0530
Generic Inspiration
Every so often I receive an email from the Office of Career Services inquiring as to whether I’d be interested in joining the Marine Corps. At first glance, their outreach makes sense; after all, I’m a military age male with unusually short hair. Moreover, I’ve discussed military strategy with virtually everyone I’ve met, so it’s no surprise that my advisors know I’m interested in pursuing a military career. There’s just one problem: I’m already contracted with the Army.
For the Marines reading this: I’m not admitting the Army’s alleged inferiority (that debate was settled during Sunday’s football match—Go Army, beat Navy!). Instead, I’d like to discuss Harvard’s strange relationship with cadets in terms of career advice. For starters, I dislike wasting time; the government already commandeers a large chunk of my life, so the last thing I need is another bureaucratic force attempting to influence my decisions. Enter Harvard’s advising system.
Academic Purgatory
When I told my family that I had decided to concentrate in government, their expectations weren’t exactly aligned with those of Harvard. My father believed I would learn how to resolve our rocky relationship with the former Soviet world. My mother believed I would learn how to fix our nation’s broken immigration system. Now that I’m a junior, I still know nothing of immigration law, nor am I any closer to understanding U.S.-Russia relations.
Instead, I’ve dedicated most of my time to learning political theory. Can I name all 27 amendments to the U.S. Constitution? Nope. Do I understand electoral law? Go fish. Nevertheless, I’ve built a substantial arsenal of dry, demotivating quotes from a handful of dead political theorists. Apparently I’ve also learned to write eloquent papers regarding the implications of Kantian thought on American governance. And yet, I haven’t read anything written by Kant in its entirety, or anything authored by the various political scientists I regularly quote in my papers, for that matter.
Witch Hunts
Earlier this year, I was adamant in my decision to avoid publicly participating in political discourse. The ugliness of the presidential race, combined with the animosity and arrogance that still dominates most online forums, led me to dread politics, a topic that once enthralled my younger self. However, last Tuesday’s result and the ensuing wave of rage that continues to engulf social media have finally convinced me to emerge from my hole.
Despite the interconnectedness that the proliferation of social media supposedly fosters, it seems that most people willfully lock themselves in online echo chambers. Students share eloquent posts on Facebook addressed to the public yet accessible only to their friends and allies. Our classmates suggest articles that support a particular view, and our newsfeeds guide us towards opinions, groups, and memes that align with our preconceived notions of right and wrong. As such, each of us strongly holds that we represent the “correct” side of history. As a Democrat myself, I believe our groupthink and hubris compromised our ability to wage an effective campaign and, more importantly, led us to mistakenly dismiss Trump as a joke.
False Flags
I hate election season for a multitude of reasons, but few things irk me more than the upsurge in meaningless political “patriotism” that accompanies every presidential election. The ungodly amount of flags at political rallies; the bright stars and stripes that adorn our melodramatic presidential debates; the overwhelming hues of red, white, and blue that provide the background for every major network’s election coverage all serve to drown the public with meaningless rituals that supposedly define our love for America.
Both sides of the aisle bear equal responsibility for perpetuating the national contest of patriotism. Democrats and Republicans alike use veterans and coal miners as props to prove their alleged dedication to America’s future. Their incessant cries of “God bless our troops,” and “God bless America” serve as nothing more than a guise to cover their indifference to the affairs of the common citizen.
The Necessity of Nostalgia
Some days, the act of checking my agenda becomes stressful in and of itself. I know I’ll only discover additional tasks to complete, as well as reminders to start the tasks I’ve neglected. It’s during these angst-inducing times that I’m most likely to receive electronic notifications from home; perhaps a call from my mother or a text from my girlfriend asking if I’m free to Skype. Rather than comfort me, these reminders of home heighten my anxiety; at times they seem like yet another call to arrange, another hour spent chatting rather than battling my mountain of uncompleted work.
It’s on days like these when I ask myself why I bother to return the calls, reply to the texts, and arrange the Skype sessions with individuals I no longer see on a regular basis. As the saying goes, “Why limit yourself to your past?” Sometimes I find myself tempted to reduce contact with those back home, hoping to redouble my focus on the tasks at hand. After all, most of us are only granted four years to pursue our undergraduate goals. Why let the past dominate the little time we have?