Amidst all the soul-crushing atmosphere of sophomore year as reality settled in on us, there was a single shining moment, a brief, but unforgettable triumph of my very own that redeemed the year for me, if only in part.
Remember the beloved campus pastor I mentioned before who got canned, stirring up even more angst among the student body with the administration? I got my own taste of that action, and I’ll savor that moment forever:
As an editor for the school paper, I was called upon by the administration to write a fluffy, un-controversial farewell piece on the campus pastor. They didn’t want the truth of his firing to come out, but they didn’t want it to look like they didn’t want it to come out. Knowing that I’d have to hold my nose as I wrote the piece, I still jumped at the opportunity to take the pastor and his family out to dinner and get the real story for myself.
And boy, I got it: trumped up charges that he could verify were false, and the insider’s view of the inner-workings of the administrative politics. Apparently, he had dared to vocalize his disagreement on a policy, and was fired, just like that. Never mind that he was the only administrator who had his finger on the pulse of the student body, that he heard us, that he pastored us, and well, basically did his job. He had said, “I don’t agree with ______,” and that was the end of him.
I wrote the article, a grateful farewell, a “what’s next for Pastor so-and-so”. It was exactly what the administration had asked for, but it too, got canned. I was furious. Not only were they tearing away one of our heroes, but they didn’t even have the decency to let us say goodbye and for the students to be informed of where they could look for him next. Considering the overall climate of the school at that time, it was an appalling action, and had me enflamed.
But, the deans wanted to speak to me. They wanted to “offer an explanation” for why they’d changed their minds about the article. My faculty advisor for the paper and I had been invited to the 6th floor for a two-on-two with the deans. No one, under these circumstances, ever returned from the 6th floor with their student status in tact. One student had written a rap song about the school president’s wife – a stupid move, but he didn’t publicize it. Someone else reported it, and the rapper-kid was gone. Then there was what happened to the campus pastor….I wondered if I’d still be a student when I exited those giant wooden doors.
My faculty advisor was visibly sweating as we rode the elevator up. He was a “Yes Man” of the lowest order. I can’t say that I blame him. He was trying to provide for his family, and those were the requirements that allowed him to do so. He expected me to keep quiet, say “Yes sirs, thank you for the time you took to explain things to us. We understand,” and to exit the building with all haste.
He didn’t know me very well.
As both of the deans sat across the enormous table from us, attempting to explain how those events were last week, and everyone’s moved on so the article wasn’t really necessary, my advisor nodded in quiet agreement.
But my own blood was boiling. My face turned red-hot as I stared into both of the dean’s eyes without blinking until they each looked uncomfortably away and adjusted themselves in their seats. They knew that, even though they were deans, they were “yes men” too. They knew that they simply carried out the orders of a dictatorial administration for fear of retribution. When they finished with their “are we all clear?” talk, my advisor stood to go. I remained in my seat as I said, “I have something to say.”
Of all the moments in my life that I wish I’d had a video camera! The words came pouring out of me as I (quite articulately, if I do say so myself) ripped each of them a new one. I told them how they, in their ivory towers, had no concept of the climate that the student-body was in; how they expected to play us all like a puppet master as we complacently accepted their manipulation; how they treated us like blind children who were expected to “obey or else” without considering that we would soon be well-paid alumni who would remember their betrayal with every school fund-raiser unless they changed their ways. I told them how the students would be eager and willing to love them and follow them if they would simply show us the respect of being honest and let us be honest in return; how the school didn’t have to be like this: administration pitted against the students, attempting to control them, and the students bucking against the administration, seeking a voice; that they’d just fired their one saving mediator and there would be blowback, news story or no news story.
Or something like that. Like I said, I didn’t have a video recording to catch the risky speech I unleashed on them. But I’ll never forget the terrified look on my advisor’s face, or the shocked and shameful look on the dean’s faces. I honestly think they’d never known how wounded the students were, but that it had clicked with them for the first time. I dismissed myself from the ominous office, my advisor thanking them profusely for their time and catching up to me.
Once back in our own newspaper offices (not on the 6th floor, but on the negative 2 floor, underground), my advisor sang my praises to all five members of our huge staff. He slapped me on the back as he told me that I’d said all the things he’s wanted to say for years. I even got an applause and a couple of cheers, even though silently, everyone awaited my fate, and our fate as a newspaper.
Oddly enough, I survived unscathed. My advisor was let go at the end of the semester, poor guy. I felt really bad for him, and hope that he went on to a less soul-crushing occupation. I, however, not only retained my student status and my editorial status, but from that moment on, I started seeing the deans sitting in the student deli with their lunch a lot more often. I like to think that my speech had an impact on them, that they took my words to heart and started attempting to actually descend from their ivory tower and get involved with us plebian-students. Or maybe they’d eaten there all along, but my precarious actions left me more conscious of their presence. Or perhaps, even more sinisterly, they decided they needed to spy on us more. But I doubt that’s it. Because from then on, they greeted me in the deli with a genuine smile of respect, and actually asked, “how ya doin’ Elle?”
I realize none of this had anything to do with Mr. Rockstar – I just like this very true story, and seized the chronology of events to relate it. I promise I’ll get back to the real, juicy reasons for which you are reading.
