All the words pass the margin

I’ve taken an introductory course on economics. Sadly, the course didn’t instill an undying faith in the invisible hand of the free market, but nonetheless I learned some valuable lessons. The most significant of these was the idea of “thinking at the margins.”

In short, marginal analysis looks at the very next step. On a mostly empty bus, one extra passenger costs virtually nothing to board while still bringing in the benefit of their fare. When the bus is full, however, one extra passenger means factoring in the cost of a whole other bus.

Elementary examples aside, I found thinking at the margins to be helpful in my daily life as a student: What utility is there in spending the very next hour studying versus fooling around on Facebook or going to sleep? I also came to appreciate sunk costs. Whatever happened in the past is done. In trying to make my decisions, it’s best to consider what could be my very next step. It’s hard to factor in all of the variables in play for any decision, but at the very least the next step is easier to figure out than twenty or 100 steps ahead.

But I found limits to this mode of thinking. I’m not sure how much of my own action is based on rational self-interest or perfect information. I’m sure my intelligent and respected friends and colleagues who study economics or decision sciences deal with these complications, but I didn’t find it to be my cup of comparatively advantageous or labor-exploitative tea. Instead of homo economicus or spherical cows and the intense data analyses that come along with them, I became interested in the messiness of the human condition, turning my attention to different kinds of margins.

I’ve strived to make my column a practice in working at the margins. Who is marginalized in society, and what opinions or calls to action could I provide to increase awareness of those margins? In applying for a column, I said I was interested in writing about spirituality, citizenship and identity. This description was broad enough for me to write just about anything I would care to, whether it was the plight of the Palestinian people, the prevalence of sexual assault on campus or contemplations on how we move throughout space and civically engage on campus. I wanted voices, stories and perspectives that were previously excluded to have a chance to be heard. I’ve been able to connect with many more people on campus than I could have imagined through my column, and for that I’m thankful.

Though I’ve enjoyed writing this column, my real passion is in creative writing. Rather than making a point or a rational argument for a particular cause, I find it more invigorating to weave a narrative or craft a verse to flesh out our experiences, expand our imagination and explore the limits of our language. Any act of writing leaves margins; the format of a column leaves really long ones. One can try to fill up the sides of a page with explicative notes, but if you’re trying to be exhaustive it’s ultimately a futile exercise. You either run out of space, or you’ve written so much that you can no longer make out what’s there.

I’ve realized that the intelligibility of words doesn’t come from the words themselves but in the spaces surrounding them. We don’t often realize the significance of absence as much as that of presence, even if our world is mostly empty space. In making sense of self and other, there isn’t as much to be gained in collapsing the two as there is in appreciating the contradictions and the gulf that separate them.

“Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there,” is a helpful reminder on the first floor of Perkins Library from jazz great Miles Davis. Margins are a place for creativity and play. They’re where you’ll find what’s most beautiful and edifying. If you find yourself on the sidelines, you have more options than fighting and waiting to be allowed on the field. You can make your own game, with its own rules and maybe share it with others who are as curious and compassionate as yourself.