financial decisions.

I realize that no one in the university administration actually desires that Duke students go into debt. And I’m sure that the people involved in creating this new regulation are merely looking out for the safety and best interests of my fellow students.

I suspect that the powers that be think living in your van makes you a more vulnerable target; that burglars might be more tempted to break into a vehicle crammed with stuff. While I’ve heard fellow classmates complain about break-ins and stolen items, no one, as far as I know, has laid a finger on my van. Think about it: No one wants to break into a vehicle if there’s the slightest chance that someone’s in there. Theft, anyway, was never a worry for me because when you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. I carry my few valuables—camera, laptop, and cell phone—with me everywhere. If someone were to break into my van when I was away from it, I wouldn’t be too worried about someone lifting my sleeping bag, backpacking stove, or suitcase filled with old, faded clothes. Sure, I will acknowledge that a vehicle may be a more appealing target for burglars than, say, an apartment or dorm, but I strongly doubt that a larger presence of vandwellers would increase the rate of car theft.

Perhaps you’re concerned that the cold or heat creates unsafe living conditions. Again, I can confirm through my own experience that this is not an issue, at least in Durham it’s not. Hundreds of students in K-Ville live in similar conditions during the coldest time of the year, yet few would say that they’re in jeopardy of anything more than mild discomfort. The spring and fall heat can make things uncomfortable, I’ll admit, but never did I consider it a threat to my health. In fact, over the course of my four semesters at Duke, I can only think of one day when I felt sick.

I presume that you’re also worried about some freak accident that may result in a crippling lawsuit that would devastate the university. I view such a concern with sympathy, but it seems like this can be avoided. Why not have students who desire to reside in their vehicles sign a release and assumption of risk contract?—the sort that I just signed, which will ensure that Duke is not liable to compensate its vehicle-dwelling students if something unexpected and undesired were to happen.

I write all this knowing full well that I’m probably the only person on campus living in his vehicle, and that there’s a reasonable chance that no one may even think about it for decades. So why am I writing this plea—you may be wondering—when the change will affect just a few prospective students, if any? I hope that you will reconsider your new regulation because I think such a change has unwanted symbolic consequences that may undermine what the university stands, or should stand for.

It shows that the university is not doing all it can to give their students options to cut back and save money in difficult economic times. It shows that the university is intolerant of styles of living that may "go against the grain" or fall outside the status quo. It shows that the university is not committed to supporting students who experiment with new ways of thinking and living. How is such a change at all in accordance with Duke's mission to "promote a deep appreciation for the range of human difference and potential?"

Living in the van, these past two years, has been a wonderful experience. I’ve excelled in my courses, I’ve been in superb health, I’ve saved (literally) tons of money, and I’ve been extremely happy. What is it about living in the van that is so objectionable that you intend to create a new rule prohibiting students from having similar experiences?

I have received hundreds of emails, messages, and comments in person about my vandwelling experiment. Many students have told me that they, too, plan on doing the same thing on their campuses. It is foresighted of you to consider what your long-term position on this issue should be, but I do not think barring students from living in their vehicles is the right course of action.

Respectfully,

Ken Ilgunas

A new parking lot problem

My parking lot issue is resolved. I had a meeting with a Duke lawyer today.

Going into the meeting, I only wanted two things: 1.) I didn’t want to have to pay for a new parking permit, and 2) I wanted to have some say in the whereabouts of my new lot.

The lawyer told me up front that Duke would be happy to trade permits with me. In fact, he said since my new parking permit is cheaper, I’ll actually get a $100 refund, which is an unexpected surprise—and a timely surprise at that since I’m getting awfully low on cash.

I had a couple ideal parking lots in mind, but he had one in mind too. We walked over to it, I stood there for a moment, did a 360 taking in my surroundings, and then said, “This is fine.”

I don’t want to publicly advertise exactly where I am for the same reason I never disclosed my whereabouts at the Mill Lot. And that’s because—while I have a blog and have, in many regards, taken my experiment public—I wish to have as much privacy as I reasonably can.

Anyway, the lot seems more than sufficient to me. It’s closer to the hub of campus, it’s on a bus route, and it looks as if I’ll have a reasonable amount of privacy. I was also happy to see that it is surrounded by some interesting vegetation.

They also requested I sign a contract, which essentially said that I cannot sue them if something were to happen to me, that I cannot sleep in any other lot, and that I’d no longer live in my van at Duke after May 2011 (when I graduate). You can read it here by clicking the picture below.

I was reluctant to sign a contract, but upon reading it, I couldn’t find anything I objected to.

I certainly understand why large institutions are afraid of lawsuits. And of course if I were to get assaulted in my van, catch frostbit, or be subject to some “act of God”—which all makes vandwelling sound badass—I’d never think about suing Duke or anybody. I knew what risks I was taking, and I was more than willing to deal with whatever ugly issues I might confront on my own.

The only line in that contract that made me think twice was their request that I not live in the van after May 2011. But I didn’t think this was too big a deal since I plan on moving out of Durham after I graduate, and I highly, highly doubt I’ll be going for my PhD here or anywhere for a long, long while, if ever. In fact, this may very well be my last year of formalized education.

I give Duke credit for their classy handling of the situation. Everyone was respectful, and they’ve obviously taken pains to make me feel comfortable. I have nothing but positive things to say about everyone involved.

BUT….. And here’s the big news…. The lawyer told me that Duke, as soon as tonight, is going to rewrite the campus parking regulations, hereby prohibiting all students from living in their vehicles (excepting me of course).

While this new rule has no effect on me, this is something I am opposed to for a thousand reasons. He told me if I wanted to have any say in the matter then I must submit something by tonight. While I’m more than aware that a plea from me will be nothing more than a symbolic gesture, and that they will do whatever it is they want to do, I see it necessaryto at least oppose such a law in the best way I can. So I better get writing!

Uh-oh Pt. 4

I lost. I’m officially getting kicked out of the lot, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I was ready to take a stand. I figured I’d remove the wheels, tie a chain around the tree in front of the van, and then I’d courageously sacrifice my body when they'd tried to cut the chain by blow-torch.

But--due to some new information--I determined that this is a battle that I cannot fight.

1) Duke does not own the lot that I’m parked in; rather, Duke is merely leasing it from the apartment owner. So the lot is privately owned.

2) As shitty as I think it is to kick me out of the lot after two years of harmlessly living in it, I acknowledge the owner’s right to do whatever she wants on the property she owns.

Before I decided to come to Duke, I took a couple precautionary measures. First, I read through the campus parking laws, and was happy to discover that there was nothing that explicitly barred someone from living in their vehicle. And just to make sure, I emailed the campus director of parking and asked him a few questions (of course taking pains not to reveal my true intentions). Here's that email trade that--looking back--contains pertinent information that I overlooked.

Here's my email:

Hi *****,

I have a few parking questions that I hope you can answer. I am an incoming graduate student for this upcoming spring semester and I planned on commuting. According to your website, new graduate students will be permitted to park in the proximate Mill lot. Is this correct? Will I be able to park elsewhere or only in this particular lot?

Also, if I wanted to leave my car in a lot overnight for whatever reason, is that permitted? Do I need an extra permit of some sort?

Thanks for answering my questions,

Ken

And his response:

Hi Ken,

Yes, we can place you in Mill parking. Permits, including Mill permits, are restricted to parking only in that specific zone weekdays 7am-4pm. After hours and weekends most other parking zones are available and accessible by swiping your Duke ID at the gate. Overnight parking is fine.

Hope this covers the questions -

*****

When I read his email two years ago, all I saw was “Overnight parking is fine,” and I breezed over the rest of his email. But on second reading, it appears that I really have been breaking the rules all this time.

I won’t bore you with the legal details, but I have a meeting with a Duke lawyer and we’re going to discuss other on-campus parking lot alternatives. One of my professors has also offered her driveway, but it appears Duke is willing to grant me a new permit, which is the option I will most likely take.

A few words about my parking lot before I say adieu…

For the past two years, I’ve lived in the Mill Lot, which is within a stone’s throw of 9th Street—a bustling warren of bars, cafes, and new-age shops on which bums, students, yuppies and southern “old money” comingle.

At first, I hated my lot. It was a two mile walk to the center of campus. In fact, the lot wasn't connected to or anywhere near campus—it was like and island separate from the mainland that first year grad students were exiled to. Plus, it was situated atop an incredibly steep hill. During my first night in the lot, I slept on a sharply graded space that made my blood rush from my head to my toes.

But over time, it grew on me. I started taking the bus to campus; I learned where to park at different times of the day to maximize shade and sunshine (depending on what I needed more of); and the once nettlesome slope issue was easily solved once I developed a knack for detecting the slightest change in gradient the same way a princess can feel the impression of a pea under forty mattresses.

My parking lot was far from problematic; it was ideal: I was right next to coffee shops and a laundromat; I bought fresh breads and vegetables at Whole Foods every day on my walk to campus; it was only a mile away from the elementary school I work at; and it provided more privacy and solitude than I could have ever wished for. (Hardly anyone ever parked up there with me.) In the fall, I could hear the cicadas groan, and in the spring, the dogwood trees were heavy with clusters of lustrous white flowers.

I’ve been changing homes for years, and I’ve put up my fair share of discomforts, so moving from one lot to another is no big deal. But I mean it when I say that I’m going to miss my dear, dear, Mill Lot.

I've put a little goodbye video together, featuring highlights from my stay in the Mill Lot these past couple years.