Category: GSP

I don’t know, is it still cool to like Weekly World News? Are they pre-post-hip or something? I don’t know. I can’t keep up. What I do know is that a couple of years ago I used them as my very first GSP hall theme, including stringing up multiple copies in the stalls for Quiet Reading Time, and it was a smash. I think that’s when I really fell in love with them.

And I know one other thing, which is that even when their headlines are ambiguous, they’re still some of the most refined brilliance commonly available for what, two dollars?

Osama Recruits Cloned Hitler

This is how I graduate: the only Centre commencement in living memory on which it has rained, in alphabetical order yet in the middle of the pack, ending up shivering in the library halfway to the auditorium, which was in neither the sunny nor rainy day plans. Our baccalaureate speaker was a fervent liberal and our keynote speaker a stolid conservative; hackles were raised at each and both. I tried to dry the rain off my glasses and found that polyester robes don’t soak up much.

My apartment has been messily slaughtered, furniture shoved and stolen and hidden mold revealed. One more time I’m the last one to move out. The walls are bare, and most of what I own is in piles on the floor. I’ll never live with Jon or Amanda or David again.

I said goodbye and soon to many, many people, and went to my uncle’s house to see Ken, Jon and Emily one more time and to be astounded by the generosity of my family. I fell asleep sitting up before we came back here. I’m going to pack all night and leave in the morning, which I was explicitly told not to do.

Those of you who know me from my first Governor’s Scholars Program will be gratified to know, I hope, that I brought an umbrella onstage with me at the ceremony. As we were leaving, I ended up facing the wrong way and didn’t notice I was supposed to be moving for several long seconds after the rest of my row had gone. I jumped and cursed onstage (at my own commencement) and scrambled out. I was so flustered I forgot the umbrella.

On my way out to meet my family I stood for a few minutes on the stage in Weisiger. That was the first place I found myself on the first day of GSP, here at Centre; I stood in the dark, having come in out of the rain, and wrote about quiet stages on a chalkboard. Later that night, Milton Reigelman would point it out in his opening convo speech, and I would feel a strange mix of shame and pride at having something I’d written read.

This is how I graduate: I am bone-deep nothing-left weary, and I have miles to go before I sleep. I know my time here is done and I am satisfied with it, and I’m ready and willing and glad to go. I’m hurt and hollow, childish and scared. I want desperately to put off the deep wrench I’m feeling, because it means I’m really leaving home.

GSP is done as of twenty-eight hours ago; the post-GSP party/nap/wake for the RAs is done as of seven hours ago. It’ll be good to get some sleep,but of course I’m sad. This year I actually had some idea what I was doing, and with a couple notable exceptions I felt closer to all of my Scholars because of that. I miss them.

There are stories, the ones I couldn’t tell while things were in session because I was on the job. Now they can, in fact, be told, but I don’t currently have the strength for that much typing. I’ll get to it soon.

Meanwhile: I get to go see Angie! Again!

  • My first remote update! I am at GSP. It is planning week. I am in List-Making-Mode.
  • It’s the smells that set off my memory, and the strongest of those memories, weirdly, are of this week last year, rather than GSP proper. Maybe it’s because that’s when I first encountered these smells–the same way the smell (odor? miasma?) of Nevin still reminds me of my five weeks there during my GSP, instead of my whole freshman year.
  • Same floor. Same room. Six dumb flights of stairs or the bitchy elevator. And the lights don’t work as well this year.
  • But! I get to practice saying “Sixth Todd” as all one syllable again.
  • I got Brushfire Fairytales and Dirty Vegas. Both are really good, although I think I like the former better. (Jon, let me know if you want me to burn you a copy of the second. Just to try before you buy, ofcourse.)
  • I shouldn’t say this, because Kim and Taylor will probably read it, but I don’t think it really matters now. Last year’s campus director was named Laura. This year’s director of seminar is a different Laura. The first one is about as gone as you can get, but every time someone mentions the second Laura by name, I shudder involuntarily.
  • The new campus director is named Joe, and he’s kickass, awesome, right on. I’ve been looking forward to working with him since the retreat in April, and so far it’s every bit as good as I’d hoped.
  • I loved our staff last year, and I would have been happy to see any of them return. Not many of us did–some by choice, some not so much. But the few who did come back… well, if you’re reading this and you didn’t make it this year, don’t take this the wrong way: again, I loved you all. But Erin, Mooch, Jimmy and Caudill are the ones I would have picked if I’d had four choices, and they’re all back, and that makes me really happy.
  • But.
  • B Rich and Harney would have been in my picks too, except I knew they were going to be head RAs last year anyway. And they’re brilliant and exactly right for the job, and it’s going to be a good time, with them around.
  • There’s simply no comparison to draw between them and the people who had those jobs last year. Not just apples and oranges, but, like, apples and tungsten.
  • So it’s not that I miss last year’s head RAs because I want them doing the job again. It’s that Emma and Drew were my friends, and now that I’m here again, with these smells and that room and those memories, I miss them so much it’s like a knife in my side.
  • That said. It’s going to be a good six weeks.