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Wednesday, July 28, 2004
the road not taken
Everyone knows about the Frost poem "The Road Not Taken":
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I�
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
It's pretty much standard fare for pretentious high-school students
(like I used to be) for whom it is an anthem to noncomformity, what
with its ending line and all, and the reference to it in "Dead Poet's
Society" (the memorable gift from our high-school class to the school
as we departed was the professionally-scrawled text Carpe Diem on the outside wall near
the gymnasium. Hey, it was the early nineties). I thought of it
as such myself, until I was about twenty and I read Up the Down
Staircase (READ THIS NOW. THIS MEANS YOU), wherein the fictional young
teacher Miss Barrett leads a class discussion about how Frost's poem is
not so much about nonconformity as it is about regret. No matter what
road you take, you'll always look back and wonder -- what if I'd taken
the other road? I have had a few "road not taken" moments in my
adult life. One was when some of the people with whom I'd
graduated started teaching at our alma mater. I had a day of
thinking, here I am and there they are and I could have done that,
until I realized how much more painful it would have been to have been
single and teaching, and to see one of my classmates out for a walk
with her two healthy, happy children and her adoring, nearly-perfect
husband. And then today, I was thinking about those revolutionary
thoughts from yesterday's last snippet, and looking up classes in the
local community college's catalog. I had all the fun of making an
imaginary schedule for myself, and by the time I'd fit fifteen units
into Tuesdays and Thursdays, it was quickly becoming less imaginary,
and I was thinking I really might want to find a way to do this.
The itch to sit in a room with a sharp pencil and graph paper and a
lecturer was becoming quite strong. Then I had the following
conversation with my very cautious, somewhat anxious, clingy
eight-year-old son:
I: (sitting on the porch swing) What would you think if I went
to college?
He: (lying in the kiddie pool) Well, would we be with you?
I: No, you couldn't come to my classes.
He: (sits up) No then. No. I don't want you to.
I: (gently) I don't have to. But I'd like you to think about it
a little. It would only be two days a week. You could be in a fun place
with a lady Mommy knows and trusts, and with other kids, having fun,
and playing. And your sister would be with you.
He: No. I like to just be here, with you.
I: What if Aunt Debi watched you at her house, with your
cousins?
He: No.
I: What if someone came here to watch you?
He: No.
I: What if, after I went to college for a while, Daddy could
stay home with you all the time instead of me for a while?
He: [long, long pause] It would be OK if Daddy could stay home,
I guess. But I don't want you to go to college just for that, I like it
fine the way it is. Why do you want to go to college anyway?
I: Well, if I got a degree in, say, nursing, so that I could
work in a hospital, then I could get a job while your daddy looked for
a job that didn't make him sad sometimes like the one he has does. And
if we wanted to move somewhere like Florida or Texas, then I could get
a job very easily and your dad could look around for a job when we got
there. And I like learning. I miss learning.
He: I like to stay here, in California. There's too much rain in
Florida, isn't there? And you can learn things on the computer. You do
anyway. You learn about things like the C-shaped seaweed we saw in
Morro Bay, and the jellyfish, and anything you want to learn about.
I: We certainly don't have to move. And if we ever do, it won't
be very soon. But sometimes I just miss learning a lot about subjects,
and sitting in a desk listening to a teacher, and having a sharpened
pencil and graphs to draw or papers to write [lying through my teeth
about the papers, the very thought of having to write a paper makes me
want to chuck the whole idea, but the principle is there]. What if I
went at night? If maybe Grandma and Grandpa or someone came here for
just a few minutes before Daddy got home, and then I came home after
you were in bed?
He: (another long pause). I don't really like that either. I am
used to you being here. I like you being here. I like Daddy being here
too. Do you have to?
I: (screaming inside) No, I don't really have to. But
I think I kind of want to.
He: (yet another long pause) Well, if you have to go, I guess it
would be OK if you went at night.
I: Just out of curiosity, how old do you think you'll be before
it would be OK with you for me to go during the day?
He: Fifteen?
My husband and I have created a life for ourselves which 99.9% of the
time fits me perfectly. It fits our marriage, it fits our
priorities, our child-rearing principles, our spiritual beliefs.
But today I found myself thinking, what
if I'd taken that other road... and was presented with a reality
check in the form of a flesh-and-blood-and-spirit result of the road
I've been on for the past ten years. Already the wistfulness and
frustration have dissipated to the point where I wonder what I was all
wound up about -- but I am
going to call the college about a night class tomorrow.
