United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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How to (x)u l J’histndlL. awL Qn kwiOL Jh obqA. By Carol Palmer It’s quite an experience, being a woman theolog. It means invading what has been traditionally a man’s field, and that always takes a certain amount of audacity. I first encountered the stern realities of the situ¬ ation when I entered United College for second year Arts. Now, whether one is male or female, to become a candidate for the ministry means that one must appear for examination before a committee of Pres¬ bytery. After I had been greeted with almost em¬ barrassing warmth by the chairman, and after some of the committee members had made polite inquiries as to the location of my mission fields of 1951 and 1952, one of the gentlemen felt it incumbent upon him to inject a serious note into the discussion. Had I really considered the serious nature of what, as a woman, I was about to undertake? Did I realize the difficulties I must face from possibly anti-feminist congregations? Somewhat subdued, I retreated fol¬ lowing the brief interview, only to find a dear old gentleman of the committee hurrying after me. I was to pay no attention to the last speaker: he, the dear old gentleman, was sure I would get along very well! Shortly afterwards came what the theologs call their annual “retreat,” which is a day when all those itending to spend their lives in the ministry go out in the country somewhere and indulge in such tomfoolery as soft-ball, rugby, and a theological (in the sense of being participated in by theologs) sing¬ song, which is like no other sing-song on earth. That particular “retreat” it rained (I can only recall one such occasion when it didn’t), but rugby went on just the same. Not being athletic, I stood around watching until someone suggested a game of catch. Three of the likewise rugby-disinclined joined me in an exciting game of catch, using a volley ball. I rubbed aching muscles for days afterwards. I pass lightly over my Arts days, not because they were uneventful or unimportant, but because there were plenty of other women there. Except in the Greek class! In Greek IA there were three of us, but two decided that one year of Greek was enough. In Grek II, I knew the men of the class so well that I didn’t mind being the only woman. One always has to bear in mind that men are, despite occasional evidence to the contrary, human. I didn’t even mind when they made a few jokes at my expense. And how did it happen that when it was my turn to trans¬ late I found myself reading, “But beware of men . . . ”? One doesn’t like to be thought of as a liability in a theological class, but there are times when it is so, nevertheless. It is good to have as a professor a man who tells jokes in class, but it is intriguing, not to say frustrating, to be told that he used to tell much better jokes when there were no women present. In order to be a successful woman theolog, it is well to be humble, quiet and inconspicuous. One ought to remember that the men of the class will hardly forgive one the heinous crime of reading a book from one of our book lists. It is even a bit suspect to have essays and assignments done on time. If one commits these grievous errors, one is not really a member of the fellowship. But please don’t take me too seriously! I love being a woman theolog. And when discussion in our classes gets down to the deep things of God and the Christian religion, I don’t have to pretend to humil¬ ity. I know how small and inadequate I am, and I know that I am privileged to be a part of a theo¬ logical class. Despite the shortcomings and human weaknesses of my classmates, I feel, somehow, that the future of the Church is safe. God can, and will, use such men in the building of His kingdom. I can laugh at them, I can criticize them, I can disagree with them, but underneath it all, I have a good healthy respect for them. AH, WINNIPEG! By S. G. I Spring has sprung, The grass has riz, I wonder where My hip-boots is. II In Winnipeg in summertime There’s lots and lots of weeds The lawn is filled with dandelions And dogs of various breeds. There’s dvwt on all my furniture, Dust in what I eat. And Queen Victoria in her chair Wishes like h - she weren’t there And complains she’s beat by heat. III Autumn in Winnipeg! Rouse the town crier! The mayor is roasting On a leaf-pyre. IV I think that I shall never see A winter that appeals to me. A winter when the busses go And aren’t-stopped-with-the-left- rear-wheel-stuck-in-a-spoonful- of-snow. A winter when the birds don’t fly Followed, in thought, by little I. Snow is shoveled by fools like thee . . . MY walk is ten feet under ME. 23

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POEMS By Deby Miller ftsdikoat (RswsUusl It has become the latest style To have your skirt stand out a mile. Add bows to underslips, and lace And they will give you poise and grace. I saw the rows of petticoats Hang stiffly and so feminine In pink and blue and virgin white. —And fingered stiffened, ruffled lace —And closed my eyes and pictured grace And poise in a petticoat of latest style That makes your skirt stand out a mile. And then my eyes were open wide Enough to see the lady from Relief With firm belief That a reddish-black dress could suffice And long sleeves would look very nice On a little girl of five or so, —But that was fifteen years ago. Petticoats — lacy, frothy and light In pink and blue and virgin white Have now become the latest style. They make your skirts stand out — A Mile! OhibblsHu amt (DhoocUsn ON MY CREATIVITY . . . A word—a scribble—a dash—and a dot Maybe it’s poetry—but then—maybe it’s not . . . ON POPULARITY IN A CHURCH COLLEGE . . . Oh! to be a wheel—not a cog I’ll have to become a theolog! ON POETIC LICENCE . . . God chastizes One who plagarizes, For He knows this Satan Isn’t really creat’n . . . ON AN UNNAMED PROFESSOR . . . Some people think he’s intellectually haughty Others say he’s downright snotty. Oft’ he raises an eyebrow with utter disdain And elicits a most familiar refrain On a topic that vexes —Such as sex is .. . MsdoAodoXJLj. Christmas, With oppressive spirit Of affected love and friendship. Blaring, Of “Silent Night To a heedless and hurrying people. Glaring, Of tinselled Star And gaudy green, red-ribboned parcels. Sweet, Saccharined wishes On lips and fifteen-cent greeting cards. Christmas, With hampers and meaningless platitudes. Pardon me God—my unorthodox attitudes. GfyiiauL Bw didtwtL When as a child—I was enfettered, And knelt to toil, and bowed to serve. But now—I am become a Man! The head that bowed for centuries No longer bows—I hold it high! I heeded meekly, ’til the fire Of inward soul inspired me To waken, rise, protest and call Your loving God —-to damn you all! fiotfkctio iA. ml £aojul-(B hsMldm (With profuse apologies to Ogden Nash) High marks are fine. But look at mine . . . OdsL — CL (jJindbaq Like a kettle—sputtering A student—muttering This thought to me will bring — That the little knowledge One learns at college Can prove to be a dangerous thing . . . 22

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H hSL Jodcu — $MlfL JomtflhDW ' By Pat Clayton Silence pervaded the crowd like the roar of the sea. It was intangible, but it was there. Unconsciously, both as a whole and as individuals, they were aware of its presence. It pressed down upon them as their horrified gaze rose from the grotesque remains of what, a few moments before, had been a living, breathing man, to a slight figure crouched on a ledge eight stories above them. ' 1 The woman, perched precariously on a small, jut¬ ting piece of masonry, was laughing. The sound of its thin, vaporous echo wafted down to the crowd gathered below. It chilled them with its emptiness, its utter dearth of human emotion or feeling. The crowd was spreading rapidly. Half a block was covered with silent, watching humanity. In front of the drugstore directly across the street from the building under surveillance, were three bright spot¬ lights, almost glaring in their intensity. Their faces too, were turned upwards, toward the building. Suddenly the silence was broken. The police cars had arrived with their sirens in full blast, and an ambulance with white-coated attendants covered up the broken body and quickly removed it from the eyes of the spectators. The firemen had arrived also, and hastily set up what resembled gaping, circus- aerial nets. The watching and the waiting continued unabated. The object which was the focus of this attention had not stirred during any of these frantic operations which were being executed below her. A light wind was gently rippling the grey, stiffly starched uniform. Her dark straight hair floated in disorder about her shoulders giving her countenance a wild, almost bar¬ baric ferocity. She was not unlike a crude sketch of an ancient cave dweller, squatting before a camp fire. But there was no warm fire before her. Just an abysmal drop of several hundred feet. With catlike dexterity she suddenly began to move. Slowly, but with sureness, she inched her way fur¬ ther along the ledge. The relentless spotlight fol¬ lowed. Then, about twenty feet from the corner edge of the building, she stopped. She stopped directly in front of a window. The room behind the window was in darkness, except for a tiny ray of yellow light which could barely be seen, peeping through the blackness. It was not a stationary light, but one which kept darting from left to right like a snake’s forked tongue whipping out for its prey. A murmur rose from the crowd, and as quickly died again. The woman had not seen the light. All was silent once more. The crowd breathed as one. She reached backwards with her right hand with¬ out taking her eyes off the crowd, and slowly raised the window. Within the room now, there was total darkness. The woman raised her right leg and swung it lightly over the ledge into the room. Then, before drawing in the rest of her body, she paused for a moment and uttered a final, gleeful howl of sneering contempt. She disappeared from sight. An instant later the room was flooded with light, and angry, animal sounds emanated from it. The struggle was a fierce one, but it ended as suddenly as it had begun, with the room plunged once more ito darkness and silence. Below, the nets were gathered up. No sirens pierced the night air now. The crowd which had so quickly gathered, dispersed with equal haste. They could not leave the now prosaic scene soon enough. It had lost its attraction; its uniqueness. All was quiet. Silence pervaded the street, but, this time, with a defference. It wasn’t the roaring, tense silence of the sea; rather the quiet, peaceful silence of calm waves. One by one, the streetlights were lit. A light rain had begun to fall—a cool, refreshing rain. Within a half moon of pale light created by one of the lamps, a red blood stain was becoming smaller and smaller as it was bathed in rain. It grew fainter and fainter until it completely vanished from sight, and, from memory. 24