The Oakland Review Blog
Introducing a new literary blog from the editorial staff of The Oakland Review, specializing in book/poetry reviews, personal essays, and cultural commentary.
November 8, 2024
On Being a Vessel
By Dylan Courtney
Though this may read like a love letter to Carnegie Mellon, I’ve still felt the panic, mercilessness, and trepidation that comes with being a student at a top university. Transferring here, this grand, massively important crucible of a school, has been the most profound shift of my life. And that’s coming from a kid who switched high schools four times while living in four different houses, and grew up in a family that embraced change instead of running from it. But there’s something singular, something piercing about being here; nothing quite like it. Even the seasons feel monumental, and I can’t help but think: Now I understand the poets. Now I understand The Secret History. Now I understand scarf strangulation and pumpkin-spiced lattes that somehow make me more tired than before.
Carnegie Mellon feels less like a university and more like a montessori, where loneliness is an unspoken part of the deal. Knowledge is the closest thing to a deity and everyone is devoted, even if it means sacrificing sleep and connection. The implied truth is that greatness here calls for the surrender of the “normal” college experience, however one might define it. That said, I’m an upperclassman at a new school in a new city surrounded by new peers. The freshman and I are practically soulmates. During fall break, I was asked one too many times how it feels to be here and the only word that came to mind was unsure. There’s an undercurrent of uncertainty that touches everything: every interaction, every comment I make in class, every project I work on. I know this feeling is part of the process, an initiation of sorts, but I'm intimidated nevertheless. I’m catching up to everyone my age, networking, and establishing myself and my “brand.” But the process is shaky. I believe it’s the anxiety that stems from the desire to be seen as equal that fuels me the most, like the beta-alanine in pre-workout; uncomfortable tingles, but the best workout of your life.
And despite being a Creative Writing major, I haven’t been writing much. I’ve been reading, sure, but I’ve lost the internal stability that comes from seeing words made concrete on the page: the Didion thought of being immortalized by preserving your public narrative. This semester, I’ve become somewhat of a vessel for content, constantly absorbing class lectures, books, shows, and music. I’m overstuffed and weighed down by consumption. And while this isn’t bad since I’m getting the education of a lifetime, I’ve been on edge. I’m terrified that there’s only so much I can absorb, like I’m approaching some unseen limit, and after that, everything else will spill over, lost to the ether. And, not to be grotesque, but writing has always been my emotional laxative, a "shit," relieving mental constipation. The door is wide open. Feel uncomfortable?
I guess I’ve started to feel uncomfortable calling myself a writer. Maybe it’s the small body of work, or maybe it’s that quiet sense of imposter syndrome that seeps in when saddled with any title. Being called something, “a writer,” “an actor," feels like a bizarre claim, as though putting a name to it makes it real, or like I’m committing to some universal standard. I tell myself that owning these titles is not narcissistic, yet I pause. I’m acting in a few short plays right now, more for the fun of it and the deep-seated pull I've always felt toward performing, but I would never call myself an actor, even while doing precisely what the title suggests. I’ve taken dance classes, but I wouldn’t label myself a dancer. I’ve learned to play the bass, but I wouldn’t dare call myself a musician. A fan of rock? Absolutely. There’s something about titles that feels final, grounding but perhaps too confining. For me, at least.
It's almost November now, and I'm still establishing the setting. I'm not even close to the rising action. It's all the mystery. Yet I've never been more ready in my life to squeeze every iota of knowledge out of CMU. I even launched a book podcast (So yes, this entire blog post has been an ad for the CMU Book Pod). I’m still a new face, with new ideas, and the mere act of starting something at this school proves to be greatly rewarding. While I’m not one for titles, being a Tartan feels right.