editorial

E9 The passing
of people, things
& ideas '

What is special about the class of 1975? What separates us
from those other groups of students, who have shared four
years here together?

Is it that we have seen the passing of people, of things, of
(perhapsl ideas? Is it that we are the last to know the
women's gym and the pool? Is it that we are the last to have
marched in protest? Is it that we have witnessed the
departure of Gale and Nasser, Prescott and Hawk, and (of
coursel Leggett, the rise and fall of Joseph Wall’s (leaning
career? Is it that we have watched, and heard, chamber
groups come and go, and survived the darkest days of
Grinnell sporting career? Is it that we have observed the
demises of the Communications Department and credit-fail?
Is it that we have weathered the controversy on pets‘.7

Or are we distinct for having endowed the college with
benches? Are we special for having watched the birth of the
Grapevine? Are we set apart for having broken in the
Physical Education Complex and the tutorial system? Are
we unique for having inaugurated A, Richard Turner, and
enjoyed a refurbished Quad'.7

Most of these are administrative, physical, matter-of-
course changes. Some have helped, some have hurt, They
have not changed the character of the institution, nor have
they altered its ﬂavor. Grinnell is still Grinnell. There are
still snowball fights and sculpture in the winter: in spring
lilacs still bloom and the greens are littered with near-naked
bodies. At semesters' ends, books still grow into heaps
around the circulation desk. Students still call at the bakery
and Work till dawn.

We have had an inﬂuence on this place; we will linger in its
memories, for a time at least. The full range of our con-
tribution may not soon be clearl But we have not changed
Grinnell; it has changed us. That is its purpose, and it has
served it well. We will all take a piece of Grinnell with us,
hidden away in some comer of our memories. Let us not
speak, then, of passing it on. Let us pass on ourselves.

by Sybille Scott

Eleven black women entered
Grinnell in the fall of 1971. Only
seven balck female members of
the original class remain to don the
cap and gown on Commencement
Day. The past four years, however,
have witnessed the blossoming
forth of these black females into
sensitive black women, who are
especially vulnerable to the
pressures ofboth ethnicity and sex.
The years have seen these black
women grow to realize and ac
Lualize their Visions once Caught
only in their dreams. Now that our
four years are closing, the time has

Reflections from the nutwing—_
four years gone

by Reiner. Nicolai. Cohen,
and Kati

Time mostly spent now the air
breathes quiet, We meet
somewhere, propelled by different
rhythms we take up our respective
pasts, the four of us—one bighead,
one incoherent, one trailing
images, one without stabilityifour
shadows, distinct and cast black
against the street. Behind our
memories and before our dreams,
we inhabit the space there, land-
locked in the present. , entering
our recollections with no lime fear,

.iesus, why are we doing this?
Don‘t ask me, it wasn’t my idea.
Peer pressure. This is a natural
culmination of four years, it had to
be done. Why are we doing this?
It’s the only true symptom of the
Grinnell sickness, terminal stage. I
don’t know, man; I mean I know
but I can’t write it down, wasted or
something, Well, what are we
doing then? No response from Nic
this time. Pete? The eulogy, Or a
final perverted attempt to share.
Let‘s talk about itiilesus, writing
it down along the way is like having
a teacher in the room. Yeah, we're
purging ourselves so we can leave
no longer Grinnellians.

Those iirst days of 1971, running
the introductory gates as freshmen
and trying to remember the way
back home, first strains of
Beefheart come floating out of
Howie’s room Getting high during
new student days, and it was
getting high back then: Pete Sal in
the circle with an Eisnel": bag full
of dope, Nic Sal outsxde the circle
passing joints without indulging,
Howie sat in his room listening to
Zappa, Bcn sat on the Interstate
somewhere between Kentucky and
Illinois. Then a memorable hall
meeting, in an air of uncertain
lreshman expectancy, people

cluttered around the room making
those typical Grinnell judgements:
stupid vegetarian, asshole who
stepped in the crackers, that weird
one spitting tobacco juice out the
window,

Nic: I thought Howard was a
junkie. I'm sorry Howard, 1 really
feel like I should apologize.

hing’s uniorgivable), Also, the
i tial screaming match between
pete and ben: who is this fucker
screaming about the Grinnell
sickness? Man, 1 developed my
first respect for that ball because
people would scream at me. (Hey
pete, was i sincere or totally up my
butt? Up your butt. Why? I don’t
know, couldn’t relate or
something. Did you ever believe
me? Sure, you kept talking about
my spiritual virginity. Oh, jesus.)

We spent a lot at time alienating
half the campus with our eating
habits—little did they know it was
only selfrabuse. Sit-down dinners
were an arena, Cowles lounge was
a menagerie. We spent a lot of time
giving each other shit before
realizing there might bc people
behind those masks. Too much
vision, The nutwing gave birth to a
college of burned baby dolls:
mudsharks, opening oranges
against the wall, duck head,
painful creativity, stretching
ourselves from the inside, drop-
ping shit on the Pagliai’s manitoo
close to 1560's.

But in finding out Grinnell wasn't
very much like the promotional
movie—it was the promotional
movie—everyone began their
retreat. Frustration, Nic won-
dering where political activism
had gone, indifference, Peter
wondering where the people had
gone, defunct, Howard wondering

where musical tastes and in
tellectuals had gone, shifting from
marxism to existentialism to
Kesey to Hegelian dialectic, Ben
wondering where he had gone.
inside explosions—to a four way
metamorphosis, and 1 do mean
Kafka.

Solution: academic pressure.
Here we proudly note that our
semester iirst marked the alps
pearance of academic pressure at
Grinnell. Things got so bad that
Friday after Thanksgiving classes
were cancelled, meeting in Herrick
to discuss the problem. Yeah, I
went home for the Weekend. So did
1. Yeah, Problem underlying the
problem was perceived as: too
many_ pencil-dicks, no social
penetration, everyone into their
own superficially-held social
fetishes. Good place to end this
thing, everyone knows what
happens during iinals, But what
about now? What happened, Mr,
Reticent? Can you capsulize four
years.

Now cverything’s so goddamn
tight and restricted that you can't
aiiord to be politc and tight and
restricted or you melt. Now it's
the real world. we’ll always be
fucking each other over cause it
won’t be the real world. Now we
create our own worlds, when we
walk out of Grinncll, we just put
our bubbles around us and go,
Grinnell made us despise the
outside. Now we’re just living in
the confines or other people’s
thoughts,

But what about now’.’ You know,
in strange new ways Grinnell is as
comprehensible as it ever was.
What can we say man. we went to
separate schools together. love and
kisses, pcte, nic, howie, henjy,

Tile Grinnell Scarlet and Black, May 20, 1975—1). 2

An open letter from
a black woman

glance back at those years for
evaluation and reflection.

We entered Grinnell with high
hopes and, not really knowing what
to expect, the illusions of freshman
year wrapped around us and we
found that we liked it here. I mean,
how were we to know that there we
re only 60 black people on campus?
We were so caught up in learning
new names, faces and per
sonalities that the actual count was
unimportant And how were we to
know that there were fewer black
males than females? All we knew
was that at Social affairs we were
pretty popular. No one thought to
tell us that the black community
was so small that all new black
faces were smothered with at-
tention. But it was great for awilc.
Then, the iirst week was over (by
that time the novelty had Worn
pretty thin), and we settled down to
another new experience. So we all
searched for thelibrary, promising
ourselves that we would find it
before the semester's end, But
something very strange happened
that iirst semester. Away irorn
home, we began to sense the
relationship of our lives to the
reality of the world, and some of us
began to question old ideas and
find new answers. Then, the CBS.
library takeover of 1971 fell upon
us, and we were called upon to join
in the struggle. We emerged from
the library with a new level of
consciousness about ourselves and
the role of black women that was to
remain with us throughout. So we
carried that feeling of solidarity
with us and made it through the
iirst year not too badly scarred,
and much better prepared for the
changes that would occur within
us.

By sophomore year. we knew the
ropes, so we settled back and
envied the new class of blac
women. During that second year
we shared many private ex
perienccs and poignant struggle!
We looked back on our freshma
year and noted the change, an
ieeling just a wee bit nostalgic, w
laughed it away. We all grew i
very personal ways that year. No
being able to decide when the eXac h
time the metamorphosis began, w
shrugged it off and got involved i
more concrete problems
specifically, looking for a main
that would reflect our wants an.‘
needs. As juniors, we became mor.
aware of an individual Search in
self.

Now we are seniors, and instea-
of looking forward, we are still
looking backwards on our growth
process. We have gained and
grown both intellectually and
emotionally. Even though the
administration has not always
been sensitive to the_particular
needs of'black women, we have
met the challenge and conquered
it, Losing most oi the naivcte and
substituting warmth, compassion
and strength, the black senior
women can only leave this as a
legacy for black women to come.
With only each other to loan on, we
made the ultimate transition from
blackness to black womanhood.
Few will understand your
problems, your concerns about
your black man and the anxieties
of living in both a racist and sexist
world. You must bind together, as
we did, to ask the questions, and
then to reach out in search of the
answers. in order to transcend the
barriers between both blackness
and womanhood.

Adieu, adieu

by Jeanne Burkle

When I think of next year without some of our graduating seniors, I
begin to work up a real case of the dismals. For instance, how will we
ever replace J.C. Woods. whose clear tenor voice singing Latin songs
down corridors of college buildings seemed to make the sun shine all
through a dreary winter”. (What kind of a school is this anyway that
produces a fellow like J.C. who turned on to church history and fell in
love with both the Virgin Mary and Martin Luther?)

And how about Joe Feldman, the softrspoken, warm-hearted
Feldman, who organized the wonderful Celestial Sacred Harp Singers
and produced the immortal ”Spider Rabbit" (starring the inimitable
John Schecter, "Hi there! I'm Spider Rabbit"—the deadly innocent—
Aren‘t we all?) Feldman’s the sort of guy one likes to talk with about
very serious things (or who has the ability to make everything seem
serious and funny and worthwhile).

To continue this essay in sentimentalia, let me tell you about more
people I‘ll miss when September comes. I‘ll miss my ”Renaissance
Woman” Miriam Burstein, the kid who does science and art and wants
to major in everything. I probably won’t ever be the same without
Dick Cleaver (I've known him since he was a toddler; I’ve marvelled
at his brains and courage). And while I’m on the Subject, let me Say
that Laurie Casselman has been a perfect joy to have around. A
perfect lady always is.

How can I live without Billy Bob Donelan’,’ When he was only a
freshman his Winsome, blueeyed honesty came to my attention, and
that’s something I’ll miss when he leaves. Another young “charmer-
on” who has captured my fancy with his sweetness and light is Dave
Calvert, and it's difficult for me to think of his going away.

While I‘m on the subject of folks I met at the Forum, there's another
guy whose handsome face and elegant ways will be greatly missed.
Harold Day is going off to be a doctor somewhere. Sandy Rikoon, a
real sweetheart fellow and a fine poet, is also graduating and will
somedav soon find the bluebird he seeks, if he hasn't found it already.
I’ll miss the genial and bright Bob Deepe. Bob Winters and his lovely,
gracious sister, Diane, have both finished here, and this is hard to
take, for they are really tremendous people to have around, (I‘ve also
known them since they were pups.)

I’ll miss John Wylie (Old Nose for the News). Who will let me in on
the “latest outrage”? And I‘ll miss the gentle Milton Rolland. a sweet
iriend and a Good Samaritan who just recently helped me get my car
unstuck from the Iowa mud. Where will I find excellent psychology
tutors like Pete Reiner and Bob Kraft? There‘s probably no
replacementfor my brilliantMark Ashbaugh and my Dan Weston and
Bill Hahne.

Perhaps never again will I hear Joanna Churgin’s great throaty
voice or see Susan Ashbrook’s magic feet and sunny smile in fol.
dance. Sybille Scott, don‘t leave! Sam Hammer, if you don’t keep i
touch I‘ll shrivel up and die!

This is getting terribly sad. What i must do is think positivel
Surely there will be other friends, but it takes so long.

Adieu, adieu.

 

