"You need to leave."

I pondered that sentence for a moment, considering various arguments I could make to legitimize my presence in the career fair designated only for computer science students. I had entered the Ross Ade stadium through a side door, knowing that I would be unwelcome at the official check in booth. 

"Why?"

"You don't have a name tag, this is only for Computer Science students."

"Ok, thank you."

I tried to ignore the dismissive inflection she had placed toward the end of her sentence. I was thankful, she had given me a valuable bit of information: I needed a name tag. I exited through a side door, walked around the curved structure out of her eyesight, and promptly reentered near the back of the check in booth. 

A line of Computer Science students extended out the door, most of them adorned with prom colored neckties and sweating beneath oversized jackets. A group of administrators was gathered behind two parallel tables arranged as a makeshift credentials checkpoint. Armed with rosters and Purdue pins on their lapels, each administrator dutifully accepted Purdue identification cards for verification. I watched them scan the name on the card, leaf through the paper roster, then match the face on the card with the face of the student waiting patiently in front of them. There was no way I would be able to breach this entrance.

"Thank you." I said to the administrator who's head shot up as I grabbed a sharpie and name tag off of his table. He looked at me questioningly, but I didn't give him a chance to respond, the proper strategy when dealing with these types. Armed with my newfound badge, I was unmolested for the remainder of the career fair.

--

"But, the fair was only for Computer Science students, don't you feel bad about taking jobs away from students who are supposed to be there?"

It was now 6 months later, and I was having coffee with the administrator in charge of organizing the Computer Science Career Fair. She took the meeting with me since I was the head of a cross disciplinary technology club called Purdue Hackers which had recently gained the status of Official Student Organization. I had just finished relating my experience of the career fair to her, and explained that I received an internship offer from a company who only recruited at Purdue through this event.

"Well, I will talk to my supervisor about making a special exception for members of your club. In the future you should not sneak in to any more of these events."

I had been arguing that all qualified students should have equal access to companies who pay to recruit at Purdue. Nothing ever happened, my story had fallen on deaf ears.

--

Education is no longer the ivory tower it once was. Public universities especially are subjected to the harsh realities of the real word: money, politics, and an internal structure of administrators grabbing for power. Many students fault the system, pick out people who should be replaced, complain that this isn't what they signed up for, then check out. Other students vehemently defend the system, "There are great professors here if you can weed through all the bullshit! Go to class, do your homework, submit to authority." Each of these mindsets serves the purpose of a moral heuristic through which actions that are not beneficial can be justified. Be it cheating or diligently wasting time on homework, students detach themselves and sacrifice learning in the process.

I don't think either of these mindsets is productive, so I propose a third: The Wild West Education, complete with our own version of manifest destiny. The core tenets are:

1. the virtue of the student and their organizations;
2. the mission to spread these organizations, thereby redeeming and remaking educational institutions in the image of true education;
3. the destiny to do this work.

Ok, maybe I don't really believe in destiny but it's still fun. The important part is to realize that excuses and inaction won't get us anywhere. Maybe the system is broken, maybe it's not, but either way you're here to learn. 

That's where the wild west part comes in to play. Operate as an outlaw in the university-wide game. Pick the rules you want to follow, and make gambits where you see fit. Take what you can from the system, don't wait for it to be given from you. Walk in to classes you don't have the requisites for. Organize without waiting for approval from any office. Steal public spaces, gather where you aren't allowed to. Fire up Chegg, git clone the solution, work with your friends. Then do something you think is worthwhile. I'm not saying you're morally justified in doing any of these things, but I'm definitely saying that you aren't by default in the wrong. Your time is yours.

I'm a firm believer in the collective power of education. People working together are more efficient than individuals working alone. Universities are lightning rods for brilliant people. I posit that even though administrations are robbing us blind, there is still a lot of value in the geographic centers universities create. For better or for worse, it's now up to you to figure out how to cash in on that. The sooner you distance your identity from your university database entry, the better.

--

"Congratulations, stick this on your left shoulder, order yourself in line."

My number was 169, the last number Purdue would ever give me. I walked down a row of students and indexed myself in a roped lane eerily similar to something I'd seen on a documentary about the meat industry. I flipped through my program and read about the history of the cap and gown, traditional costume pieces of commencement. The sacraments of education were about to take place on the grandest stage, and this time I would get to be an actor.

I silently arranged my feet according to the icons on the floor. Someone handed me a fake diploma and I smiled in front of a green screen, the final record Purdue would have of me. 

Our procession followed a somber path around the engineering quad, past the river birch and white ash I'd seen so many times before. Themed music echoed from a speaker on a large fake train, one our official mascots. Most students were texting, snapping selfies, and posting photos to various social media. Our procession ended by ascending the stairs of the most ornate building on campus, the Hovde Hall of Administration. We crossed a raised walkway and entered the Elliott Hall of Music, so named because the presence of a music hall is specifically forbidden in the University's founding documents.

When the time came for me to cross the stage I pulled a mask from under my robe and tied the ribbon over my ears. It was the final piece of my costume, a marxian character mask, a greek theater mask, a revolutionary's disguise, a gun slinging outlaw's signature. I was handed my diploma by a group of administrators on stage who saw me how they always had, a faceless figure processing forward in time. In the middle of the stage I paused, turned to face the audience, and looked out over the mass of caps and gowns. I saw a few faces light up and smile when they saw themselves behind the mask.