No Green Bearcat Then

May 20, 2013 at 2:26pm

I have been reading the accounts of this past weekend’s graduation ceremonies at my alma mater, Binghamton University, and marveling at how they differ from when I graduated 41 years ago.  This year, there were at least six (or maybe eight) separate ceremonies for the various schools of the university, spread out so that each graduate could march individually across a stage and receive a degree; and most of the ceremonies were held at the university’s Events Center, which did not exist until 2004. 

In 1972 there was one ceremony, at the West Gym, and about half of the graduating class of 1,000 did not attend, since it wasn’t required.  Those of us who showed up wore black caps and gowns, rented from the college bookstore, which were hot as we waited in the sun.  Although the university colors were, as they are still, green and white, they were not really on display; and there were no academic hoods for B.A. types. We didn’t have a formal graduation speaker, just the person who was the acting President, whom I do not recall at all (not even this person’s gender).  President Bruce Dearing had left a few months before, and President Peter Magrath had not yet taken office.  The only ones who marched to receive their degrees were the relative handful of master’s and doctoral candidates.  We Bachelor of Arts types just sat; no names were read.  The paper diplomas were handed out after the commencement, in separate ceremonies in the residential colleges.  Since I was a local, living off-campus, I had to go to the administration building and pick mine up after lunch.  My “magna cum laude” designation came in the form of a sticker, a couple of weeks later in the mail, so I could apply it myself.  Talk about getting a gold star on your paper.

No one graduated from the School of Management, or Nursing,or Education, because those were little more than twinkles in academicians’ eyes in 1972.  We had a few engineers, though.  Those were the guys who wore slide rules in holsters from their belts. Anyone remember slide rules? 

I’ve seen photos from Binghamton University portraying things like students from China at the School of Management being recruited at the Career Center by the likes of Ernst and Young.  No such thing was possible in my youth—no budding MBAs, no Career Center, no recruitment period. The only possible recruiters in 1972 were from the armed forces, and they weren’t allowed on campus. 

And of course it was not called Binghamton University.  It was the State University of New York at Binghamton (still its official name) or Harpur College, but "BU" discourages use of those terms nowadays.  The athletic teams are now called the Bearcats, changed from the culturally uncomfortable Colonials (named after the colonial mansion where Harpur College started in 1946) of yesteryear.  Which reminds me of the line from “Sweet Jane”:  “Ridin’ in a Stutz Bearcat, Jim / Those were different times.”   I hear you, Lou Reed.

 

 

W.J. Smith

 

Dr Swerdloc, OBF

'Ars longa, vita brevis'

 

Freshman Year

Here's a question to ponder: I just watched an interview with the actress Marilu Henner of "Taxi," who is well-known for an astounding autobiographical memory. She told of a recent experience when she had addressed a group, and challenged them to recall their freshman high school schedule. One member of the group initially did remember it--a 15-year-old girl!--but others eventually discovered pathways or keys back to remembering their schedule.

 

How many of us can do that? With a bit of effort, I can recall at least 75-80% of mine.

 

For me, that was the 1964-65 school year.

 

I remember Plane Geometry, taught by Miss Kropek, the first period after lunch in that miserable classroom on the same basement floor as the cafeteria, almost across from the band room; and I remember Candie Bell walking into that class, and I hear the Beach Boys singing "I Get Around."

 

 

I Could Have Danced With a Dame

I COULD HAVE DANCED WITH A DAME

It occurred to me within the last month that I once could have danced with a dame.  Not a dame in the sense of “there is nothing like a dame,” although, that too, applies.  No, I mean Dame of the British Empire.  At the time that I (theoretically) might have danced with her, she was not a dame.

In the summer of 1976, I was in graduate school at the University of Massachusetts, on a summer program at Trinity College, Oxford University.  It was a six-week term, from the end of June through mid-August, and I was studying modern British drama.  There were a number of other courses in English literature offered, all taught by British tutors, of whom one was Hermione Lee, whose seminar was (I think) on the Bloomsbury Group.

She caught my eye for several reasons, mainly being she was quite attractive:  young, tall, five-foot-nine or –ten, pretty in a very English sort of way—dark hair, fair skin—and trendily dressed.  I distinctly recall her wearing a long dark summery skirt with multi-colored striped knee socks.  But I was a married man, and my wife was back in the USA, so I was a good boy.  Looking, yes; nothing more.  I did my share of looking that summer.

After the final banquet that ended our program, there was a party with music and dancing in the beer cellar below Trinity College, and between the pre-banquet reception in the President’s Garden (sherry punch), the banquet (different wines with each course) and the party (beer on tap and champagne at midnight), most of the attendees got rather spiffed.  I was no exception.  And it was terrific to hear the music, since, for whatever reason, I hadn’t heard much during term time.

I am not an avid dancer when sober, and only somewhat more so when not-so-sober.  So I danced a couple of dances with a couple of my fellow students.  Mostly I listened to the music.  But a friend, Neil Bell, to whom I had mentioned my considerable esteem for Ms. Lee, suggested I ask her to dance.

Yes, there she was, tall and elegant in a dark violet, floor-length, backless dress.  Way the hell out of my league.  She danced with a guy named Jack, who was in one of the other courses; he had a fair amount of money, owned an antiques business, and I am quite sure his primary libidinal interest was not with ladies of the feminine persuasion.  But he had a great wardrobe, was wearing a swell suit, and hey! he could sure dance.   I watched them, and they looked great.  That was as far as it went for me and my non-relationship with (despite appreciation of) Hermione Lee.

Ms. Lee went on to carve out an estimable career for herself in academia and as a scholar of Virginia Woolf and Willa Cather, among others; she’s a well-known book reviewer and is now President of Wolfson College, Oxford.

And in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List this past month, she was named a Dame of the British Empire.

That’s the Dame I could have danced with.  Would’a could’a should’a.  Story of my life.

But congratulations, Dame Hermione.