A Kind of Knowing

July 27, 1980

Dear Mum, As I write, Jane is on the couch flipping through our issue of the Freshman Book. The mug shots are now four years old, the faces four years older. Also contained in that one little worn paperback book are check marks and symbols by the images of former roommates and first-year acquaintances, sister pledges, and freshman-trip comrades.

The latest remark from across the room: "There's not one face left I want to meet." I wonder if she means that.

The flies in this Hanover apartment are whizzing by my ears, while the fan recir-culates the humidity. What is it about a second summer on campus that leaves me less tolerant of the little inconveniences? My work's been put aside for the evening. George Eliot just wasn't doing it for me.

"All the cute ones are taken," I hear. This time I look up. What do we expect? And, at this point, do we really care? We really did care, it seems to me, judging by the softness of the book's binding.

Freshman week 1977. Smiles are hurting our faces by the end of each day, and our pride has been pounded upon at the rate of one embarrassing incident per hour. Everyone we meet is a " 'shmen," with the exception of the Green Key-ers, until midweek when upperclassmen start filtering in for a look-see. Quite innocently one night, with a self-conscious grin, I ask a lone student on the stoop of Middle Mass if he, too, is a freshman.

It was dark. Really. I didn't know any better. He didn't say a word, but I understood when he snorted cruelly and aimed his squirt rifle at a spot I'd rather not mention. Like I said, our egos took a beating.

We had to have been made of rubber, bouncing back the way we did. Chalking up each blunder, whether in class or on Webster Avenue, as one for experience.

Never once did we consider that someone might just have it in for us. But now, three years after the fact, I feel more like Styrofoam. Once the coffee's drunk and the cup is empty, someone can sit absently pecking away at the rim, chipping away at its form until it won't hold a creamerful, let alone a cup, of caffeine. I'd rather someone threw me away than sat picking at my last shred of dignity.

I suppose I blame the fraternities, to some extent, for pecking at my self-esteem. I can remember growing dependent on the events they sponsored each weekend, denying there was anything that could match the social intercourse they offered. Needless to say, once I grew bored with the situation, something had to give. And fraternities weren't about to change.

I'm sure I was pretty boring to be around that winter. I decided to take things into my own hands. The term was close to a flop because standing on my own two feet proved wobbly. Close friends became very important that term. The kind of friends I could dunk chocolate chip cookies with over discussions of why life really is important. Fraternities didn't seem to be the place for me then. Nothing, other than those late night talks, seemed quite right.

And, Mum, if I never did before, I want to thank you now for hearing my uncertainty, even over a collect call home. I guess you always could connect that little twang in my voice with a lump in my throat and a sigh in my heart.

Well, I've survived my second Summer Carnival with breath to spare. I think it's better you didn't see last year's photographic evidence that your daughter was having a good time. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was downing beer from an Andre champagne bottle while dancing jumping-jack-style to a band on the lawn of Kappa Sig fraternity. I don't suppose I can shock you anymore after telling you with pride freshman year that bar-sitting, bridge-jumping, beer-chugging, and pongplaying were the college activities I liked best.

Sometimes I wonder if I just thought I was having fun. But there's no sense in my worrying about it. Now, the way I spend my time happens to bring more lasting rewards than a hangover and an obnoxious photograph. Come to think of it, there's nothing really detestable about any of those weekend forays with the possible exception of chugging, the result of which I liken to death warmed over. They were definitely fun at the time, and for two years at least, bouncing back after making a fool of myself in someone's fraternity house was axiomatic.

But Styrofoam is more the reality these days. It would take me weeks, not days, to outlive an escapade of unseniorlike conduct. Meanwhile, my coffee cup would find a major dent in its side.

So this Summer Carnival weekend found me dancing sans jumping jacks and Andre. I was there, though, on a windowsill of Kappa Sig, watching someone else make a fool of herself. My participation in pong-table crew races and wild lawn dancing gave way to observer status. Nevertheless, vague guilt prodding me to recapture George Eliot and settle into a niche of the Tower Room was drowned by the music of a beer-bellied southern rock band.

I'm smart enough to realize that this wise old coffee cup will have to rediscover some rubber qualities to survive whatever is to come. For the time being I can at least feign wisdom and maturity as I try to convince some employer to hire me.

Jane shut the book a while ago and went to bed. I can't resist picking it up, though I've paged through it at least a hundred times. Yes, the cover is worn, and the pages are falling out, but the faces are still young and somehow expectant. Comparing them to the faces I know now, I'm sure I detect a difference. A trace of something about the eyes. A kind of knowing. As for the faces I've never met, somehow I know we're sharing something.

It's late, Mum, and the reading I neglected tonight must be done in the a.m. I'm sorry if I rambled some. Just wanted you to know I was thinking about you. Hugs to everyone.

Love, Pat P.S. Tell Daddy the college bill's in the mail with a good, long letter. P.P.S. I love you.