September 6, 2013--Magic

For some reason probably related to the passage of time we just now know three or four young people who are high school seniors and are in the throes of applying to college.

They are all excellent students, by Wobegon standards well above average, and it has been our great pleasure in recent years to have had numerous conversations with them about their thinking and have attempted to help them select just the right half dozen places to which to apply.

Our favorite part of the process is to hear their ideas about the personal essays they will be required to write as a key part of the application process.

We know enough about how the admissions business at elite colleges works to urge them not to turn too much of this over to advisors and coaches who charge lots of money to help the children of the affluent prepare their applications, especially encouraging them to write something to distinguish themselves from the also-well-prepared "competition." Admissions professionals can spot over-doctored essays and are inclined to quickly place them in the reject pile.

The young folks we are engaged with this year have not spent the past 10 years building resumes out of volunteerism, travel, and arts and science projects but have pursued deep interests that they would have otherwise followed even if they weren't college-bound.

One friend's granddaughter wants to find a college where she can continue her ballet training. She isn't thinking about dance as her eventual profession and doesn't even care if there would be ballet classes on campus.

"It's just that it's so important to me, has been since I was little, that I need to have access to a studio, on campus or off, where I can take classes."

"Are you thinking about writing about ballet in your application? It might be a good . . ."

With an apologetic smile she cut Rona off, "I am already drafting something. And maybe not about what you might think." It was Rona's time to smile. "For me," she continued, "it's all about balance, the balance that ballet requires and trains you to perfect."

"That sounds interesting," I said. "How about . . ."

With an even broader smile this time she interrupted me. It was clear she wanted us to hear her out, unfiltered, and not be unduly influenced about what "adults" might preemptively say or suggest.

"But I am not writing about ballet techniques and the classes I've taken, or even the performances I've been a part of."

"But that's what colleges are looking . . ."

"Maybe they are, but I want to write about the ways in which ballet has been and continues to be essential to me."

"For example?" Rona wisely thought to ask questions rather than make comments or prematurely offer suggestions.

"For example, what I have taken from my involvement with ballet is not just about the physical balance it emphasizes, as important as that is, but how it contributes to my inner, non-physical sense of stability and centeredness. I'm not sure this will work in an essay--but it's what I am attempting to express. I know my dance limitations and therefore prefer to attempt to write about ballet in a personally metaphoric way."

She paused to see what we thought. Neither one of us said anything. "I hope this won't come across as sounding sophomoric and manufactured in a personal-essay-writing tutorial. I know I have to stay on the safe side of the line, making this sound insightful, authentic, and written in my own words and voice."

Again she waited to see what we might have to say.

I jumped in--"I love how you're thinking about this. Especially the 'personally metaphoric' part. That seems appropriate, not sophomoric at all, though I can see the danger, in the wrong hands, of it becoming smarmy. But," I added quickly with Rona nodding vigorously, "in your hands there is minimal danger of that."

And just yesterday we had lunch with the son of a close friend who was up in Maine checking out the state's troika of top-notch liberal arts colleges--Colby; Bates; and my favorite, Bowdoin.

"You know about my interest in magic?"

In fact we did. For years he has literally been playing tricks on us, often over Sunday morning breakfasts. At first, he perfected simple card tricks which we could see though since his technique was primitive. He was, after all, at that point, only eight years old. But then, over time, his tricks metamorphosed into magic. They became more complex and his technique, even at close range over the breakfast table, flawless and truly mysterious.

"Well, as everyone has been telling me, if I write my personal statement about magic it had better be about more than the tricks themselves. And to be competitive I need also to talk more than about the meaning of magic to my life. Even to me that's boring."

He shrugged as if he was still struggling with how to approach the subject. "I'm thinking of coming at it from a perceptual and neurological perspective. You know," and neither Rona nor I in fact did know, "the brain's ability to fill in perceptual voids. Film is a good example. Twenty-four images a second are projected, but because of the brain's capacity to make things whole when they are in reality are made up of parts, we 'see' [he made air quotes] the projected images as seamless, not herky-jerky."

"I get it," I sort of did, "This sounds like a promising tack. Blending your interest in magic and science is . . ."

"Is not what I want to do. I'm actually more interested in philosophy than science and am looking for a way to connect it with my magic. The kinds of tricks I am now working on, I think, have 'philosophical' [air quotes again] implications."

"Tell me more," Rona said.

"Well, isn't one of philosophy's historic concerns the struggle to determine how much free will we have as opposed to how much is predetermined?"

"Wow," Rona said, duly impressed, "You really have tricks that deal with this?"

"There is this one that I do that involves a sealed envelope on which something is written. I then show someone from the audience a stack of cards that have all sorts of different things printed on them. After going through a lot of process and shuffling, I ask them to pick a card at random from the pile. To use their 'free will.'" He winked at us.

"After that I have them open the envelope and, low-and-behold, the card in the envelope--as if predetermined--has the same thing on it. Amazing, right?"

We were impressed.

"At the moment of working on this but haven't got it fully figured out. I know what I'm thinking about is a stretch and I don't want to come off as too cute or clever. To make it work, I have to hit the philosophy part just right."

"And all in 500 words," his father added.

"I agree," I said. "And while you're being philosophical, you know from Aristotle, don't you . . ."

"Can you believe it," Rona interjected, "we're sitting here by the water eating oysters and he's talking about Aristotle?"

I knew she was fooling with me and so continued, "You could consider citing Aristotle, who I think in his Poetics, wrote about the 'suspension of disbelief.' How in drama, as an example, even though we know there are actors pretending to be kings, rather than dismiss that as make-believe, we suspend our disbelief so we can be drawn into 'believing,'" my chance to make quotation marks, "they're kings rather than mere mortals."

"I do know about that," he said, "It's actually of great interest to me and it is very much a part of what allows magic to work. But," he winked again, "it wasn't Aristotle who wrote about suspending disbelief. It was Coleridge. You know him, Samuel Taylor Coleridge."

I hate being wrong about these kinds of things but to be corrected by him felt both deserved and wonderful.

All excited, Rona said to him "Hurray up and finish growing up, will you, so we can turn the world over to your generation. It's time for us, who made such a mess of the world, to step out of the way."