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| An underground comix sensibility vis-à-vis Timothy P. Moynihan, '74 |
An essential part of my pre-admission indoctrination to the Academy came from pouring over my older sibs PEANs, the yearbooks from '72 and '74.
At coeducation's inception, alongside the mainstreaming of 60's counterculture, the PEAN took on a freewheeling style. This allowed the occasional off-color comment to make it into the senior quotes.
One still sticks in my mind:
If you asked a bunch of Exies to swim across a river of shit, not only would they do it, but they would make a race of it to see who could get across first.
It's hard to say whether this is more observation, critique or insult. I actually saw logic in it. If you had to do such a thing, why not make the best of it? A contest to speed the process seems perfectly reasonable.
The first, let's call him the wisecracker, generated a continual flow of bon mots peppering his observations. While he did not shy away from offering his interpretations of the many and momentous events considered, his greatest contributions came in responding to others. The more grand their pronouncement, the more devastating his cunning quip. In essence, he was serious in his intent to keep us from being serious.
His perfect counterpart was who we'll call the Southern Gent. He affected a courtly manner, like the antebellum cavaliers in the first reel of Gone With the Wind. Given the scarcity of Southern sensibilities at the school, he enjoyed deferential status. In our class, he served as cultural ambassador to what he portrayed as a mythical land. In most any discussion, he would offer what was purportedly the definitive perspective from the far side of the Mason-Dixon line. His finest moments came when he didn't have any particular view on the matter-at-hand. To satisfy Yankee expectations, he would manufacture one - often in the way of extravagant, unfounded claims. These provided the opportunity for the Wisecracker to exercise his excellence. This made for dynamic tension par excellence.
The teacher, who shall also go unnamed for now, seemed resigned to leave much of these fabulist fancies unchallenged. He would inject a note of skepticism only as things got completely out-of-hand.
Our third interlocutor, your humble chronicler of said events, sometimes suffered the schadenfreude of the aforementioned classmates.
During a class discussion about the mass mania that followed Charles Lindbergh's solo trans-Atlantic flight, my classmates tossed in details from the reading. These highlighted the hysteria over him that was a sign of the times. Something touched the national spirit.
Once the Wisecracker and Southern Gent had their say, I unfurled what I felt would be the last word. My insight was not merely a regurgitation from the textbook. This was an original contribution. So I set out my thesis as to how the true measure of the public's extraordinary appreciation was how they attributed Lindbergh's success to skill alone. Luck played no part. I was mellifluousness personified as I unfurled every bit of sail to catch the hot air billowing from me to sally forth into uncharted regions of intellection, much as Lindbergh himself had braved the void over the open Atlantic.
As I finished, the Wisecracker had a question for my otherwise flawless exhortation.
One still sticks in my mind:
If you asked a bunch of Exies to swim across a river of shit, not only would they do it, but they would make a race of it to see who could get across first.
It's hard to say whether this is more observation, critique or insult. I actually saw logic in it. If you had to do such a thing, why not make the best of it? A contest to speed the process seems perfectly reasonable.
Such an attitude made me Exeter material.
Gaining the Upper Hand
Arriving as a two-year student in the Fall of 1977, there was no time to acculturate. It was a sink-or-swim, and many sank. I soon found myself confronted by one of the key rites of passage: the American History term paper.
In English classes, excessive verbiage often served as cover for those who had not done the day's reading. It was de rigueur to both create and to call out such florid elocution, often referred to as Cosmic Bullshit or CBS and DHM (Deep Hidden Meaning). But my American history class was singular for its collection of loud-mouthed, procrastinating blow-hards and the signature rhetorical styles they evinced - present company not excepted. The ensemble cast featured three characters who dominated the proceedings. Each were like farmers laying down a rich layer of manure to fertilize the day's discussion, yielding an often unsavory harvest.
In English classes, excessive verbiage often served as cover for those who had not done the day's reading. It was de rigueur to both create and to call out such florid elocution, often referred to as Cosmic Bullshit or CBS and DHM (Deep Hidden Meaning). But my American history class was singular for its collection of loud-mouthed, procrastinating blow-hards and the signature rhetorical styles they evinced - present company not excepted. The ensemble cast featured three characters who dominated the proceedings. Each were like farmers laying down a rich layer of manure to fertilize the day's discussion, yielding an often unsavory harvest.
In the interest of collegiality, they shall remain anonymous. A description of their particular roles in this malodorous melange will suffice.
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| "Dynamic Tension" in the classroom |
Together, we tested out our sometimes specious readings of the glories that are our heritage. Each displayed the essential skill for success at the Harkness table and after - the ability to strike a tone of gravitas. With an authoritative air, even self-evidently absurd assertions enjoyed the pretense of plausibility. Also, all evinced the ability to expound at great length. Building on this shared foundation, the contrasting personalities at play added what Charles Atlas termed "dynamic tension" to the proceedings.
The first, let's call him the wisecracker, generated a continual flow of bon mots peppering his observations. While he did not shy away from offering his interpretations of the many and momentous events considered, his greatest contributions came in responding to others. The more grand their pronouncement, the more devastating his cunning quip. In essence, he was serious in his intent to keep us from being serious.
His perfect counterpart was who we'll call the Southern Gent. He affected a courtly manner, like the antebellum cavaliers in the first reel of Gone With the Wind. Given the scarcity of Southern sensibilities at the school, he enjoyed deferential status. In our class, he served as cultural ambassador to what he portrayed as a mythical land. In most any discussion, he would offer what was purportedly the definitive perspective from the far side of the Mason-Dixon line. His finest moments came when he didn't have any particular view on the matter-at-hand. To satisfy Yankee expectations, he would manufacture one - often in the way of extravagant, unfounded claims. These provided the opportunity for the Wisecracker to exercise his excellence. This made for dynamic tension par excellence.
The teacher, who shall also go unnamed for now, seemed resigned to leave much of these fabulist fancies unchallenged. He would inject a note of skepticism only as things got completely out-of-hand.
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| Back when PEA had a dress code |
My intellectual development had reached a stage where I found myself able to take what I learned in one area and apply it elsewhere. As I soon discovered, my fledgling attempts at such cross-pollination could prove problematic. One day, I found myself absorbed by a tidbit of psychological insight. The sure sign of true reverence for an accomplishment is when commentators refrain from attributing any element of chance to the achievement. To say that luck was involved would steal away from what was the result of talent and determination.
During a class discussion about the mass mania that followed Charles Lindbergh's solo trans-Atlantic flight, my classmates tossed in details from the reading. These highlighted the hysteria over him that was a sign of the times. Something touched the national spirit.
Once the Wisecracker and Southern Gent had their say, I unfurled what I felt would be the last word. My insight was not merely a regurgitation from the textbook. This was an original contribution. So I set out my thesis as to how the true measure of the public's extraordinary appreciation was how they attributed Lindbergh's success to skill alone. Luck played no part. I was mellifluousness personified as I unfurled every bit of sail to catch the hot air billowing from me to sally forth into uncharted regions of intellection, much as Lindbergh himself had braved the void over the open Atlantic.
As I finished, the Wisecracker had a question for my otherwise flawless exhortation.
"That's quite interesting," he said, acknowledging the mastery of my exposition. "But why do you suppose they called him 'Lucky Lindy?'"
Outside of class, we were expected to be hard at work on what was the culmination of our coursework - the dreaded term paper. The aim was to teach us research skills, how to use the library, pull together sources, use footnotes - a hands-on introduction to scholarly work. We were supposed to have been chipping away at this all term, generating the elements to be honed into a 10-page magnum opus. The syllabus generously alloted time for all this. But given the many other obligations and extracurriculars, I had reallocated that time to other, more pressing tasks.
In class the day before the deadline, each member of our troika tossed a few nervous witticisms about having to start from scratch. The teacher made it plain that if this was a joke, it was not funny.
Knowing this was no joke, we held a council of war after class. To our amazement, we discovered that each shared the same predicament. The three of us were all completely unprepared with only 24 hours till deadline - no research, much less writing. As the shock subsided, we grasped how this afforded an extraordinary opportunity. We each fancied our own brand of BS as the best. Here, sharing the same handicap, we could once-and-for all determine who truly was the champ. The terms of the contest were simple. Whoever got the highest grade would be treated by the others to a sumptuous breakfast at the “grill” – the student on-campus eatery.
The Agony and the Ecstasy
Outside of class, we were expected to be hard at work on what was the culmination of our coursework - the dreaded term paper. The aim was to teach us research skills, how to use the library, pull together sources, use footnotes - a hands-on introduction to scholarly work. We were supposed to have been chipping away at this all term, generating the elements to be honed into a 10-page magnum opus. The syllabus generously alloted time for all this. But given the many other obligations and extracurriculars, I had reallocated that time to other, more pressing tasks.
In class the day before the deadline, each member of our troika tossed a few nervous witticisms about having to start from scratch. The teacher made it plain that if this was a joke, it was not funny.
Knowing this was no joke, we held a council of war after class. To our amazement, we discovered that each shared the same predicament. The three of us were all completely unprepared with only 24 hours till deadline - no research, much less writing. As the shock subsided, we grasped how this afforded an extraordinary opportunity. We each fancied our own brand of BS as the best. Here, sharing the same handicap, we could once-and-for all determine who truly was the champ. The terms of the contest were simple. Whoever got the highest grade would be treated by the others to a sumptuous breakfast at the “grill” – the student on-campus eatery.
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| My first post-school byline - in the Bulletin |
What lay ahead in that long night's journey into day included another mainstay of the Exeter Experience: the one-draft wonder. This is a forgotten art from the typewriter era lost with the advent of word-processing. You might say that, in its day, the one-draft wonder reflected mastery of Bodhisattva consciousness - first thought, best thought. Rewriting was for those restricted to lesser levels of enlightenment.
I have absolutely no recollection of what I wrote about that night. What I do remember is the all-nighter needed for its completion. I wasn't alone on that odyssey. Dorm mates in other history sections were working on their term papers. As the night got underway, classmates compared notes on where they were at in their research and writing. I explained the contest underway. All I had at the start of the evening's ordeal was a few unread texts and a desire to win that prize breakfast. My peers acknowledged both the audacity and nobility of my quest for excellence amidst adversity. They took an interest in it, offering encouragement. It would be a matter of dorm pride should I triumph given the distinguished field of competitors. To support one another, we scheduled study-break check-ins every 90 minutes, beginning at midnight. This would help strengthen each other's resolve. We would make it through this together.
That first break was my deadline for finishing research. Then, I would be set to grind - shorthand slang for putting your shoulder to the grindstone - on composing the paper itself. As midnight neared, I set aside the texts I'd skimmed. I took a walkabout through the dorm to clear my head on the way to the study break. Along the way, I encountered an underclassman. It was after lights out for him. They had a 10:30 curfew. The all-nighter was reserved for upperclassmen only. I suggested that he return to his quarters immediately. Somehow, we ended up in a scuffle. In the process, I sprained my right thumb. Should I go to the infirmary to have it tended to? There wasn't time. Returning to my task, every keystroke on the typewriter brought searing pain.
I had started the night hopelessly behind those with their research done and writing underway. By the 3am check-in, what has seemed impossible - that I could actually do this - had entered the realm of possibility. Meanwhile, some who seemed so steadfast in their commitment had already folded, surrendering to sleep. But for the indefatigable spirits that remained, our commitment to each other magnified our determination. That was enough to overcome exhaustion. By 4:30am, I was finally on track to finish. As the all-nighter turned to day, I'd managed to pull it off.
Our last check-in gathered those remaining to share a meal of thanksgiving. At that point, I had all-but-forgotten about the contest with my classroom rivals. What mattered was that I had finished - alongside my brothers-in-arms. We had faced the common peril. Whatever the outcome for our efforts in the teacher's gradebook, we had already been found worthy in each other's eyes.
Outsiders to the boarding school experience wonder about the intense loyalty alumni feel for places like Exeter. It's shared moments like these that forge such lifelong bonds.
As class time came, I along with my competitors were bleary-eyed as we wandered in to submit whatever we'd managed to cobble together. Unlike college where you could crash after an all-nighter, Exeter required that you reset and rebound. Class that day may have been the only time when our trio showed restraint. We had a long, sleep-deprived day ahead.
When the papers came back a few days later, we all flipped through the pages, glancing at comments. No one was so crass as to simply go to the last page to find the grade. That would be déclassé. The teacher's comments on mine said that the writing seemed a bit rushed. Still, the depth of my research was clear - a solid effort. Then, inside a big red circle, a B- - honors in those days. That earned me the laurels in our competition. The Southern Gent, appropriately enough, earned a "Gentleman's C." The Wisecracker only eked out a passing grade, a D+.
I have absolutely no recollection of what I wrote about that night. What I do remember is the all-nighter needed for its completion. I wasn't alone on that odyssey. Dorm mates in other history sections were working on their term papers. As the night got underway, classmates compared notes on where they were at in their research and writing. I explained the contest underway. All I had at the start of the evening's ordeal was a few unread texts and a desire to win that prize breakfast. My peers acknowledged both the audacity and nobility of my quest for excellence amidst adversity. They took an interest in it, offering encouragement. It would be a matter of dorm pride should I triumph given the distinguished field of competitors. To support one another, we scheduled study-break check-ins every 90 minutes, beginning at midnight. This would help strengthen each other's resolve. We would make it through this together.
That first break was my deadline for finishing research. Then, I would be set to grind - shorthand slang for putting your shoulder to the grindstone - on composing the paper itself. As midnight neared, I set aside the texts I'd skimmed. I took a walkabout through the dorm to clear my head on the way to the study break. Along the way, I encountered an underclassman. It was after lights out for him. They had a 10:30 curfew. The all-nighter was reserved for upperclassmen only. I suggested that he return to his quarters immediately. Somehow, we ended up in a scuffle. In the process, I sprained my right thumb. Should I go to the infirmary to have it tended to? There wasn't time. Returning to my task, every keystroke on the typewriter brought searing pain.
I had started the night hopelessly behind those with their research done and writing underway. By the 3am check-in, what has seemed impossible - that I could actually do this - had entered the realm of possibility. Meanwhile, some who seemed so steadfast in their commitment had already folded, surrendering to sleep. But for the indefatigable spirits that remained, our commitment to each other magnified our determination. That was enough to overcome exhaustion. By 4:30am, I was finally on track to finish. As the all-nighter turned to day, I'd managed to pull it off.
Our last check-in gathered those remaining to share a meal of thanksgiving. At that point, I had all-but-forgotten about the contest with my classroom rivals. What mattered was that I had finished - alongside my brothers-in-arms. We had faced the common peril. Whatever the outcome for our efforts in the teacher's gradebook, we had already been found worthy in each other's eyes.
Outsiders to the boarding school experience wonder about the intense loyalty alumni feel for places like Exeter. It's shared moments like these that forge such lifelong bonds.
A Spontaneous Appreciation for a Singular Talent
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| A hallowed honor |
When the papers came back a few days later, we all flipped through the pages, glancing at comments. No one was so crass as to simply go to the last page to find the grade. That would be déclassé. The teacher's comments on mine said that the writing seemed a bit rushed. Still, the depth of my research was clear - a solid effort. Then, inside a big red circle, a B- - honors in those days. That earned me the laurels in our competition. The Southern Gent, appropriately enough, earned a "Gentleman's C." The Wisecracker only eked out a passing grade, a D+.
At the end of the term, the class spontaneously decided to hold a vote to determine who should be honored with the Golden Shovel award. There was no actual shovel - solid gold or mere plate. It was just an informal, infrequent honor bestowed by Exonians to Exonians. The teacher acknowledged that, given the extraordinary talents displayed, it was right to bestow such a distinction on one of our members. The Wisecracker prevailed in the ballot, making up for his undistinguished finish earlier.
Despite the decades past, whatever the particulars of any given Exeter Experience then or now, a timeless truth remains. An all-nighter is a day you've truly lived.
Despite the decades past, whatever the particulars of any given Exeter Experience then or now, a timeless truth remains. An all-nighter is a day you've truly lived.
Postscript:
The teacher, unmentioned, was Rick Schubart. Yes, I knew him well enough. Likewise for Don Foster, my dorm head during my Senior year. Most of all, I knew George Mangan. He was my mentor and, later, we had been close as colleagues. If somehow you don't know, their grievous transgressions with students have been well-documented.
Still, I cannot and will not allow their failings to taint my otherwise sacred memories. But, saying that, I feel ever more acutely an inexpressible sorrow for those directly affected by these violations. Their sacred memories are not so easily untainted.
Still, I cannot and will not allow their failings to taint my otherwise sacred memories. But, saying that, I feel ever more acutely an inexpressible sorrow for those directly affected by these violations. Their sacred memories are not so easily untainted.
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