Emerson College - Emersonian Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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WE THE CLASS OF ’47— Wc were unafraid, and confident. All freshmen everywhere are un- afraid and confident. We entered the whirling new world, and said: This is ours. We will take it — by force, if necessary.” But there were other forces besides our own. These swallowed us, and we lost our identity among the days of autumn. Outside the walls and windows of quiet thought, formless voices cried: Grow up! Grow up! You are needed!” The world beyond changed and shifted in the discontent and concentrated purpose of war. Freshman Week was full of little terrors when the upper classmen were around with old revenge in their eyes. Dr. McKinley said: This generation is important. It will decide so much.” And we wondered what he was thinking. We stopped going to the wrong classes, got our schedules straightened out, and made new friends. Remember these friends. They play an important part. We elected our officers, and from these seldom varied. But then we forgot, and laughed. We danced at the Interclass Dance as though there were no other world but music and motion. We dubbed our fellows knights of the pen, the proscenium, the scroll — they deserved the titles. We cried: whoa!” for Mr. Kenney, and recited reams for Mr. Connor, flexed and extended for Miss Riddle — and this was our world bounded by the tri- angle of school, the dorm and the Espie. The patterns formed themselves — we got wise to the throbbing, beautiful city wc call ours, we caught on to the subway system, the lights at Berkeley and Beacon — so many things you perhaps don’t think are important. Summer. Home. The familiar strangers. The slow season turned and the calendar said September again, and the place was the same. There were new faces, empty spaces that once were names, or a laugh, or a friend. Then the peevish doubt set in. Where am I going? Autumn leaves trapped in the court yard, the theatre door banging in the last warm winds. What do I ex- pect to accomplish? And the voices cried again, but louder and more urgent now: Grow up! Grow up! You are needed!” In what capacity? Where? How? Plays came in rapid succession. Strange to see our friends behind the lights transformed to other people. Make us believe, we thought, and Mr . Connor said: Here are the tools.” Drama, comedy — like a deck of cards dropped to a neutral floor — each distinct, meaning various symbols, carrying different weights. We were seen, and we saw. The molten mass so desirous of being form began to take shape. And Mr. Kenney’s question reverberated against the unanswering walls: Am I adequate? Am I adequate?” This second year the war ended. Philosophers said that this was our world, that the progress of it depended on those who dared to dream and who had vision. We stood on the threshold of knowing. Emerson led us to the door, but could not take us inside. The leaves of the books turned and we ElCiHTEEN The Emersonian

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the class of 194 7 . . . not add to the misery and sorrow of the world but shall smile to the in- finite delight and mystery of it.”

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thought the answer was near at hand. It was an unmarked road, and all those who had gone before had left few useful directions. Another September, after-summer-school-fatigue, another generation of leaves blowing down the Esplanade. Fewer this year. Marriage, circum- stances, change. We crowned our Prom Queen. Everyone was on his best behavior. We crowned our May Queen. The festival spirit prevailed and it was spring again in the court yard. We had surveyed the novel with Mrs. Standish and Mr. Packard. Even beauty said: Prepare for anything and everything.” Now we knew that only the realist would fit. Only the realist could eventually achieve a fundamental answer. And the last year came. We had grown. We had a new dignity. Now we saw what we must do. We must return some of our privilege to those less privileged. We must give back what we didn’t take. It was not an answer — only a means. Now we have turned in our keys. It will be strange to leave. The finger prints on the knob will be erased at the next touch, and for a little while you will remember names and faces. We have evolved properly and by the book. We have mused with Shakespeare, and quibbled with Kaufman. We have be- come tangible in the voice that urges us on. Inspiration cannot be bought, or willed, or bargained for. Nor can we capsule in a word what it has meant. Walk up the front steps in the morning, sit on the grass on the lawns at sundown, push the smoke aside and look for a familiar face in the Espie. Listen to Mr. Connor and watch his face when he speaks of Romeo and Jidiet — or watch Mrs. Maxfield beam when someone slips and calls her Mrs. Shakespeare. The quiet of Chapel. The ever new excitement of Convo. Talk to Dr. Green. The subtle accent, the need, the departure. Someplace beyond knowing, we know. The room is empty. A pencil on the floor, a crumpled paper, a glove — these each say, someone was here. These lines were written by an unseen hand An hour ago. Do not reply to this address. ' Ask for us tomorrow. Poem : Horace Gregory. The Emersonian Nineteen