Only Real Risks Can Lead to Real Success
During my freshman year at college, I used to go around announcing that I was going to be a lawyer, mostly because I thought I was expected, at the highly advanced age of eighteen, to know what I was going to do for the rest of my life.
One young professor, a man with a Yale Ph.D. in comp. lit. who ended up renouncing academia and heading for a Columbia MBA, once asked me why I decided on law school: "Why? Why on earth would you be a lawyer? I think you'd hate law school" is what he said to me.
Nobody had ever asked me “why” before, probably because in 1975 every big-mouthed, smart-alecky girl was told that "The Law" would be the right place to spend adult life—as if it were a kind of gated community.
I said I thought law would be a good choice because I could pretty much imagine what my life would be like. This professor then quoted me a line he adapted from author Gertrude Stein.
He said "If you can do it, then why do it?"
And it was like the light bulb going off over Bugs Bunny's head. That line, which I still make my classes at UConn copy down in the margins of their notebooks stays with me.
If you know you can do it—if you can already chart every day in your future—then why bother?
Choose to do something you have more trouble imagining. Take a chance.
So here’s my story about taking a chance, about the way life illustrated for me the riotous possibilities inherent in risk. After I left my undergraduate college, a fellowship had me headed not for law school but for New Hall, a women’s college at Cambridge University. Since I was the first woman in my family ever to go to college—or to graduate from high school in a timely fashion, for that matter—Cambridge was rather a shock. But I was thrilled—and with good reason.
During my summers in the U.K., I earned money doing odd research jobs for the British Broadcasting Company. At a party (I always went to parties in those days because it meant free food) a producer I’d only just met asked me to appear on a t.v. show that was a sort-of grown-up version of College Bowl.
The show was called (I’m not kidding) “Mastermind.” You—the contestant—sat under a spotlight on a stage and an announcer fired questions at you concerning a special subject and what was vaguely titled "general knowledge." You had to answer as many questions as you could within the space of three minutes.
If you didn't know the answer, you had to say "pass" because you risked losing points with an incorrect response—sort of like particularly demonic and public SATs. This producer explained—as I stuffed my face with cakes—that the show had been syndicated in seven or eight countries but the show never made it to the States. Would I consider, he asked, acting as the official American contestant?
I had never seen the program, but my British boyfriend of the moment had—and he whispered that I shouldn't even consider such a thing. He said, and I quote: "You'll look silly."
That, of course, made my decision for me. I agreed to be part of the show.
Then I actually watched the terrible, maniacal, sadistic ritual and was unnerved. I chose the life and works of the playwright Tennessee Williams as my special subject. After taking an American drama class back in Hanover, I felt equipped to deal with anything a Brit could invent about ol’ Blanche, Stanley, or The Gentleman Caller. I crammed, memorized, and sweated through even the most obscure plays and short stories. The Brit boyfriend merely gloated. On the day of the taping, I had a remarkably bad cold, runny nose and red eyes. I was fuzzy on cough syrup and mad at the boyfriend who refused to accompany me.
Shockingly, I did all right on the Williams’ material, but when it came to "general knowledge" I knew almost none of the questions they asked, many of which had to do with America. I grew up in Brooklyn, not in America.
Turns out I am vastly, wildly ignorant, despite my fancy education. I could not name all the states run-through by the Mason-Dixon Line. I did not know the highest point in Utah; I didn’t know Utah had a high point. I did not know the estimated population of Atlanta.
The poor audience members—500 strong—were holding their breath in appalled silence as I kept saying "pass" over and over again. In the back of my mind, I was taunting myself in my evil boyfriend’s voice “See? What do you know? Where’s your knowledge now?” I was miserable.
Finally, the announcer, no doubt out of sheer pity, asked me one glorious question:"What kind of animal is a guppy?" and I screamed out "IT'S A FISH!"
There was applause like you never heard.
You’d think I just scored a touchdown, hit the high note, and discovered gold all at once. Clearly the members of the audience were simply so relieved that I got one answer right, even just one, they forgave me everything. They whistled, they stamped their feet; I didn't look silly to them, although I certainly looked like somebody who beat the odds and had extra help on exams.
I discovered at that moment that anything worth doing was worth doing, period. It was worth doing well if you could, but it was also worth doing horribly—if you couldn't do it any other way, then doing it poorly was probably better than not doing it at all. As long as something Gets Done with enthusiasm, at least you will have an experience. It will offer you a test of yourself. It will become the beginning of a story. As far as I can tell we only get to go through life once, but if we do it right, once is enough.
So here’s my hard-won, long-term, from-the-heart advice: Do the very thing that’s most difficult for you to do. Take risks; embrace a sense of possibility even or maybe especially if you’r not certain of the outcome. Face your fears, stare them down, laugh in their faces, and head out for the horizon—even if what’s on the horizon is the highest point in Utah.
Go someplace new; head out for the territories of your imagination. And if these pathways ultimately lead you to law school? No problem.
You and I will have a good laugh about how sometimes, in seeking to alter our fate, we rush to meet it.
One young professor, a man with a Yale Ph.D. in comp. lit. who ended up renouncing academia and heading for a Columbia MBA, once asked me why I decided on law school: "Why? Why on earth would you be a lawyer? I think you'd hate law school" is what he said to me.
Nobody had ever asked me “why” before, probably because in 1975 every big-mouthed, smart-alecky girl was told that "The Law" would be the right place to spend adult life—as if it were a kind of gated community.
I said I thought law would be a good choice because I could pretty much imagine what my life would be like. This professor then quoted me a line he adapted from author Gertrude Stein.
He said "If you can do it, then why do it?"
And it was like the light bulb going off over Bugs Bunny's head. That line, which I still make my classes at UConn copy down in the margins of their notebooks stays with me.
If you know you can do it—if you can already chart every day in your future—then why bother?
Choose to do something you have more trouble imagining. Take a chance.
So here’s my story about taking a chance, about the way life illustrated for me the riotous possibilities inherent in risk. After I left my undergraduate college, a fellowship had me headed not for law school but for New Hall, a women’s college at Cambridge University. Since I was the first woman in my family ever to go to college—or to graduate from high school in a timely fashion, for that matter—Cambridge was rather a shock. But I was thrilled—and with good reason.
During my summers in the U.K., I earned money doing odd research jobs for the British Broadcasting Company. At a party (I always went to parties in those days because it meant free food) a producer I’d only just met asked me to appear on a t.v. show that was a sort-of grown-up version of College Bowl.
The show was called (I’m not kidding) “Mastermind.” You—the contestant—sat under a spotlight on a stage and an announcer fired questions at you concerning a special subject and what was vaguely titled "general knowledge." You had to answer as many questions as you could within the space of three minutes.
If you didn't know the answer, you had to say "pass" because you risked losing points with an incorrect response—sort of like particularly demonic and public SATs. This producer explained—as I stuffed my face with cakes—that the show had been syndicated in seven or eight countries but the show never made it to the States. Would I consider, he asked, acting as the official American contestant?
I had never seen the program, but my British boyfriend of the moment had—and he whispered that I shouldn't even consider such a thing. He said, and I quote: "You'll look silly."
That, of course, made my decision for me. I agreed to be part of the show.
Then I actually watched the terrible, maniacal, sadistic ritual and was unnerved. I chose the life and works of the playwright Tennessee Williams as my special subject. After taking an American drama class back in Hanover, I felt equipped to deal with anything a Brit could invent about ol’ Blanche, Stanley, or The Gentleman Caller. I crammed, memorized, and sweated through even the most obscure plays and short stories. The Brit boyfriend merely gloated. On the day of the taping, I had a remarkably bad cold, runny nose and red eyes. I was fuzzy on cough syrup and mad at the boyfriend who refused to accompany me.
Shockingly, I did all right on the Williams’ material, but when it came to "general knowledge" I knew almost none of the questions they asked, many of which had to do with America. I grew up in Brooklyn, not in America.
Turns out I am vastly, wildly ignorant, despite my fancy education. I could not name all the states run-through by the Mason-Dixon Line. I did not know the highest point in Utah; I didn’t know Utah had a high point. I did not know the estimated population of Atlanta.
The poor audience members—500 strong—were holding their breath in appalled silence as I kept saying "pass" over and over again. In the back of my mind, I was taunting myself in my evil boyfriend’s voice “See? What do you know? Where’s your knowledge now?” I was miserable.
Finally, the announcer, no doubt out of sheer pity, asked me one glorious question:"What kind of animal is a guppy?" and I screamed out "IT'S A FISH!"
There was applause like you never heard.
You’d think I just scored a touchdown, hit the high note, and discovered gold all at once. Clearly the members of the audience were simply so relieved that I got one answer right, even just one, they forgave me everything. They whistled, they stamped their feet; I didn't look silly to them, although I certainly looked like somebody who beat the odds and had extra help on exams.
I discovered at that moment that anything worth doing was worth doing, period. It was worth doing well if you could, but it was also worth doing horribly—if you couldn't do it any other way, then doing it poorly was probably better than not doing it at all. As long as something Gets Done with enthusiasm, at least you will have an experience. It will offer you a test of yourself. It will become the beginning of a story. As far as I can tell we only get to go through life once, but if we do it right, once is enough.
So here’s my hard-won, long-term, from-the-heart advice: Do the very thing that’s most difficult for you to do. Take risks; embrace a sense of possibility even or maybe especially if you’r not certain of the outcome. Face your fears, stare them down, laugh in their faces, and head out for the horizon—even if what’s on the horizon is the highest point in Utah.
Go someplace new; head out for the territories of your imagination. And if these pathways ultimately lead you to law school? No problem.
You and I will have a good laugh about how sometimes, in seeking to alter our fate, we rush to meet it.
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