It’s a Thursday morning in October. I’m on the sidewalk, in the rain. Instead of attending my math lecture, I’m waiting for even a glimpse of a cab so I can go meet with the manager of an Afghani restaurant somewhere in Porter Square. He seemed interested in buying an ad when we spoke on the phone, so I’m following the lead. It’s been only two months into my freshman year and, already, I have an unintended full time job: comping.

The comp can stand for completion or competency, as a way for new members to receive training in a particular area. But often, it becomes a grueling, time-consuming competition, with severe rounds of cuts and hazing. Throughout my first semester on campus, I’ve comped three different organizations. Two have been educational and pleasant, and the other, a source of stress, has taken up more time than most of my classes.

During those first few weeks of school, I began resenting this odd process. When my only goals were to try new things and make new friends, it was frustrating to realize that I couldn’t hop in and join any organization I liked. And I won’t lie, my resentment did increase throughout the semester, as I found myself missing lunch with friends to have meetings with potential caterers, compile mass mail-merge lists, and attend office hours for prospective groups. I feel like I’ve dealt with the worst of what the comp can be. But when I find myself looking back, I have surprisingly positive thoughts.

As students have argued, yes, it seems pretty ridiculous to force such talented, great people to prove their competency for various roles. Certainly, anyone here seems just as capable as the next. So why is the comp such a big part of the culture on campus? We’ve already proven ourselves by being here. Doesn’t it seem absurd to further convince one another of our competency?

In her piece criticizing this system, Reina A. E. Gattuso ’15, a Crimson magazine editor, states that the harsh treatment and intimidation compers feel is unnecessary and expresses a sentiment of exclusion and superiority. She says that instead, we should create spaces that welcome and empower, enabling people to think and work more freely. It’s clear that the demands of a comp can be ridiculous, and I think they can and do drive away valuable, passionate people. But while fostering a sense of community and freedom to participate on campus is undoubtedly important, the challenge that a comp poses, in its various capacities, is ultimately valuable. These processes teach us to work hard and ceaselessly for what we want and where we see ourselves, leading us to prioritize the areas in our lives that are personally important—an especially valuable skill in the life of a busy student.

As someone who, like many others, ended fall semester with both acceptances and rejections, I see the value in having this odd full-time job. It intimidated me, but it also motivated me to accomplish things I never thought I’d be able to do. In a competitive environment, where I often see students looking for “resume-padders” in activities and courses, I know that the comp ensures dedication and passion. No one in their right mind would spend hours calling various party bus companies in search of trade deals, if they weren’t passionate about the organization.

And that’s what I like about the comp: passionate people. I’ve made great friends throughout the semester with fellow compers enduring similar torture. Nothing fosters bonds you and your co-compers like sending out frantic group texts, devising plans together on how to close a vaporizer trade deal, or running around Boston together like crazed sales people. Three months ago, I had no idea how to sell ads, and I barely knew what a staff editorial was. Now, I can phone up companies until it can basically be called harassment, and I’ve written articles I’m proud of.

I’ve enjoyed a great first semester here. But it wouldn’t be ridiculous to say that I enjoyed being outside the classroom more, challenging myself and engaging with the world in a real, tangible way. And even if some comps didn’t necessary end in an acceptance, I still feel rewarded with a new skillset, and an intense motivation, and a (maybe twisted) desire to start it all again this semester.

 

Camille K. Jacobson ’18, a Crimson editorial writer, lives in Straus Hall.