Dear first-years,
On behalf of most of the second-years, I will say that your presence among us is very encouraging and inspiring. Now on behalf of no one else, I say that I like my job, love my students, and yet I got even more jazzed about school after having met most of you. I am thankful that you are here, and I hope you do feel welcome among us.
What you are about to do, I’m sure you have heard it enough times by now, is not easy. It is far from fluffy bunnies and gumdrop rainbows this summer, and for some the school year is much worse. You are stepping into a world of tedium, growth pains, occasional humiliation, mental hiccups and atomic bombs, peer pressure, and financial and social anxieties. Along the way (I trust you will someday agree) there will be soul-crushing experiences. Soul-crushing! I may be the only one to use such dramatic language, but the sentiment in the Corps is ubiquitous: this is soul-crushing.
Now, if this is accurate—soul-crushing!—what good can come from a second-year’s letter? from a second-year’s soul, which has presumably been crushed? What can I tell you that will help you in the least?
If I have any council, it is in the form of a spiritual thesis: a crushed soul is a growing soul. “No pain, no gain,” right? There is no growth if there is no agitation, pressure, death. Is that dissatisfying for you? Maybe, maybe not. I have another thesis, then: there is full joy in just the prospect of perfection. The mere thought of improvement is enough to more-than-survive, to thrive, to have joy in your work. Do not expect thanks, congratulations, an A+, a gold star, or a pity-party from anyone; do not ask for these things, either; do not let your joy be dependent upon an outcome, but let yourself be filled with joy by the thought that you are about to witness a change in yourself.
Is all of that dissatisfying? Is all of that rubbish? If so, I must change my message.
So now I come back: there is nothing I can tell you in a blog-letter that will help you in the least. This is your allegorical introduction to your work in Mississippi; in the midst of futility and cryptic nonsense, such as this letter, you must appreciate irony, discern meaning, and redeem time. Other people’s words cannot prepare you, and often cannot console you. What is good must be kneaded into the dough of your soul with painful work, and what evil is concealed deep within you will come to light inevitably as the agitation increases. My letter can do nothing for you. Either you believe those two theses—that a seed must die before it can grow and that joy can come about ex nihilo and thrive in vacuo—or else you will go through a soul-crushing experience in vain, your summer training will only dishearten you, and you will wish you could delete your two years in Mississippi as thoroughly as I have deleted the eight paragraphs of my original, advice-filled letter to you.
Still not satisfied? It may make more sense in a year.
I am sure that I will enjoy working with you.
Yours,
Philip.
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