Years in cubicle teaches lessons of outside world

Monday, June 15, 1998

Years in cubicle teaches lessons of outside world

I’m writing this column over the hum of a computer that I’ve
been sitting in front of for three years, and over the voices of
friends and co-workers (they are both, not one or the other) and
over the repetitious beat of whichever CD happens to be today’s
favorite.

And it occurs to me that I’m not writing over background noise.
It’s more of a soundtrack than a score. And it doesn’t go away when
I leave the office. I suspect it never will.

And if I really stop to think about it, I can remember that
there have been several computers, and the voices have changed
several times (although some have preceded me and will linger long
after I’m gone) and there must have been at least two different CDs
that we’ve listened to over the course of three years.

And it is because of these thoughts – these random, senseless
thoughts – that I am glad I chose to spend the last three years
immersed in Kerckhoff Hall, the only building on campus that looks
like a castle. I don’t even mind that Kandea’s office is at the top
of the tower, and mine is in the dungeon.

I don’t regret it because these thoughts are a part of me, and I
am a better person because of them. Had I decided to spend more
time lounging in the sculpture garden, or had I spent the entirety
of those three years in class, I would have had memories.

But memories are those fleeting thoughts from the past which we
passively permit to drift through our heads. What I take with me
from The Bruin will always be written in the present tense, and it
will always remember to use the active voice. What I take from The
Bruin has helped, more than any professor, book or lecture hall, to
define me.

The lessons I’ve learned here give meaning to my father’s words
of wisdom, which until now have offered me little more than the
comfortable familiarity of his resounding voice echoing in my
head.

I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know that I now understand what he
means when he reminds me never to confuse the activity with the
goal. I’m sure he’ll be even happier to know that I haven’t. Three
years later, his youngest son is three years closer to his goal.
And I understand that the ultimate goal is to be able to say that
every year of my life.

And I’ve learned other things that he never thought to tell me –
or that it never occurred to me to pay any attention to.

I’ve come to realize that the harder you work, the more work you
get. And that this is a good thing.

When I leave The Bruin, I’ll leave knowing that if you’re making
everybody happy, you’re probably not doing a very good job.

And then there are lessons that my professors have tried to
teach me, but which I’ve come to learn from my readers instead. I
know now, for example, that most of the people who say they believe
in free speech don’t think that precludes them from limiting speech
that they don’t particularly care for.

But perhaps the most important lessons are the ones that
occurred to me after seeing them illustrated time and time
again.

The Bruin has helped me to understand that the most significant
good and the most significant evil come in the most subtle ways,
with the smallest of strides. And I know that if I open my eyes, I
can see examples of this in everything that surrounds me.

As I sit and write and think about everything The Bruin has
given me, I can’t help but remember all of the people who I
neglected while I was busy learning so much. And so the final
lesson I take with me from these three years is an understanding of
what friends are and how to love them.

I only hope that in reading this they will understand where I’ve
been all this time and will allow me the opportunity to use what
they’ve taught me.

Matt Schmid