The Forgotten Graduate

Four years are quickly coming to an end.  When I came to the Hill for the first time, I was full of expectations.  I was ready to become a new person and to pour myself into my alma mater.  I bled red and gold for several years.  I helped start a new rivalry, I led the charge of the BCFC for a year, and I played for nearly every musical production that was put together, even if I was dragged into it the night before.

Then, specifically last year, everything began to come to crumble around me.  I found out that some people who claimed to by my friends were really just waiting for a chance to roast me - and I ended up burning at their mercy.  During that time things started getting Clarified.  I found out that I only burned red now, as did many professors, students, and faculty.  My school spirit was utterly destroyed, and I lost faith in the people I used to be a standard-bearer for.  And when I thought I had escaped unscathed and the burn-wounds were nearly healed, they took my dear friend a closest professor and mentor away from me.  Five of my seven classes this semester were with him, and with Biology being the sixth (something that has nothing to do with either of my majors, music and politics), my motivation plummeted to an all-time low.

I learned to keep to myself as a graduating senior.  My door stayed open as it always did, but only a select few still took the time to open it.  I thought for most of the semester that I was alone.  Everyone else had, I thought, come to grips with the fact that they had to smile and bear it, bend over and take it, or just accept that what had happened was right.  I heard more times than I can count, "If you don't like, you shouldn't have come here."  A pained smile stayed painted on my face, and occasionally I'd lift my proverbial cyber-pen in protest of some new development, but my audience generally just shook their heads in pity - just a stubborn senior.  A few agreed, but they were far between.

And then recently, a dear friend pulled me aside and told me it's okay to feel the way I do.  He's felt that way too.  And even if I walk across the stage and I'm forgotten by everyone else, he'll remember the things I did for him.  And thinking back on our conversation?  The aching part of me that wished I'd be a graduate remembered was satisfied.  Maybe my name will only be remembered for a semester or two from here on out, but the people who remember will be the ones I love.

Recently I've been laughing at the irony that a graduation gown is black, and totally covers your undergarments - the person beneath.  When we're all gathered for the ceremony, when we walk across the stage, we'll be numbers on a success list.  We will be stifled in finality for that one day like the sea burqas in a crowded Middle Eastern street.  A part of me wishes that I could have climbed the ranks of alumni to be one of the people who is remembered for years to come.  But after what has happened here, after my heart of red and gold lost its luster, I am happy to leave that behind.  I would rather be remembered by the forgotten.  And one day, if one of us rises to recognition, it won't be because of the red and gold we've left behind.  It will be because of the love of those few people who were left to drown in the sea of black success.  That's the kind of success I want.

Last man stand,

One man band,

Notes die in the wind,

Nothing left to spend:

Forgotten Graduate.

Sunny Jar of Clouds

Sometimes inspiration comes in floods after long dry spells.  To be honest, it feels like breathing again after being underwater until your lungs almost explode.  I offer no apology for two posts in two days; instead, I offer the hope that one of them speaks to you in a way that inspires you like my clouds inspire me.

Sunny Jar of Clouds

A bright yellow sweater

Masks a grey shirt,

Subconsciously emulating

The relationship between

Your face and your heart.

Your off-white shoes

Give commentary on the

State of your character:

Tarnished, stained; an environ-

Mental project in the works.

The storm-cloud jar deflects

The dispersing winds of spring,

And to avoid inquiring noses

Dons a camouflage of sun.

Happier in hurricanes than

On a blissful day, because

All walls of pretense come

Momentarily down.

Perceived through tinted lens,

This shrouded smog is

Condemned as untrusting:

Do you have any Right?

Don’t you draw breath?

But even He sweated blood

And dreaded and begged for

Another way, soul battered

By the howling winds

Of the storm.

And if it was so with He,

How much more with me?

This stormy inspiration that

Constantly rages in little jar,

At the very least has won

Incomprehensible love,

And shows others that

They are not alone.

Now you have seen the

Contents of the sunny

Jar of Clouds.

Transparency is rare.  It

Comes at a cost.  And

Now that you see, I’ll blend

Right back in.  Slipping

Yellow hoodie on again,

To protect from the wind.

Meet Me Where You're Going

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Most of the time when I find a new band, or a new genre of music, it's because someone recommended them to me.  I rarely listen to the radio - it's Spotify all the way for me.  However, there is one band that I randomly found on my own.  I used to be obsessed with the phrase "Cloud 9" in highschool - even wrote lots of stupid stickman comics about drama, love, and all the junk like that that goes on when you're that age.  And so, on a whim, I typed "Cloud" into the Spotify search bar, and the first suggestion was an indie band called "Cloud Cult."  I was instantly enthralled.

Through the years, I have religiously followed Cloud Cult through their pain, their recovery, and the expression of those emotions in their music.  In 2013 they released one of my absolute favorite albums to date: Love.  It's a simple title, but the album itself is profound.


The night I proposed to Virginia, now my fiance, I created a playlist called The Night.  On it were songs that held significance to both of us, and I had a dear friend que it just as we walked in the room where I would ask her to be my wife.  One of the songs that I chose was "Meet Me Where You're Going," which you're hopefully listening to right now.  Like I do with most of my music, I took meaning from the title, from the words, and the heavy emotion that's poured into the song.  What an appropriate song for such a night!  But like most music, it grew and evolved with me, and last night I had a revelation.

Meandering down life's path,

Meeting its wrath,

With you at my side,

Your pace a quick stride:

Going where you are.

"Run away with me, yeah, let's get married. Will you be the rest of my life? Every day with you I say "I do", and it means so much more each time."  These lines were obviously a wonderful choice for a proposal night.  But what about, "Thank you for patience. Thank you for-giveness. Thank you for spending this time with me. Meet me where you're going, cuz I wanna be going wherever you'll be."

Recently I've had a lot on my plate and on my mind.  We all have, especially we seniors.  It's very easy to get annoyed with each other, and I find myself often getting annoyed at those people who have walked college's path with me ever so closely for four years.  Some of my dearest friends.

Have you ever been backpacking with three or more people?  There's always that one person who leads, and you fall behind.  You get to a hard stretch of trail, and talking and chatting stops all together.  Maybe that front person pulls ahead, and it feels as if you're no longer on the hike together, but as individuals.  But you know what?  You're not.  You're both on the same trail, and most likely, you're hiking together because you love each other.  From my perspective, even if it seems like my friends have their back to me, hiking at their own pace and investing in other things, I want to Meet Them Where They're Going.  I value them so much that I'd rather "go wherever they'll be," than be annoyed that they're not prioritizing me.

Aside from the obvious message between lovers, Cloud Cult's MMWYG reminds me that we're all on the same trail together.  We should all value where they're going first, because most likely we'll all be better off in the long run.  Relationships always trump the day to day mediocrity of life, even if it's the last little stretch of school.

So to my fiance, to my family, and specifically to my friends here on the Hill, with whom I have such little time remaining, "I love you and how. Won't leave you alone. Will you be my home now? And I'll be your home."

For the 15

I don't have much to say this time around.  I've been going through the motions of preparing for a senior recital, and I've been going through the motions of finishing the last few classes I need to graduate, even though Biology has nothing to do with either politics or music performance.

The truth is, I ache.  I ache in a deep way that only a few people in this school can understand - or choose to understand.  Music people, Biology people, Comm people, Psych people, Bible people...there are a few people in nearly every friend group, major, and class who understand what I'm getting at.  Should we just roll over and say "Oh well?"  I thought that's what we should do last semester, until one of my dear friends and favorite professors fell out of my life, just like so many others have this past year.  There's not much we really can do.  So I'll just sit over here in my corner of the Den and make some noise.  I know I'm not alone.

Afraid, cowering in plain sight,

Hiding from ethereal unknowns.

Previously our pride, but like

a lion shorn, our colors worn

Now become our shame.

Friends, mentors, melt away like

spirits, the young forgetting who

Once led our vivacious pack.

Those men with manes targeted,

Made mediocre in a moment by

the will of an iron pen.

The convenience of hypocrisy,

The death of justice at the hands

of a mere formality enrage

Those left behind – gold memories

Stained Red.

We few hide defiantly in

the shadows of our Den,

barring our teeth at the bones

thrown to us from the poachers’ table.

Some are dragged away for show,

and eventually we all jump through their

hoops, kings made stooges.

Would that there were Prides left to

laugh at our Circus, but extinction

breeds nothing but an audience riveted to

this momentary drama.

I count down the days until this collar of

chain rusts away – Time its only key.

My mane once shorn surfaces again,

Teasing and tantalizing, tempting me

with new life.

A choice remains, for the 15:

Do we keep our collar, fondly recalling

Our might being smothered into nothing

larger than a house cat? Or

shall we leap through our last hoop,

roaring in contempt at the Board that

holds the remains of our rusted chain?

Suddenly a snap!  Sally forth or

sit in silence.  I ask no pardon

for my

Roar.