God’s Farm … A Story, Two.

21 Apr

The continuation of God’s Farm … a Story.

 

God’s Farm … A Story.

Two.

Charles Chandler Wilson, III picked up his pencil and began to write in his blue book. It was too late to rue what had gone before, and now he had to craft something compelling in order to “right the ship,” as his dad often said.

His dad had served in the South Pacific during the war on an attack transport — the USS Doyen. Its prewar design was the masterpiece of a New York yacht building firm known and employed by then Assistant Secretary of the Navy, FDR. The idea was a smaller vessel with a shallow draft, or hull depth, would enable troop transporters like the Doyen to come in closer to shore than the traditionally deeper-hulled troop carriers. Lives would be saved, it was reasoned, due to men and artillery reaching invasion beaches more quickly rather than bobbing through long distances of water like sitting ducks.

The concept wasn’t without its detractors, who argued the ship would capsize in high seas due to the lack of hull depth. Roosevelt persisted in the experiment, and the Doyen splashed into the water untested in July, 1942. Contrary to the naysayers, the Doyen proved seaworthy.

Which is more than Chandler could say for himself. He had figuratively capsized at Virginia Tech as a student since pledging and becoming a brother in Delta Pi Zeta, one of the many unrecognized local fraternities scattered about Blacksburg. His success in partying had blown a hole in the shallow hull of his academic pursuits, and after five quarters of ribald pursuits, he was listing badly.

Chandler’s parents were totally unaware of the disaster. It was time, therefore, to sober up and right the ship.

Dear Professor Calloway,

As you know, the country is in the throes of social and cultural upheaval that has found its way to the Virginia Tech campus over the past two semesters. Vietnam, civil rights and women’s rights issues have converged in the forms of protest, anger, and demand for change.

Make Peace, Not War is the message shouted and sung on college campuses throughout the nation. The situation is dire, not only because the body bags keep arriving from Southeast Asia despite President Nixon’s promise to de-escalate. Racial tensions (yes, even on the Tech campus) continue to smolder as those in power seem to want to roll the clock back on any gains made by our black brothers. And women (of which you are one, I might add), are waking up to the fact that barefoot and pregnant is not a desired status.

Chandler continued to pour it on, hitting every button he could think of to help his cause. He was particularly careful of his grammar, and when he wanted to use a particular word, if he didn’t know how to spell it, cast it aside.

In terms of what our nation and we are dealing with, it is the worst of times; as to the hope we all hold onto dearly, it is the best of times. Or as the Bard wrote: To be, or not to be, that is the question. Will we be and continue to thrive as a nation? Or, will we not be?

He figured he ought to at least quote some Shakespeare.

Winter Quarter I watched the anger and frustration of many students play out on the Quod. It dawned on me then that merely balling up one’s fist, or singing “If I Had a Hammer,” was not enough to change things.

He thought about using “effect” or “affect change,” but didn’t know which was correct. He nearly tore through the page erasing both words before deciding not to use either.

So I decided to go to High Point, my home town in North Carolina, and spend the Spring Quarter working to improve conditions between whites and blacks. I volunteered to help not just bridge the racial gap through dialogue, but through action by rolling up my sleeves and helping to clear large areas of dilapidated houses and trash. These blighted areas are places in High Point where rats find shelter and breed unrestrained. Earlier this year, one of those rats snuck into the home of a poor black family and into the crib of a sleeping infant. The rat chewed off several toes of the baby before her parents awoke to her screams, rushing in to kill the rat.

His mother had sent him the article of the incident published in The High Point Enterprise. The story caused a mixture of outrage in the black community, and about cleanliness is next to Godliness in the white community. Chandler thought it would punctuate his argument.

As a result of feeling compelled to spend my time helping to solve some of the problems we are facing, I was not in class.

I hope you will allow me, therefore, to return to campus sometime this summer, after I have been able to read the material on your syllabus, and retake this exam.

Yours sincerely,

C. Chandler Wilson, III
Student # 286-84-9125

Chandler reread his missive several times, debating whether to change anything. He felt his creative juices were flowing, and trusted his initial writing instincts, preferring to keep all as it was. Plus, erasures looked messy.

Surely any self-respecting liberal arts college professor would discern the truth that action was far better than merely sitting around listening to heavy metal music and smoking pot. Or even sitting in Shakespeare class with the country in turmoil.

He was confident Professor Calloway would not only be impressed by how he had spent his Spring Quarter in High Point (even if it was a lie), and would allow him to make the five-hour drive back to Blacksburg to retake the exam†.

“Time is up,” his professor announced. “Please sign the pledge on the outside cover, put your exam sheet in your blue book, and pass each forward.”

Chandler looked at the pledge statement and hesitated.

On honor, I have neither given nor received help on this exam.

If he signed it, would he be guilty of cheating? Then he breathed a sigh of relief as he realized the only thing he would be guilty of would be lying, and since he didn’t receive any help making up his story, he could sign it in good conscience.

He carefully placed the test sheet in his blue book, closed the book, and passed it to the student sitting in front of him. All of the tension he experience prior to the exam was gone. He had pulled it off, and began to think about how he would begin studying Shakespeare. It was important to be earnest, he grinned. Get the ship righted. Go on with life, which was now good again.

It was time for a beer.

†Years later Chandler saw the movie A Christmas Story on television,  and cringed at the scene where Ralphie wrote his masterpiece essay for his teacher, “What I Want For Christmas.”

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