PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Annually, September brings back to me remembrances and reconsiderations of my college experience, especially of my freshman year, with began on Thursday, September 9th, 1976.

As an awkward and uncomfortable freshman, feeling disconnected from all I had dearly loved, I felt flattered to have been invited to participate at lunch and dinner at a Senior table.  Although these designations were neither officially enforced nor maintained either by the college itself, or by the Dining Service, the custom was fairly well established on campus, and had been functioning long before I arrived there.  Most Seniors lived, and ate, off-campus; the few who remained were accorded, in some unstated process, a kind of celebrity status.

The Seniors to whose table I was invited and admitted were History Majors; and, I must admit, I first considered History as a major upon their enthusiastic recommendation.  The protocols of this table (which, in discussion with other freshmen or sophomores appeared to be the same at the few other Senior Tables) were quickly and expeditiously explained to me:  freshmen spoke only when spoken to---mostly in answer to questions.  The right of open conversation, discussion, or divergence from the topic of the day resided only with the Senior; most certainly not with freshmen.

My expressed desire to become a poet was met with a certain amount of good-natured tolerance and doubt.  I was told that the mathematical chance of achieving this was probably impossible, although none of them were math majors and never explained how the chances were calculated.  I was told that my interest in the serial killings in London's Whitechapel district of Autumn, 1888, was a manifestation of nothing more than morbid curiosity, and that the lives of five whores were not worth, and would not reward, scholarly inquiry.

But the final breach, that so enraged me that I shocked my dining companions by withdrawing from their fellowship on Monday evening of January 3rd, 1977, was their expressed contemptuous disdain for my friends (and, by impliciation, myself) who talked on the c.b. radio.  On the lapel of my rather bulky wrap-around sweater (quite the fashion, in those days, for young men), I had worn a small lapel pin that said "I talk c.b."  I was told, as soon as I had set my full tray down on the table, that the pin was both offensive and meaningless---quite a paradox, as I pointed out.  I was told that people who spoke on the c.b. were uncouth, unlettered, and unread oafs, and that the language of our transmissions was an illegitimate and unforgiveable corruption of proper English.  And when I objected to this line of insult, I was told that a Seniors' Table was no place for a freshman's objections.  I replied that perhaps not all Seniors were as senior as they believed themselves to be, and may have been unmatured freshmen in self-delusion.  At that point, one of the Seniors slammed his fork down on the table, picked up his tray, and walked off---exiting the Dining Hall after place his tray on the conveyr belt that carried it off.  His roommate pointed out to me that I could have been, and was expected to be, a little more polite.  I replied that so could my absent opponent, and the courtesu expected from me should have been the example set before me.  The others seated at the table stared at me in what appeared to be silenced disbelief.  I withdrew at once, and returned to my dormitory.  The next day, I took my meals as soon as the Dining Hall opened, with other freshmen in my dormitory, rather than waiting for the later hour when the few Seniors began to enter.  I never spoke to my former tablemates again.  One of them, who had apparently presided at that table, attended a literature class with me during the fifth period of the third, or "spring" term.  We did not speak---either socially or academically, and we also sat on opposite sides of the room.  He graduated in June, and I never heard of, or from, him again.

In the first few days of my sophomore year. I happened to read the student reviews of that class (all reviews, after they had been examined by the respective chairs of their departments) were kept on file in the Library.  His review, which he had signed, castigated our professor, repeatedly, for allowing me to ask or answer questions in class, and for legitimatizing my remarks as if they were valid.

During my Senior year, my table welcomed mostly freshmen to join us at lunch and dinner.  Provided they showed respect to my Sweetheart, no further restriction was placed upon their conversations.  I had learned my lesson as a freshman, and I refused to impose "senior" standards on others who were in no way obliged to follow them.

I did not, then, realize what a predictive metaphor my freshman experience of a Senior table would become.

Starward

Starward