Concordia College - Concordian Yearbook (Bronxville, NY)

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Or its essence is a mediocre somebody, maybe: a guy in his teens who blends into any background, and whose main ambition is to have a lot of money someday; he ' s lived through Lucky Pierre pile-ups eight high, and smokes his own cigarettes sometimes; his parents came from the old country and through work- long days and nights they saved for his education (they vicariously partake in their son ' s education and hope that someday he ' ll become a teacher) ; but he ' s in a restless age, you can ' t expect him to be serious all the time; he thinks about a lot of things — the pretty coed whose hair is like silken gold, a winning team in intramurals, or a sopping wet over-turned bed ! ; sometimes he reads, but has never really passed the comic book stage (he likes racy novels and wonders why text-books can ' t be written in the same style) ; he talks philosophy in his own lay way, using newly-learned words with naive skill and insisting that a specific premise really ought to lead to a general conclusion; When he fools around with the boys, wrestling and joking, he forgets about his C average, and he figures college life ain ' t so bad after all (he never forgets completely, and that C average on his transcript worries him) ; he likes supper time and he relaxes and passes remarks about the Coeds and some of the people who eat under the select table under the Moose; he ' s never finished eating until he dubs his cigarettes into a pile of potatoes or a coffee-filled saucer; smoked-choked rooms, rattling papers, murmuring voices — final exams are here and cramming begins (he ' s a little nervous and thinks maybe he should have studied a little mere during the term) , he chain smokes cigar- ettes and stays up all night — his head aches and he vows he ' ll never cram again ; tests come and he gets by, surprising everyone ; he ' s just a mediocre somebody, who thinks about swimming upstream but always stays with his boys, laughing and drifting with the current. Or a Scholarly somebody, maybe: who ' s turned inward and self-conscious, who likes his heavily-booked desk and feels aloofly satisfied as he f ticks his eye across its imposing titles; he ponders the ubiquity of the uncaused cause, the efficacy of prayer, the littleness of himself; he abhors the shallow thinkings of people, the ever-prevalent materialism of society, the cold complexity of life; sometimes as he ti redly watches the rays of a lone desk lamp breaking the peripheral darkness of his room, he draws a parallel — light and knowl- edge, darkness and ignorance . . . and he goes on to finish his Homer or his Augustine report; the Pathetique Sonata of Beethoven fills his room, softly backgrounding his studies and scholarly reflections (the music adds to his studies, effecting a soothing stimulation) ; he loves music and is intrigued by the humanities — carrying on a secret love affair with literature and sculpture (ask him and he ' ll tell you why the Discobolus is a work of art) ; it ' s noon time and chapel time and a solemn, practiced voice speaks to uplifted minds — sublime thoughts, sincere devotion, and hallowed quietness, hacked only by occasional coughs; our Scholar listens, subjectively evaluating and wondering how he would expound the same subject; the organ plays and he sings loudly, fervidly (he likes communal singing, losing himself in elemental and common worship) ; he ' s shy and rarely dates, and when he does speak with a girl he after- ward wonders if he said the right things — some fellows appear so glib, so natural in their relations with girls (our Scholar sometimes feigns con- descension when he ' s faced with an embarrassing situation) ; so our Scholar goes on, studying, developing — he seems sparked by some inward compulsion (what makes him so different from the rest of us ? — is it that he loves knowledge, is it that he ' s trying to grasp the infinite? — or is it that he ' s merely compensating for his lack in the social graces? When you try to find the essence of Concordia, always in the end it comes down to its somebodies, always in the end it comes down to you. You are its essence! • 60

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CONCORDIA: ITS ESSENCE When you try to tind its essence, always in the end it comes down to its somebodies, a Coed somebody, maybe: a girl laughing at her desk, fidgeting, half studying half trying to figure out what happened to her high school imageries of college life (where is the campusy moon, the love affair, the social life, where is complete freedom?) ; it ' s late and there ' s work to be done, she intently fills her pen again, scans her assignments, and is conveniently interrupted by the buzz-buzz of the next room ' s voices (our Coed has a free period before Lit, she can do the reading then . . . besides the girls might be talking about her!) ; so she joins the erudite circle, which talks endlessly — dissociated fragments about the old-new look, about necks draped with brightly colored scarfs, and about the naivete of the freshman girls, poor things, who somehow must be en- lightened (our Coed makes a black list, a list of the more undesirable college men whom freshman girls must not date) ; it ' s late, it ' s eleven o ' clock and the lights childishly go out; she washes and undresses, throwing her clothes and flimsier things over the back of the chair (she ' s so tired, you really can ' t blame her for not putting her clothes away) ; her head melting in the pillow and conscious of her warm self, she reminisces and fantasizes for a few short moments before going to sleep projecting herself into the future, imagining herself as a middle-class wife with a loving husband and wet squalling children — she figures on having two or three, which still will leave her time for afternoon bridge parties; she wonders if she ' ll be able to cope with the future ' s problems . . . (what should I do after college, what if I don ' t find a husband !) ; rain pelting on the sidewalk, she ' s cold as she walks to breakfast, the wind whipping into her, reddening her nose and cheeks; she drinks her breakfast and feels better, even trying to smile a little (her mouth and cheeks are still disposed to sleep and breakfast smiles come hard) ; you can hear the slip-slop of her loafers and her high laugh as she walks in the Beanery — coffee, a cigarette, and a few laughs about her twice- dated, steady boy-friend; (her boy-friend i s the quiet guy who does the thinking while she does the talking) ; our Coed is quite a gal — she can handle her problems, she can stand on her own two feet, she ' s practically a grown woman ... so she insists. Or a letterman somebody, maybe: a ruddy-faced tackle with red neck sticking out of a lettered sweater (he ' s modest and of course the letter is worn only to incite school spirit) ; he ' s ambitious and sometimes studies and thinks maybe it would be better if the eligibility standard were lower — athletics are important, every- one should be able to play, so he says; it ' s game time, Saturday blue tattering the sky; he smells locker room sweat, yells love songs, and curses that never-fixed shoulder pad; a play through his hole is called, tight, taut, he waits for the snap number . . . a-one, a-two, a-three ... he drives, he pumps, and opens the hole (our Letterman opened the hole and he hopes the crowd realized it) ; he ' s felt a bloody mouth, cracked ribs, a tired disgust, and he can ' t figure out why the quarterback never calls the right plays; you got to give him a short cheer, a little rest, and he ' ll play his heart out — you slap him on the back, tell him he played a good game, ask him whom he ' s taking out tonight; he likes all the girls, but there ' s really only one, who yells her lungs out at the games, and who ' s smart enough to act serious while he tells her why No. 33 never works; he drinks beer, complains, and talks a lot about himself (maybe he can afford to, maybe) . 59 •

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