We’ve all heard that death is as much a part of life as, well, actually living. At some point in our childhoods, our parents pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, braced for the flurry of questions and tears, and imparted this lesson to us, their children. It might be spurred by a death in the family (in my case, the family dog), or it may emerge totally unprovoked. Regardless of whatever form it takes, the “death talk” is a universally shared experience, and represents a watershed moment in one’s childhood.
In my own life, I’ve been fortunate enough to have not experienced much in the way of death. My parents, grandparents and friends are all in good health, and while I’ve known peers who have passed away, I could never count them among my “close” friends. For this reason, whenever a public figure I admire passes away, it always seems to hit me harder than my friends who have experienced deaths that hit closer to home.
With the passing of Satoru Iwata, the president and CEO of Nintendo, this past Saturday, I’ve been thinking a lot about death and my own childhood. Iwata’s death didn’t affect me all that profoundly; upon hearing of it, I gasped, texted my best friend and immediately began playing the new Super Smash Bros. Trite as it may be, it seemed like the only appropriate way to pay tribute to a man who defined so much of my youth. Although I don’t play video games with the same regularity that I used to, I still make it a point to follow coverage of the Electronic Entertainment Expo (E3) every summer. Since I began following E3 at the tender age of 10, Iwata had been a constant presence at the event, announcing Nintendo’s lineup with the same playful professionalism he demonstrated year in and year out. The notion of an Iwata-less E3 makes me feel positively ancient.
To most people, it must seem silly to feel old in college. As college students, we’re supposed to be vibrant, sparkly things, wearing our youthful optimism and energy on our sleeves. But as I watch key figures of my pop-culture upbringing pass away (Lou Reed, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Robin Williams being among them), each successive death serves as a reminder that the perpetual human comedy doesn’t stop for anyone.
My generation, more than any generation previous, has grown up in the most media-saturated era civilization has ever seen. Between music, film, television, video games and the Internet, there are more public figures than ever for us to identify and empathize with. Because there’s so much going on at any given moment, it’s easy to fall into the trap of assuming that the status quo will hold. For better or for worse, this could not be further from the truth. At some point, all of the key figures of our youth will pass away (except for David Bowie, hopefully — the man ages like fine wine), and rather than worrying about whether we’ll have enough money to scrape together for tickets to our next concert, we’ll be more concerned with the size of our 401k account.
With my grim philosophizing out of the way, hopefully I can make my point: Be aware, and cherish every moment. Be aware your friend group your freshman year might not be the same one you end up graduating college with, and that your current boyfriend or girlfriend might not stick around forever. Cherish the fact that it’s somewhat acceptable to walk to class hungover the next morning; stunts like that won’t be tolerated (or in the event that you become tragically out of shape, possible) at your place of work in your 40s. Youth is fleeting and can be over in the blink of an eye — speaking for myself, college went by faster than high school did. As Drake once mused, “YOLO”.
Zach Schlein is a UF political science senior. His column appears on Thursday.
