A time capsule from February 2019:
Mere blocks away from the site of carnage and destruction from yesterday’s festivities, Raynor-Memorial Libraries are the meeting place for likely ragtag bands of coeds.
It is quiet, and very unquiet. Here, the stragglers have gathered; those who have written their souls and livelihoods away to mid-level paying careers such as nursing and physical therapy, electrical engineering and in my career-less case, English (a language I already speak), are here because the fire they lit only two days before still kindles in their hearts and minds. No, their work cannot be finished in the swallowing comfort of their residences, swaddled in fuzzy fleece, snacking on distractions and existing to full capability only on Instagram. They are here to stumble through the bare necessities of assigned work, which will take much longer than they should. I solemnly nod at a sorority sister, a funny one who is always game for a joke, on my way up the stairs of Club Mem. Today, I have nothing to say.
I cannot focus. The disquiet fills the air, lingering in every moment of fatigue, and seeping into every pocket of inspired motivation. Do you hear it? Whisper tones. Midwestern, historically white-American English is the only intelligible element. It is loud enough to notice, loud enough for a person’s arm hairs to prickle as goosebumps tingle- someone, some people are talking. What about? One can never know. It is just barely too quiet to make out the fiber. It’s giggly, which is undoubtedly the worst kind. Are the tables of entitled underclassmen laughing at jokes, and the dozens of innocent studiers nearby decidedly left out of whatever said underclassmen think is so amusing? Or, could these harpies be talking about the studious students nearby? It’s a painful, unnecessary, idiotic distraction and mystery that one cannot help but attempt to solve. We are survivors, but at what cost? Did we die yesterday- is this hell?
Things have changed since last year. The National Marquette Day Message from University Leaders is much shorter, with only brief suggestive rules. Last year’s Message went viral; “We challenge students not to drink at all” was met with the opposite effect as intended, and those very words were painted onto a bedsheet, splayed as the emblematic banner for the grand festivities of 2018.
This year’s wording was clearly picked with caution. Sure, there were warnings, but it’s much more fun to mock when the authoritative statements are explicit. They knew they couldn’t tell us what to do. So instead, they told us why this event exists. They took the high road. Cura personalis, care for the whole person. Have a little self-respect.
We are all tired. National Marquette Day creates animals of us all, and leaves us behind on what is now going on five weeks of already late homework, with the potential prospect of a once-in-a-blue-moon, miraculous seventy-degree day as the only thing to keep us going. And of course, the tidal wave of indistinguishably pleasant, spiritedly-posed and thoughtfully filtered Instagram posts.
They told us it was a weekend we’d want to remember. Some of us do. Some of us hope that somewhere in the chaotic tradition of Saturday morning rowdiness, a kindly and artsy gal pal named Emily or Maddie or a design-minded fellow named Matt or Jake or perhaps Patrick took a particularly good pic, and preferably, a tasteful assortment. Perfectly candid, silly and natural… looking. It’s pretty amazing that the terrifying language of coed whisper-tongue even includes the audible sound of a smirk. I just heard one.
I also hear a person, somewhere behind me, who learned to breathe with their mouth closed and to study without commentary. From time to time, they shift their weight from leg to leg, take a deep breath, flip a page. They speak to me without sound; I have no idea where they even sit, as they exist out of my periphery. This is the sound of who we are best as a community. This, I’m sure, is the person the administration would say is caring for their whole person. It doesn’t matter who they are- we don’t even want to know. Here we are: the intimidating and obnoxious whisper-people; my anonymous ally; and annoyed, judgmental old me. We are the survivors of the day that was ours. Rebels and celebrators without a cause, and eager listeners to our voices against reason. We are Marquette.
