With graduation looming ever closer, I find myself reminiscing about my college beginnings. I can’t seem to stop myself from thinking back to those days when college was still an utterly novel concept: alien, mysterious and exciting — a voyage into the unknown. And I know I’m not alone in this feeling; all over Cornell, seniors are succumbing to this epidemic of premature nostalgia.

Just the other day, some of my friends and I were discussing what our expectations of college were when we were still seniors in high school. A common theme was that going to college provided an opportunity to recreate oneself and leave behind unwanted portions of persona in the pages of high school yearbooks.

I suppose I can understand their desire to reinvent themselves. After all, college is a unique time and Cornell a unique place — where better to rediscover oneself and, if desired, change? I must admit, however, to having a very different perspective: I rather fiercely wished to hold on to what defined me as an individual. I have never been a fan of change for the sake of change, or worse yet, change for the sake of a new conformity. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against change if it in fact leads to improvement. After all, balancing continuity and change is the secret of Cornell’s success.

Indeed, what attracted me to Cornell was just how much individuality and diversity are valued. Enshrined in our motto, Cornell represents the antithesis of conformity. Just look at our buildings on campus. A hodgepodge of different architectural styles are juxtaposed in a chaotic but breathtakingly beautiful manner. Is there such a thing as a typical Cornell building? So why should there be a typical Cornellian?

Yet, all too often, we fall into the trap of typecasting individuals. I’ve experienced this myself, and I’m never sure whether I should be amused or annoyed. Take the following incident, for example.

At the beginning of this semester, I was comfortably ensconced in my favorite corner in Collegetown Bagels, bantering with four of my friends about life after Cornell. As we hit a lull in the conversation, a song began to play in the background. It was a charming tune called “Dragula,” a song which I’ve been quite fond of for years. I find the song’s artist, a gentleman who goes by the name Rob Zombie, to be an excellent songwriter (though slightly less skilled in producing movies). I happily noted that the song was one of my favorites, and was about to turn back to the conversation, when I noticed the stunned silence which had hit the table.

Finally, the fellow sitting across from me managed to blurt out in shocked disbelief, “You like this song? Impossible!”

I immediately realized that I only had three choices in this situation:

1. Lie shamelessly — “Why of course I don’t know this song! As you’ve doubtlessly already assumed, based upon my sweater-vest and studious personality, I actually like classical music!”

2. Make a break for it — “Good Heavens! I simply must dash! I may be only 25 minutes early to my RSC Meeting instead of the usual half-hour!”

3. Tell the truth — “Actually, I’m quite fond of this band and this genre in general. I suppose Nine Inch Nails would top my list, but, in truth, I enjoy many such groups.”

I responded with the third option. Upon hearing this, the fellow’s mouth opened so wide you could comfortably park a Buick in it — something that I felt like doing just then.

Of course, the next part was quite predictable. Without failure, the following sentence has dogged my footsteps, ever since I began listening to music: “Honestly, I would have pegged you as only liking classical music.”

I managed to repress a sigh, but only barely. Instead, I managed a faint smile to mollify the fellow.

I’ve been through similar situations so many times that the awkward banter which follows that statement is purely routine, as is the faint ghost of annoyance which it elicits. Supposedly “the clothes make the man.” I was simply unaware that the old adage was that deterministic. Is it truly shocking that I like both argyle sweaters and Atreyu? Is it really a crime for me to like Godsmack and good table manners? I suppose so.

The point is not to highlight what in the scheme of things was a trivial incident. Rather, I want to underscore that diversity also includes the inadvertently insensitive, and that as we emerge from our Cornell cocoon, we are going to face being pigeon holed and stereotyped. In that sense, conformity is also part of diversity. A true Cornellian can never be typecast. Nor should we typecast others.

But think back to the beginning of the journey we promised ourselves as high school seniors. I am reminded of the last line of Tennyson’s poem, “Ulysses:” “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” And think of the vision of Ezra Cornell and A. D. White. Our founders succeeded in creating a vibrant and enduring community of unique, distinct and diverse individuals. We, their beneficiaries, must strive to preserve, nurture and expand their legacy. And, of course, do continue to rock on.