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Sound of Freedom

For the past two weeks or so I have been waking at night with shivers running up and down my spine. These shivers have little to do with the weather.

I’m a fairly light sleeper, one of those people who seldom wakes up without knowing what day it is and what needs to be done before the day is done.

In the past two-and-a-half weeks a faint but invigorating sound has drawn me out of dreamland and into the yard before trying to get back to sleep. Great writers have tried to capture the awe-inspiring quality that this sound can have on humans. It is the sound of freedom and struggle and the strength to overcome.

It is the sound of the southbound geese, calling out to one another in the moonlight as they continue their fall migration.

It is a sound that brings to the surface in me a desire to fly, to be free of all the earthly worries to which we humans are bound.

*

I remember being in college, lost in the study of Russian history, worried about an exam I had the next day, the homework I needed to accomplish regardless of a full weekend at work and a phone bill that needed paying. I was at my desk, completely absorbed in a textbook when a faint sound drifted through the slightly open window.

My head came up and I started to rise out of my chair. Then I thought better of it, knowing the traffic that screeched past on the street in front of my house would drown out that sound. I figured it was my imagination, and returned to Trotsky, Lenin and the first Russian Revolution of this century.

A few minutes later I heard the sound again, this time more distinct, and I knew I wasn’t hearing things. I leaped out of my chair and started searching under piles of test-week dirty laundry for some shoes, any shoes. Finally, I realized I didn’t have time to waste on shoes; I ran out the door and into the back yard in my bare feet.

I could still hear the geese but couldn’t see them. My yard in Fargo was squashed between two other houses and a one-story garage. I scaled the garage in a matter of seconds, hoping I wouldn’t be too late.

At the top, I was greeted by 30 greater Canadian geese, Honkers, flying across the backdrop of a splendid North Dakota autumn sunset of reds, pinks, oranges and blues. I laughed exultantly and waved a clinched fist at the squawking birds, hoping they might raise a call for me.

I watched as they flew out of sight, a bare-footed, grinning idiot, thinking only of the strength it must take to fly thousands of miles, and the freedom one must have to do so. And for the thousandth time, I wished I was one of them.

They left me there on top of a crumbling garage with my useless wish, cursing myself for not bringing my camera. I laughed again, then climbed back down to the yard and my trivial problems.

I didn’t return to the Russian Revolution. The geese had started my blood pumping and I couldn’t concentrate. I spent the evening writing and thinking about other good memories the geese have given me. I went to bed early, completely happy and relaxed.

The next day I took that exam, and I probably did better than I would have had I stressed out over the books all night.

*

I am a hunter, but that has little bearing on the love I have for the geese and the joyous feeling they give me each time they lure me out of sleep or self-concern. They remind me that we live in a state where the big birds can stop to rest and refuel, and the fact that they fly thousands of miles is a reminder that we can do anything if we have the determination and the strength to try.

Except fly, of course.

*

“For long spells they would fly in silence, but most often they maintained noisy communication, arguing, protesting, exulting; at night, especially, they uttered cries which echoed forever in the memories of men who heard them drifting down through the frosty air of autumn….”  – James A. Michener, Chesapeake, “Voyage Eight: 1822”

Beware, Beanheads

You mean to say it’s time to start school again? Man, it seems like summer just started, and here it is time to hit the books again. 

Well, I suppose some sort of welcome to all my fellow students and to the professors is in order. I should probably say how nice it is to be back and how I hope it will be a great year. Ah, yes, I should probably extend a warm welcome to all the freshmen on campus, too. Then again, why should I?

You freshmen are in for one hell of an awakening if you get any sort of welcome resembling the one my roommate and I received. That was three long years ago, but is a vivid, terrifying, laughable memory.

From the day we graduated from high school, my friend and I lived and breathed college; that summer couldn’t have lasted any longer. Finally the day we had chosen arrived. We packed both our cars to overflowing and set out for North Dakota State University, our new world 93 miles away from home. It seemed like such a long distance then. We were going to be free of our parents at last, leading a new life full of excitement and new friends. Granted, the excitement was there, but not quite the type we had anticipated.

Our dorm assignments read “Stockbridge, 328.” If only we had known what that meant, we might have decided to stay home and forget the whole college thing. But, no, when we pulled into the parking lot west of Stockbridge, our new home, the anticipation was still with us and we couldn’t wait to move our things in and start decorating.

In we went, wide-eyed and bubbly, to find out where to get our room keys. The guy who helped us was anything but helpful. The look in his eyes, I now know, conveyed pity for the two fools he knew wouldn’t last two weeks in a jungle like Stockbridge. He directed us to the third floor after handing us each a key and said, “Good luck.”

We skipp0ped up the three flights of stairs for the first time, each with a load in our arms and smiles glued to our faces. We were ready to meet our neighbors, to make timeless friends. What we didn’t know was Stockbridge had been christened “Jockbridge” in honor of the football players, wrestlers and basketball players who ruled the place.

We turned down the third floor north hallway, gasping from all the stairs taken too quickly with heavy loads. For some reason I expected the next person I saw to offer me a hand and become my best friend for life.

Three Goliaths strutted out of a room 20 yards down the hall and started toward us, two abreast in front, filling up the hallway, and one behind. My friend and I pressed ourselves against the wall to make room for them to pass, but I guess it wasn’t enough. The closest football player put his shoulder down as they passed and smashed my friend into the wall, bouncing him like a beach ball to the other side.

“Excuse me,” muttered my friend earnestly after they had almost knocked him through the wall. That was answered by an outburst of laughter and a parting shot we would never forget – 

“Fu#@ing beanheads!”

My friend and I looked at each other in shocked disbelief. Welcome to NDSU, boys.

The next morning I went into the community shower for the first time, hoping things would get better. I left convinced I would be dead within days. Everyone in there was at least twice my size, and not a friendly hello in the bunch. The room we had so looked forward to became a prison cell; we locked the door and didn’t dare peek out.

Things got better, of course, although we resented being called beanheads. We searched out others like ourselves as protection against the bulk and insensitivity that surrounded us. Our R.A. was very cool; he made sure the “knuckleheads,” as my friends and I had dubbed the athletes in retaliation, didn’t make our lives unbearable. One of the imposing forms I encountered in the shower that first day became my roommate later in the year and one of my best friends. 

I suppose I even owe the big boys from third floor north a word of thanks. They and the rest of a campus full of upperclassmen taught me a few things about survival and avoidance of ridicule.

In the spirit of peace and good faith, I’d like to pass on a few pointers to this year’s freshman class. Not because I’m particularly sympathetic, you understand, but because I remember what it was like.

First of all, if you’re walking around campus alone, don’t expect everyone to be friendly and say “hello.” They’re busy and don’t have time to make you feel good about yourself.

Next, don’t paste a smile on your face. Happiness is unnatural for students with fresh memories of summer.

Don’t lug every book you own around in your brand-new book bag for the first few days. You won’t need anything but a notebook, and a full backpack is a sure sign of fresh meat.

Memorize the locations of your classes as quickly as possible. A student looking at a map in the Union is as sure a sign as any.

If you sit down in a classroom and you’re not sure if you’re in the right place, don’t ask anyone. I learned this one the hard way the second day of my freshman year. “Hey, is this History 101,” I asked the guy next to me. “It might be,” he sneered, and turned away. 

If you screw up and find yourself sitting in Psychology 210 instead of History 101, don’t give up and leave. Psych. 210 is the Human Sexuality course; you might enjoy it and save yourself some embarrassment.

There is a huge urge to try and make yourself as pretty or as handsome as you can for class. Fight it. Members of the opposite sex (or same sex, if that’s your pleasure) aren’t going to notice you any faster, and the smooth threads will give away the fact that you stayed up half the night deciding what to wear.

Finally – and this may sound like common sense – don’t look both ways before crossing University Drive. It’s a one way.

Good luck to all of you. I hope you have a more tactful welcoming committee than I did. Being a freshman isn’t a crime, but the rest of us might make it feel like it is. I say “us” because I’ll laugh as hard as the rest if you have “freshman” written all over your fact, but only because I see myself in you and realize how stupid and helpless I must’ve looked. 

At least I won’t call you a beanhead to your face.

Originally published under the headline, “Freshmen in for Interesting Experiences” in the NDSU student newspaper, The Spectrum, Fall 1989

Student Body Election Causes Turmoil Within The Greek System

The campaign rhetoric is all over, the ballots have all been cast, and NDSU has a new student president and vice president, Julie Albertson and Brian Kittelson, respectively. 

Thank goodness. All the signs will be torn down and campus life can get back to normal, right? Wrong. Last week’s election may be over, but the students of SU are left treading words in a vast sea of controversy, and some of us are drowning.

As we all know by now, Albertson and Kittelson have been accused and found guilty in violation of university policy concerning the use of alcohol. Specifically, the sale of alcohol to minors. The complaint, which was filed by Tom Martin, chairman of the Pete Kinsella/Dawn Lervik campaign, came after a party thrown at the Sigma Chi fraternity. Incidentally, the pair of Kinsella/Lervik came in second in the election.

Clifford E. Smith, Jr., a senator for the College of Business, put forth a resolution which asked for the resignation of the candidates. Last Sunday, the student Senate passed the resolution.

Shortly after election day, yellow mini-posters were plastered all over campus urging students to “get the facts” concerning their new student leaders. Being a curious type of person, I said to myself, “Heck, yeah, let’s get the facts.” So, I decided to make a few phone calls.

Usually, when people plaster a telephone number all over the place urging you to phone in to “get the facts,” they have a specific interest in mind. I decided not to call the number on the mini-posters; I made a few calls on my own.

I decided to go straight to the head of the matter and call all of the people involved to see what they had to say. I must admit, I chose a bad part of the day to make my calls because most of the people involved were not at home to comment.

“Hello, Sigma Alpha Epsilon. Can I help you?”

“Yeah. Could I speak to a Mr. Clifford Smith?”

“Sorry, he’s not here right now.”

Calls to other individuals all went the same way. Almost every person involved in this controversy is a member of a sorority or a fraternity. I suppose it is no secret that Albertson is a member of Alpha Gamma Delta sorority, and that Kittelson is a member of Sigma Chi fraternity. Also, it is no grave-roller that Kinsella is a member of the Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity, as are Smith and Martin.

Now, let me see. Kinsella/Lervik came in second. Kinsella is an SAE. The complaint to the student supreme court came from Martin, also an SAE. Things were starting to make more sense.

As I laid the phone down after my last call, a story came to mind which I had heard repeated over and over again on Sundays when I was a child. It had something to do with the stoning of an adulteress and wise man’s intervention. In defense of the woman, the wise man said, “Let he among you who hath not sinned cast he first stone.”

Obviously, the gentlemen of the SAE fraternity slept through Sunday mass. You see, I have been to a party at the SAE house. I walked in the door, a guy asked me for $4, which I gave him, and he gave me a cup to fill with keg beer. (By the way, fellas, four bucks is a little steep for a keg cup.) Oh, and one other thing. I am only 20 years old.

I am not condoning the actions of Albertson and Kittelson. Even though I am an avid party-goer and I drink my share of alcohol now and again, at the age of 20, minor in consumption is still against the law. 

One the other hand, you don’t see me casting any stones, either.

Originally published under in the North Dakota State University student newspaper, The Spectrum, 1988