Vox Clamantis et Clamantis; or College Bites Man

ONE of the first discoveries made by any Dartmouth graduate is how difficult it is to leave Dartmouth. However desperately he may roam the girdled earth, the College always seems no farther than the nearest mailbox. And when you consider the resources the College has to support the pursuit, escape would seem virtually impossible; yet for the past five years, until I squandered my most prized secret, I thought I had succeeded. This is my story.

The secret-that-is-no-longer appears innocuous enough. Essentially, it is that I do not live in Canada. Not, admittedly, very dramatic - although I don't have the facts at hand to back me up, it is probable that more than half the world's inhabitants do not live in Canada. Indeed, one might suppose, so very many people do not live in Canada that one more or less cannot be of much importance. But when I point out that for the past five years the Dartmouth Alumni Fund was under the impression that I did live in Canada, you may begin to see the significance of the secret. And when I reveal that during that period I lived a scant hop, skip and check away from Hanover, while the College was mailing its various pleas for money thousands of miles, across countless frontiers (well, one), the intrinsic wonderfulness of the secret should be obvious;

At first, I did not intend to deceive. After graduation, I was changing addresses with each new moon (for religious reasons), and there seemed little point in trying to keep Dartmouth up to date. If they needed my advice on weighty matters or wanted to know what to do with the ski boot bearing my name in the storage room of McLane, they could contact me through my parents in Winnipeg, Manitoba.

Sure enough, following a grace period of a few months (this will hardly be news to any alumni), letters started to pour into Winnipeg. My parents faithfully forwarded them and I received my formal introduction to the Dartmouth Alumni Association, an outfit that apparently intends to be a lifelong pen pal. After reading 30 or 40, I began to notice a theme running through the letters; after the first hundred, it became obvious that the Alumni Association meant business. This was not the Ladies Auxiliary planning a Sunday afternoon bake sale to raise money. Anyone who supplies sample wills is playing the game for keeps.

It was at this point that the advantages of a foreign mail drop became evident. From the little I can piece together of the College's strategy, the United States has been divided into regions, and a class marksman assigned to each region with responsibility for tracking down every graduate in the area. But all of Canada is apparently treated as one region, so the odds would be in my favor if I could keep up the protective screen.

For several years, the scheme ran smoothly. I bounced around New Hampshire and Massachusetts, and even had the audacity to work in Hanover one summer, while Canada, the world's largest buffer zone, absorbed the brunt of Dartmouth's barrage. I did get a few letters from a fellow from Seattle inquiring after my general well-being and bank account, but he seems to have thrown in the towel. Either that, or some thoughtful classmate in the Seattle area has rubbed him out.

Now, however, the holiday is over. I've been flushed into the open and the hounds are baying. The Parkinson file has been retrieved from the Lost Cause drawer and I think that's enough metaphors for now. It's almost embarrassing to relate the ease with which I was found out. A few months ago, my parents forwarded that infamous letter from the College's computer with a list of approximately 90,000 questions to be answered for some alumni directory. Questions like how many boards of directors are you on? how many dogs, divorces and children do you have? and, oddly enough, what is your present address?

As a rule, I ignore questionnaires, but prominent in this one was the strongly worded suggestion that the form be returned promptly so that follow-up mailings could be avoided. Knowing all too well how efficiently computers can follow up, I started to return the blank form, in obedience to the letter, if not the spirit, of the suggestion, but then I stopped, wrote in my correct address and mailed it in. To this day I don't know why. Latent masochism? Temporary senility? Lord knows.

I can almost hear the excited murmurs in the control room as word of the new sighting spreads, the whining of gears as the massive siege guns wheel about and search out the target.

"What! New Hampshire you say?"

"Yes, sir. He's been here all the time."

"Canada was just a dodge?"

"Yes, sir."

"By God, he'll never know what hit him."

I had the sense to ignore the space asking for home phone number, but now they have the address, and no great diligence is needed to ferret out the number. Sooner or later the phone will ring, and 01' "Skip" or "Buzz" or "Jimbo" will turn out to have been just passing through, and he was wondering if ... .

Already I have a letter from the Head Agent who is pleased to announce that a gentleman with the somewhat disturbing nickname of "Tooth" has agreed to serve as "Reunion Giving Chairman." Where do they get these people? I have yet to I recognize the names of any of my supposed classmates who now show such an interest in me. Did they actually go to Dartmouth, or are they ringers brought in by the College, specially trained in search and seizure operations? (Maybe I don't remember them because / never went to college. That would explain a lot of things.)

Another letter advises that at the upcoming reunion, "entertainment will include the quintessentially Dartmouth (Glee Club, sports films, beer), some very hip music (you'd better learn the Hustle before you arrive), and some new activities (seminars, class meetings, and special lectures). And this is only a hint of what will be happening." The hint is more than enough for me I'm afraid of the Hustle, and it is difficult to believe that the threat of "seminars, class meetings, and special lectures" is intended to encourage attendance. (May I also suggest thai describing these last as "new activities" adds weight to my theory that these correspondents have never been to Dartmouth?)

But all this is just sour grapes. What truly concerns me is my obvious lack of willpower. Having revealed my true address so readily, can the day be far off when I'll finally break down and send in a check? Of course, it won't be worth anything, but ones I'm in the habit, it will just be a matter of time before I'm sending checks that don't bounce. Who knows? I may even start wearing a Dartmouth tie and writing outraged letters-to-the-editor.

I wonder what they did with the ski boot?

A columnist for the Derry (N.H.) News, Terence Parkinson givesa Bicentennial salute to the 1976 Alumni Fund, which started thismonth.