The notion that students at Pepperdine should always be happy is a fallacy. It sets up expectations that dismiss real problems. It standardizes disappointment and sterilizes reality. 11 · CURRENTS
emotion without this complex brew of anxiety and guilt? When will we realize that this life is not a commercial and that it is OK to be unhappy at Pepperdine? Why the denial? That is not to say we should be pathetic, ungrateful or scared while receiving a prestigious education in the hills of Malibu. Pepperdine truly is one of the most remarkable places on Earth. The purpose of this article is to validate the immense gravity of fear that pulls on the ribcage and fills, with bees, the thoughts of those faculty whose brain chemistry or relationships have betrayed them, those freshmen whose radiant sunbeams of excitement at the acceptance letter have fallen into the prism of alcohol abuse and depression, those law students whose tired compass whizzes in every direction, those transfer students whose mother just died, those staff members whose marriages curdle like old milk — those whose darkness is darker than the Malibu sun is bright. Do not settle. Do not arrive. The life-posture that accepts absolute, hurried stability at the probable death of empathy and depth is part of the knotty culture of shame we perpetuate. Some call it the “Pepperdine face,” in which real problems are shouldered in silence behind $600 sunglasses. In this way, the “Pepperdine face” is a performance for the sake of appearances, not a reflection of reality. How are we supposed to react to the idea that we should always be perfect, happy and indefatigable? How are we supposed to deal with real problems when they are pushed away like something shameful or dirty — a blip on our newsfeeds? Pepperdine cannot save you. The blueness of the ocean and the whiteness of the sand are not Amazon-packaged deliveries of contentment and joy. Yes, we live in Malibu, California. Yes, it is where they filmed Zoey one-oh-freaking-one. But we are still people and our faults and fears are just as real. Tell this to people back home in Ohio, China or Texas and you risk being labeled a thankless pessimist. They — whose crooked idea of joy relies on the sandbox in your backyard — may never understand that “paradise” has its graveyards and pretenses. A look at assumptions Gazing from the expansive vista of Hero’s Garden, the universe seems whole. Perhaps it’s the marbled romanticism of grace that sees rock faces and distant waves as the harmonious tinkerings of God. Look to the ground and tell the cannibalistic, half-eaten microcreatures that the world has order. Look to the sky and tell the stars — caught in the reverie of a supermassive black hole, draught in the cyclic tension of spacebits, aflame, — that nature has order, that the irreverent prejudice of God allows the death of star systems without eulogy. Happiness, constancy and peace are not built-in features. Only romantics assume fulfillment. To crave wholeness while recognizing fault is to transcend. Finding this tenuous intercourse of hydrogen and time — such terrible chaos ballasts a terrible peace. Catastrophe is in here: the gravity and melody of assumption and blind faith. The notion that students at Pepperdine should always be happy is a fallacy. It sets up expectations that dismiss real problems. It standardizes disappointment and sterilizes reality. But perhaps like Kafka, Cornel West and Hannah Montana, we should understand that every good narrative is dynamic in part because it begins with catastrophe. “Life’s what you make it.” It is what happens in the ashy gray of the bombsite that defines character. True joy requires an understanding of the hollow depths of pain and the brilliant intoxication of redemption. Constant happiness is torment. Art, said Rumi, is flirtation with surrender. Dying, therefore, plunges into the art of surrender — the one true mold. All art loves death and therefore transcends it. Art is when your lungs heave like an iPad in the dryer and, like a dying star, cave in on themselves — pulling you into the petroleum reverie of love. A tiny white strand of ego lost in a deep blue gaze. This is the radical appeal to our shared humanity. This is the tired belief in authenticity and truth: it is OK to not be OK. It is not your responsibility to be happy — it is your joy to be human. Now is that so cynical? CURRENTS · 12
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