The Suckage Factor

I got into Yale because, like you, I spent my high school years spread thinner than a pat of butter on a waffle. I did theater, cross-country running, cross-country skiing, track, chamber orchestra, student council, math team, etc. etc. etc. My Renaissance Man Approach to school was rewarded with a place in the Yale class of 2008--which, I thought, condoned my cram-it-in-and-spread-it-thin strategy. Naturally, I would follow the same tack at Yale.

            Now, a week after graduating, I look back on my four years with newfound perspective (well, seven-days worth). I have come to understand that the Renaissance Man Approach works in high-school because no one is really that good at anything (I mean, let's be honest here—you aren't), but the same approach can cause major problems at Yale. In my case, over-commitment launched me on a vicious downward spiral that lasted two years and gave new dark meaning to the phrase "sophomore slump." Many students who fancy themselves jacks-of-all-trades in high school spend their freshman years coming to terms with the second half of the adage: master of none.

            The impulse to dabble is an essential part of the freshman experience, both in the classroom and out. But beware the dangers of dabbling too much. Stepping into Yale life is like walking into wild rapids—it’s impossible not to get caught up in the torrent. From day one there is a powerful undercurrent that pressures you not only to define yourself by what you do, but also to be successful while doing it. The natural reaction to this pressure sounds something like this:

"I don't know what to major in, I better take 6 classes this semester in a wide range of subjects to find out what I like most!"

Or:

"Hmm...a cappella, opera, theater, dance, film, or improv comedy? I better do all of them at once and see what I'm best at!"

This is a typical freshman’s (read: my) response to the dangerous mixture of boundless possibility and pressure to perform. Unfortunately, because of one oft-overlooked consequence, this approach to life at Yale is doomed to fail.  What is this consequence, you ask? I call it The Suckage Factor.

            The main principle of The Suckage Factor is simple: if you do too many things, you're going to suck at all of them. It can be broken down into a precise mathematical formula:

 1 - X = Your Suckage Percentile

                                 ((24 hours in a day)-(sleep time)-(eat time)-(wastes of time))

  if     X     =        ______________________________________________________        

                        ((y hours/activity)(# of activities) + (z hours/assignment)(# of assignments))

Believe it or not, few freshman apply The Suckage Factor to their lives. Looking back on my first year, I can perform this calculation retroactively: as it turns out, I was allotting myself six minutes to read Homer's Odyssey and five minutes to scale Harkness tower for Carillon practice, provided I slept two hours a night and ate lunch every second day. This gives me a freshman Suckage Percentile of about 98.7%. Dangerously high. Of course, if I had actually thought this through, I might have acted otherwise, but a heady mixture of naivete and idealism kept me soldiering forth.

            As time wore on and I still hadn't found my "calling," I tempered my anxiety by adding more commitments to my schedule. This is the metaphorical equivalent of dating thirty people simultaneously to find your ideal spouse. Relationships and time-commitments are similar in this regard: if you aren't putting much in, you aren't going to get much out. Before long, I was pulling regular all-nighters in the library, but, paradoxically, not finishing my homework; I was running madly from meeting to rehearsal, but was never on time; I was thrashing about like a banshee in a whirlpool, and I was barely scraping by.

            The following summer I strapped on a backpack and took off for Europe. I didn't have any clear goals beyond getting as far away from New Haven as possible, and in this regard I was successful. As I wandered, I shed my collegiate cares and concerns. I was free to breathe, and for the first time in a long time I could appreciate a new feeling: I had nothing to do. I distinctly remember, after an all-night hike across the Norwegian tundra, sitting down to eat a peach and relishing in the mind-blowing joy of this simple activity. This is the good life, I thought.

            After that, I became determined to embrace simplicity in my life at Yale. I returned for my junior year armed with a newly-developed Anti-Suckage Plan. It works like this: a normal human being can only do three things very well. The first of these things has to be life (sleeping, eating, socializing, exercising—the basic activities of a healthy, sustainable existence). The second and third are up to you. For the second slot I chose academics (which are often overlooked to make room for more extra-curriculars) and, for the third, theater direction. I quit everything else.

            While I continued to make my fair-share of mistakes, one crucial thing changed: for the first time in my Yale-life, I put my best foot forward. After devoting myself to theater direction for a year, I could assess whether or not I found it fulfilling. It turns out it was a great fit, and what began as a year-long stint will now extend into the rest of my life, as I plan to pursue a career in directing. Of course, I was only able to make this discovery after I gave myself the chance to succeed; if I had attempted to direct a play my sophomore year, it would have been a very different story.

            Fellow Renaissance Men and Women of the class of 2012, I implore you, I beg you, to do only as much as you can do well. I do not seek to squelch your enthusiasm—heavens no—I ask only that you unburden yourselves, and, in so doing, allow your enthusiasm to shine through. If you give yourself completely to something, whatever that something may be, it will open doors and reap benefits. If it's biochemistry, go for it. If it's intramural inner-tube water polo, so be it.  If it's squirrel fishing, that's twisted, but I still support you.

            I see now that the desire to cram as much as possible into four years of college is borne of the fear that Yale will be your last chance to learn and explore. Because I could not imagine life after Yale, I felt desperate to cram a lifetime of living into Yale. But once the seas calmed and all was finished, this impulse had done more harm than good.

            It may come as a surprise, but my revelatory Suckage Factor theory is derived from an expression coined well before my time: less is more. These three words are hard to remember while navigating Yale’s tempestuous seas, but keep them close, and they will be your North Star.