They say Stanford is a school of ducks: calm on the top, busy on the bottom. We calmly avoid discussing the amount of work we have to do, maintaining a calm demeanor in the face of a daunting array of problem sets, projects and extracurriculars. But under the surface, we’re feverishly paddling our webbed appendages, struggling to stay afloat.

This image is everywhere. According to The Stanford Daily, a psychologist came in the other day to Kresge Auditorium to speak about stress management. Her talk chiefly concerned the impact of the “Stanford Duck Syndrome” on our student body.

SDS appears on the website Princeton Review, in the “Students Say” section. It finds mention in The Unofficial Guide to Stanford University and The Insider’s Guide to Colleges. The phrase gets 97 independent hits on Google, and it has even made its way into Urban Dictionary.

The general perception of this phenomenon is negative: By denying our problems, we exacerbate them. Through not mentioning the work we’ve got to do, we arrogantly imply that we can get by without assistance. And through refusing to acknowledge our feverish paddling, we end up paddling our way into oblivion.

But before we delve into the psychological consequences of this pressing issue, I have but one question:

Where the hell are all the ducks?

If I held out a handful of breadcrumbs at the average student gathering, a mere minority of students would waddle over to get them. I rarely see the remnants of our pellet-like feces on the steps of Meyer Library. No, we’re animals of a different breed here, and our food of choice is nectar. Our wings beat at 80 flaps a second, and we’re quick to point this out by hovering in place.

We are a school of hummingbirds, flapping our wings at max speed for the benefit of anyone who happens to pass us by. The other birds look on as we hum away, nervously and anxiously sipping our sugar water in several-second bouts.

I can’t tell you how many times my dinnertime conversations have revolved exclusively around work. I hear the hum of wings as we exasperatedly interject the number of essays, problem sets and pages of reading we’ve got to do before a certain deadline. I see in talk of extracurriculars the anxious movements of a creature whose heart beats 1,260 times a minute.

Sure, there are a number of people who do fit the duck phenotype. I don’t know what they do or how they get things done, because they’re always talking about other things. But to some degree, the Stanford Hummingbird Syndrome affects us all.

It is for this reason that I say simply, bring on the ducks. I honestly don’t care how many essays you’ve got to do, how many problem sets you have or which class you’re taking is the hardest. Sure, we should talk about it at some point — I mean, after all, we are in school. But the incessant humming has got to stop. Give me the bill, the orange feet, the wings that flap at a normal speed. Ducks can still have attractive and notable plumage, but they don’t hover to show it off.

As for the deep psychological problems this mentality is supposed to entail, are these not made worse in an environment in which you can talk about stress openly? If I am free to speak about the amount of stress I’m under, I’m going to exaggerate, I’m going to try to one-up the guy next to me. You’ve got a paper due by tomorrow at 5? Well, I’ve got a job to apply for, three papers and a mob hit to pull off. We Stanford hummingbirds, instead of commiserating, brag. This environment fosters even more anxiety and allows us to baby ourselves as we exaggerate our workload by a factor of ten.

Give me quacks, I tell you! Let us sit at the dinner table and talk about the world, philosophy and the benefits and drawbacks of a nudist lifestyle. I don’t care if you’re sitting poised under an avalanche of work. As long as we don’t talk too loudly, the snowy vortex of death will stay in its place. We’re all busy here. Let us for just 30 minutes take our minds away from all that, and float calmly on the surface.

Nat hopes to create a band called The Stanford Duck Syndrome. Copyright pending. Send comments to nat.hillard@stanford.edu.