Part of my job as the Rover’s publisher is working with the United States Postal Service (USPS) to mail the paper to our subscribers. When I began this role as a sophomore, I navigated the bureaucratic, over-complicated non-profit shipping process with increasing frustration.
A typical dialogue in my head included wondering how a large, well-funded organization could concoct a zip code grouping scheme so disorganized that its own employees could not explain it. And then there were the workers, as animated as the painting American Gothic and as likable as Dolores Umbridge—for those unfamiliar with Harry Potter, imagine the worst and meanest teacher you’ve ever had.
I trekked through two-and-a-half feet of South Bend’s wet snow on countless Friday mornings in what always seemed like mid-February, always for the distinct pleasure of being told my mail was unacceptable per USPS standards. Except, of course, the USPS doesn’t bother to tell you the mail is unacceptable when you drop it off. Instead, they call to notify you at 3:45 p.m. on Friday afternoon, 15 minutes before they close for the weekend.
This necessitated explaining to the Editor-in-Chief that I had indeed screwed up the mailing for yet another week, and it wouldn’t be shipped until the next Tuesday and, no, I swear I’m not that incompetent, and, yes, I was actually admitted to Notre Dame for my own merit.
I was a type-A 19-year-old, overconfident, hardworking, and utterly clueless, and from that perspective, the USPS looked awfully unfair. My life to that point had confirmed the undeniable fact that the cosmos revolved around me. I’ve realized recently, embarrassingly recently, that I was wrong.
In fact, the greatest lesson I’ve learned in the past four years is that I am preprogrammed to view the world from my own eyes. I am inherently self-centered because every single thing I have ever done has featured me—I am the main character in my own life. My default setting is to experience Hamlet not as a work of literature but as a reading assignment, to hear Mozart’s Vienna Operas not as transfixing melodies but as my roommate’s repetitive study playlist, and to interact with postal workers not as ordinary people trying to make ends meet but as obstacles to my time.
College has been a four-year adventure to realize the liberal arts actually have something to offer. See, for me, the liberal arts didn’t “teach me how to think” or even get me into law school. Rather, a liberal arts education liberated me from preprogrammed, default-setting insularity. It allowed me to broaden my thinking from personal to communal.
A week ago, I faced a similar frustrating situation when the USPS decided to change its zip code organizational groups. Applying my liberal arts, non-default thinking saved me from destructive mental habits. I now see the USPS as a collection of underpaid workers whose thankless efforts enable non-profit organizations such as the Rover to mail the paper at a rate that is both reasonable and fair.
To those workers, I am a hurried, ignorant customer who demands a cheap price and little effort. I receive calls at 3:45 p.m. on Friday afternoon because that is the only time postal workers have to deal with non-profit mailing, which is prioritized below everything else. These workers withstand menial tasks ad nauseum while contemplating the lack of meaningful, non-college degree work in South Bend. Their customers are often over-educated, self-important, default-setting types who, like me, are too busy to slow down and deconstruct their surroundings. While we briefly encounter these “consumer hell” situations, they live in it. Bureaucratic tedium is their reality.
Becoming “well-adjusted” has been difficult. Humanity’s default setting only becomes worse with more education and greater achievement. With the constant accolades, premier job opportunities, and material comfort, I become even more convinced the world exists for my sake. However, the paradox of my advanced education is that it has alleviated those feelings.
I’ve learned that the minor annoyances, the everyday banal, and the colloquial “grind” are where we are tested. The exams, the interviews, and the parties are luxuries of the comfortable who are afforded time to think. When necessities are afterthoughts, I am free to contemplate others. My fancy Notre Dame degree has likely secured me a comfortable life. My task now is to constantly remind myself: “It’s not about me. It never has been. It never will be.”
Michael Logue is a senior Finance and history major, woefully counting the days left at Our Lady’s University. This is his third year as the Rover’s publisher. He can be reached at mlogue1@nd.edu.