The writing in the margins

There is a history written in the margins of our notebooks.\nI've kept most of mine, four years worth of spiral bound memories, proof that I've been to class and thought a lot of what I heard was worth documenting. Still, during the down time, there are drawings. Sketches of my mind's wanderings that span almost half a decade of lectures, discussion sessions and labs. \nGo ahead. Take a look back. Leaf through the pages of even this year's five-subject. At the time they might have seemed meaningless, but with clearer lenses, each doodle, each stick figure tableau carries with it your past. Embedded in the pen strokes lie your relationships, your plans, your frustrations and your joys. In the margins of your notebooks lie your college experiences.\nThey begin simply as 3-D boxes or different combinations of circles, lines and triangles. Then, as you grow and find fewer and fewer uses for speeches on foreign policy or abnormal psychology, they progress. Eyes appear that stare back at you from the page. Stars twinkle, ray guns fire and suddenly the bullet pointed transcriptions become customized wide-ruled murals of cartoon characters, balloon people, spirals and nudes with no faces. \nPatterns emerge. The first few pages dedicated to any class begin finely written -- the penmanship is clear and professional. As the days pass, the letters begin to move farther and farther apart. The care with which you thoughtfully noted the contrasts between supernovas and black holes gets abandoned. Pages lose their datelines and, eventually, their original purposes as well.\nThey become a way to speak to yourself without compelling the person sitting next to you to stare. They memorize phone numbers of lovers gone, meeting times, part-time job schedules, and e-mail addresses of new acquaintances that have since become old friends. They offer advice such as "You need more specific detail." They ask questions such as "Why is Timmy so gullible?" And sometimes, they share cryptic bits of wisdom that only become clear as you get older, whispering "Ishmael doesn't want to go to sea as a passenger."\nEventually, a language all of its own develops. In the margins of your notebooks, secret messages fade as college life recedes into memory and The Real World awaits the sacrifice of your youth. Single phrases scribbled on the sides remind you that once "hot crossed buns" made sense. It was vital to write down "food lion -- changing dates -- meat" or remind yourself that "password: material." \nThen, the pages go blank. \nThe semester ends and there's nothing left to write down. All that remains are vacant sheets of paper, white space where you once were able to prove you were being educated. The ritual of university life runs its course. You no longer need to keep track of the things you learned. You finish your last multiple choice test and await much more frightening exams: job searches, relocations, marriages. For those, there are no PowerPoint slides.\nThe notebook gets thrown away, recycled or, if you're lucky, kept in the back of a closet until the day creeps upon you when you're forced to begin packing the past into plastic tubs and cardboard boxes. If the urge strikes you, you open the tomes to fill solitary moments, remembering who you were in college. You remember what you did in the few times you weren't aware of yourself, when you were writing and living in the margins. \nYou drew, you dreamt, you grew up. Somewhere, in the cacophony of underlined phrases and wishful sketching, you search for clues, something that might hint at what your future holds. If you look hard enough, you'll find it. It's right there for you, the things you want to say and do but never had the courage or the time. The life you want to lead has a road map. All it needs is for you to revisit the pages. Pay attention to what you were telling yourself. There is a history written in the margins of your notebooks.