“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less traveled by. And that has made ALL the difference.”
“AGAIN. This time I want it even LOUDER.”
“TWO ROADS DIVERGED IN A WOOD, AND I – I TOOK THE ONE LESS TRAVELED BY. AND THAT HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE.”
Every summer, at Nebraska Wesleyan University’s basketball camp, we bellowed these words back to the HBIC. These words were the key to our future, she said. We nodded earnestly, clinging to their innate confidence.
We did the same, when our seventh grade English teacher preached of Robert Frost’s prowess.
We hoped the college admission peeps did the same when they read the essays we crafted around his wholly undisputed grail of inspiration – you know, just to show them the kind of unique risk-takers we really were.
At what point would it have been appropriate for us to say, “No sh*t, Sherlock.”
I mean, I love Robert Frost. I even love The Road Not Taken. But are we really going to sit here and pretend it’s groundbreaking? “Two roads diverged in the wood, and I – I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference.” So you’re saying, if we choose adifferent path than the masses, that decision will have a major effect on our lives?! This is part of the curriculum that is supposed to prepare our nation’s children for the real world. Call me optimistic, but I feel like that’s something most kids could figure out on their own. I’d like to know what he did when he came to two roads that looked…pretty much the same.
Entry Level Position of Death by Fluorescent Lighting to the left or Entry Level Position of Death by Indentured Slavery to the right? Now there’s something sticky little hands could cling to. (Though, admittedly, the cadence isn’t quite as calming.)
Or maybe that’s where choir rehearsal came in.