Newspaper Page Text
May 19, 1967 « THE MERCER CLUSTER • 3
Wi
1 El
B
• L
; te
•5 j V ^ '2'
^ i .* »J!
b.t 1
!~ 57 V.
Stars Lure You Back
It’s hard to believe it’s so close to the end: we’ve been
capped and gowned for the final trial run, herded into chapel
for one of our last compulsory attendances, grumbled — for
one of the few times left for us to enjoy — over some official
policy or other, and felt for the last time save one (or two —
and for many, the first time in such strength) that tightness
in the throat some call a lump and that perverse wetness about
the eye that you don’t know-how got there and which might
approach a tear.
And as your thoughts wander back and forth from what
the speaker’s saying to where and who you are and where and
what you have been for four years, you sort of feel a panic, a
thrill of insecurity — it just can’t end like this. But then, again,
it couldn’t have been quite thus, either.
And as you sit there, not quite daring to follow your
thoughts when they lead — into the jungle vercance, darkness,
and tropical sums of your own soul — you remember you have
been asked to say some sort of a farewell in and to the columns
you have loved so well, so long: a sort of universal vale which
your fellow seniors share and underclassmen understand.
But how’re you going to sum up four long years? Four
years that have marked and made the turning point of your
life. Four years and a universe which have been a life itself.
You remember a night a couple weeks ago, before chang
ing time nibbled malevolently into those precious minutes of
late dusk, just before night class and after supper. The air was
still with the hushed expectancy that precedes night's sounds,
and for a moment you could almost feel the night. The sky
bent intimately, protectively, close to MEP binding up a uni
verse all yours. The mood was spring and young love hand-in-
hand across the grass. And as you round the comer by the
Chemistry mausoleum, you come on them.
Freshmen & sophomores all, the close-cropped light brown
hair of the girls, the blonde & dark-hair boys rising above. Their
laughter ripples back to you in waves, inviting you to play, and
as you hear you see beyond their backs what they laughed at
girls standing w/knees back & skirts pulled high and hard, as
they guage the time and distance to miss the sprinkler that
wets the walk. And as they chatter through, you sit on a bench
to relish the seconds left as darkness falls, and the green smell
of grass & diamond stars being bom lure you back
You remember moving in four years ago — the poignancy
of parting as you said good-by to parents, or roughly touseled
hair on moppet heads. The sweet lingering reluctance of a final
special kiss, an almost brave smile as you watch the tail-lights
sweep away, hands fluttering in fond farewells at windows. The
expectancy w/which you turn to face the friend just made, the
roommate or big sister or chap w the glad-hand, and w/ them
lieside you to fill the void just left, walk back to the co-op or
to a room still cluttered w/ the suitcases & cartons from the
exciting bedlam of moving in.
Or you remember that night—exhausted, senses glutted, all
official necessities attended & new names & faces hopelessly
confused — you lie down to sleep (at last) and despite the
expectations & eagerness for tomorrow & the years stretching
beyond, you feel a loneliness for yesterday.
And those waiting years roll on: the days of sharing joys
& clothes, & sadness & friends: The nights of rush & party dates
& sessions in the dorm. You gradually find your place in the
whole mess, you come to fit the routine & the classes. You pick
your group and they accept, you embark upon the very busy
job of becoming you.
And Oh! Do you remember some of those. Some too funny
or too deep to ever quite remember. Some so personal or so
sad you’ll never quite forget.
There was a death of innocence and a rebirth of love. You
remember when for the first time you discovered that someone
for whom you cared could have a child . .. and not be married.
You recall the first time you ever saw someone in the real
depths of despondency, or how you felt yourself, when there
really seemed no reason left to live. You see young love be bom
again beneath the flickering light — as the desk girl warns she
soon must lock the dorm.
by Diana Denton
You remember tne terror when you were first summoned
by the dean. The relief when pink slips went out. and you
didn’t have one yet. The last-minute panic with term papers
due tomorrow (you’d yet to learn it only takes a day to knock
one off). The bright hope as your weekend was approaching.
The misery of being not-quite-sick-enough to cut a test.
The private humor glimpsed for seconds in some teacher’s eye.
The glowing warmth of knowing that you had and were a
friend that years and distance couldn't take. The anxiety of
quarrels, or when parents don’t approve.
The striving for some honor or sweet release of success.
Disappointment at the mail-box, or a shattering “Dear John”.
You remember ROTC uniforms so stiffly starched on
Mondays. Or the feelings and humiliations of a big election
year. Controversies in the paper or some chapel speech. The
SAE lion was painted against an abortive panty raid.
You remember long, long nights you read or wrote and
watched the sun come up. And despite what authorities may
deny, there was many a morning that your head hurt ’way
out here. . . .
Guilt over letters you should have written several weeks
ago. Tension and dreamy speculation over summer plans. Hul
laballoo and showers for the one pinned o. engaged. Shared
ecstasy of pledging and the loyalty of alums who return to
visit.
Long distance telephone calls (collect) in the middle of
the night. A perfect imitation of Dean . “I told
him . . .” Vicarious pleasure at the good news of a friend. The
frenzy of the last few seconds when the gym was packed. The
things you really shouldn’t say, which makes them funnier.
The dress — or special night — for which you pinched
pennies for weeks. The agony of a fender scraped — or a hurt
you can’t undo. The joy of a brand-new car, or of a real "tuff”
date. The sadness when someone close graduates or leaves.
The news someone at home has died. The comfort of true
friends. The weekends you snuek off of campus ami just signed
out for “Home” . . .
They slowly return to tumble with bitter-sweet poignance,
and many silent laughs as you sit smiling softly in the dark.
Then suddenly the chapel chimes remind you how late it has
become, and as you near the steps across from Porter’s beckon
ing lights, mist from the distant sprinkler strikes your c heeks
like tiny, frozen tears.
Commencement Is
June 5.
This Is The
Last Issue Of
The Cluster, And
We Take The
Opportunity To
Wish The Class
Of 1967 The
Privilege Of
A Remembrance
And The Everlasting
Cry For Knowledge.