Despite all the pressure being placed on kids, there is also a ridiculously accepting and sugarcoated environment in their schools and (many times) homes. High schools are now telling students "College isn't a prize to be won, it's a match to be made," to which I say "Wake up you f******* idiot! Better schools do look better, believe it or not."
Not. Forget how you look.
Schooling is about education, not about image.
This is in addition to the contrarians who say that undergraduate stuff doesn't really matter. So, either way they listen, the message is a limpwristed attempt at pre-emptive consolation.
It's not consolation. Nor pre-emptive.
Colleges exist to sell expensive training which does little, and expensive textbooks that support an industry unto itself.
Undergraduate training matters little. So does post-graduate training. So does graduate training.
You sound very much like either a college student who hasn't yet tasted the real world or worked for a living, or a parent who is so deep in his child's college education that he can't afford to look up or see the light of day.
What kind of fry chef does a college graduate make? He knows that the salt he puts on the fries is really sodium chloride. Yippee.
Perhaps he might even make manager a little sooner than the fry cook who doesn't have that fancy degree.
So everybody isn't a winner? By which standard? Two teams of little league play ball. One achieves a higher score. Are they the winners? Not necessarily. I watched a boy from the winning team try to take a bat to a member of his same team, last night. The other member was the coaches son, taunting the player who just struck out. Winners, simply because they got the highest score? I asked one boy afterward how his team did. "We lost," he said. "But did you have fun?" I asked. He thought, then said "Yes." Sounds like a winner to me.
I watched several boys swing hard at the ball and miss. Three times, three strikes, and they were out. Their coach bit his lip, balled up his fist, pounded it on a rail on the fence by the dugout. He was pissed. He showed it, the kids saw it; and they hung their heads in shame. Another coach slapped them on the back as they entered the dugout, and said "good job." He was right. The former coach would have made them losers; they struck out. The second coach didn't see it that way, and neither did I. They went down swinging. That's good enough.
The notion that most will be losers and must accept that is a stupid, defeatist, fatalistic mentality.
When Chesty Puller stood with his men at Chosin Resorvoir, he observed that his men were low on ammunition. It was winter, and they were low on supplies. They were low in number, and the enemy strong. They were surrounded. He noted that being surrounded "simplifies our problem." He made an oft-repeated statement at the time, "They're on our left, they're on our right, they're in front, and they're behind. They can't get away this time."
When one is faced with adversity, be it overwhelming odds that place one in mortal danger, or a pitcher that strikes one out, the realization that there's nothing ahead but improvement and opportunity is what makes one a winner. Being in a position of loss is not losing, and everyone can win. How a win is defined is subjective at best, and keeping score doesn't begin to truly assess success.
When training in the dojo, in a simple engagement of ippon or sambon kumite, I often found myself hurt. Broken bones, broken nose. Sometimes hard enough to blur vision, sometimes painfully so. In every case I was grateful, because while some might suggest that this was evidence of losing the engagement, I saw it as a lesson in finding my openings, my weaknesses. It was by having these experiences that I hoped to see progress.
The boy who struck out last night didn't lose, and he didn't fail. He swung hard, he tried his best, and he learned something. He may have learned to step a little closer to the plate, or to focus more on the ball, or perhaps came to a realization about shifting his weight from his back leg to his front. He learned something, and if he could say after the game that he had fun doing it, then I really don't see anyone being able to tell him that he lost, no matter what the score.
I watched a boy pitching, and I saw him tire. His pitches began to go wild; high, left, and he stopped charging forward toward the catcher. He was proud to be pitching, and he had been giving it all he could, clearly determined to be the best pitcher that he could be. Soon the coach ordered him to third base, and brought the third baseman up to pitch. While another boy in the same position had previously thrown down the ball and grudgingly marched off to cover the base, this boy ran to the base and prepared to be the best baseman he could. Shortly after that he was a shortstop, and determined to be the best shortstop he could be.
He wasn't an expert at any of those things. He simply decided to do his best. His team lost the game by score, but he, like many of his teammates, finished the game a winner.
If you don't want to give each child a chance to be the winner, or to recognize his or her potential (and right) to be just that, then step aside. You're little more than waste and dross in the way. You're part of the problem, whether you realize it or not, and your lousy attitude is the embodiment of failure. Perhaps you don't believe in encouraging people to find success and to learn to recognize their own success and wins because you feel you've already lost. Don't let your own self-perception of failure stand in the way of others. Perhaps you were never taught to understand a win when you see one, and perhaps you're too simple to perceive anything but the final score as a mark of success. More's the pity.
If you think that being a "manly man" is to follow your poor example, perhaps it's time to quietly step down and spend some shallow time reflecting in a mirror. The kids out there whom you might deceive deserve better. In the meantime, let them choose their own college. Yes, kids, the school you choose doesn't really matter that much. It's what you decide to take from there, and what you decide to do with it, that does.