Teenagers Will Walk Very Far

My nephew Benny starts kindergarten next week.

His summer has been largely devoted to superheroes, monster trucks, playing with his sisters, and swimming, which seems like appropriate preparation.

Benny has a way of observing the world around him that feels considerably older than just his five years.

He watches people. He notices things. And then he develops theories about them.

A few weeks ago, in advance of our family reunion, Benny invented a game called Super Sitters. The rules were simple: the adult who could sit the longest won.

To Benny’s chagrin, it was a huge hit. His Gramp — my dad — won by a landslide. But since he’s Benny’s favorite human, and since Benny was the only judge, the voting might have been skewed.

This morning, my sister texted me a video of Benny sharing another observation. This time about teenagers.

According to Benny, teenagers have a superpower: they can walk very far.

For a kid obsessed with superheroes and monster trucks, this made me pause.

It wasn’t super strength or invisibility or flying.

And, much like Super Sitters, I thought: Well, he’s not wrong.

Teenagers will walk astonishing distances when no adult has suggested that they do so.

They’ll walk miles with their friends. They’ll walk to get food. They’ll walk from one friend’s house to another and then somewhere else entirely. They’ll wander around a neighborhood with no particular destination.

The walking itself seems to be the point.

These are, of course, the same people who can regard a parent’s suggestion that they walk three blocks as an outrageous violation of their civil liberties.

But give them some independence, some friends and nowhere they absolutely have to be?

They’ll walk very far.

Benny thinks that’s their superpower.

And because it is August and I spend most of my waking hours talking to teenagers about college applications, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Maybe walking far is one of their superpowers.

And maybe, during the college process, we adults spend too much time trying to make them take the shortest route.

I understand why.

It is August.

I know exactly how many days there are until November 1, and I assure you I am not advocating for a completely unstructured stroll toward the Common App deadline.

There are applications to finish. There are essays to write. There are supplements that cannot remain Google Docs entitled “Northwestern essay NEW new FINAL 2” forever.

Eventually, someone has to hit submit.

But I also know that some of the best work my students do comes after they have gone in what appears to be entirely the wrong direction.

They write the essay that isn’t the essay.

They visit the college they were certain they would love and don’t.

They announce that they know exactly what they want to major in and change their minds.

They spend twenty minutes telling me about the story they think matters and then casually mention something else that makes me stop them.

Wait. Go back. Tell me about that.

And there it is.

From an adult perspective, this can be maddening.

It is maddening.

I can see the destination.

Why can’t they just go there?

Perhaps, it’s because they don’t know it’s the destination yet.

That is the part I think we forget.

We’ve made more decisions. We’ve made more mistakes. We know that November 1 is coming because November 1 has been coming for us, in one form or another, for decades.

Teenagers don’t have that perspective yet.

A parent looks at August and sees November.

A teenager looks at August and sees August.

The parent thinks: We need to get moving.

The teenager thinks: I am moving.

Both may be right.

I see this most clearly in the personal statement.

A student starts with an idea. It doesn’t work.

We try something else. That doesn’t work either.

There is an outline. Then another outline. Then 900 words that answer a Common App prompt but don’t tell me much of anything about the person who wrote them.

It would be lovely if I could simply tell a student on day one what the essay is going to be.

Sometimes I can see it before they can.

Sometimes they have to write the wrong essay to figure out what the right one is.

It’s not unique to essays.

I’ve watched students fall in love with colleges their parents had to beg them to visit.

I’ve watched a school that seemed perfect on paper disappear from the list before the tour was over.

I’ve watched students discover academic interests because of a class they took almost accidentally.

I’ve watched them become leaders in activities they joined because a friend told them to come along.

None of it looks particularly efficient while it is happening.

Later, we turn it into a story.

Of course she chose that college.

Of course he became interested in that subject.

Of course that was the essay.

But it wasn’t “of course” when they were in the middle of it.

They were walking.

This doesn’t mean adults should disappear.

Teenagers need guardrails. They need deadlines. They need people who have walked farther than they have.

And sometimes they need an adult to say, with love and considerably less poetry, you need to sit down and finish the Common App.

There is a difference between giving a teenager room to figure something out and allowing them to wander directly past an application deadline.

But there is also a difference between guidance and removing every wrong turn before they have the chance to make it.

That’s harder.

Because when you love a kid, and you can see a shorter route, of course you want to point it out.

When you know an essay idea isn’t working, you want to fix it.

When you know a college isn’t the right fit, you want to save the trip.

When they’re uncertain, you want to give them the answer.

Sometimes that’s exactly what adults should do.

And sometimes we need to sit on our hands.

The college process is, after all, one of the first times we ask teenagers to make a whole series of decisions about a life that will actually be theirs.

Not forever. Choosing a college at 17 does not determine the rest of anyone’s existence, despite what certain corners of the internet would have you believe.

But it is theirs.

They are beginning to decide where they might live, what they might study, what kind of community they want and what matters enough to carry with them.

They are also figuring out how they make decisions.

That may be the more important part.

Can I change my mind?

Can I recover from a wrong turn?

Can I try something without knowing exactly where it leads?

Can I listen to people who know more than I do without handing them the decision?

Can I get somewhere myself?

Those are useful things to learn before anyone drops you off at a dorm.

Benny starts kindergarten next week, so thankfully we have some time before anyone needs to ask him where he’s applying to college.

His parents met at DePauw University so I’m cheering for #DePauw2043.

But for now, I’m going to trust his assessment of the species.

Teenagers can walk very far.

Let’s let them.