Apathy for the devil

For the end of the semester, the plan was to write the Big One: a sweeping indictment of the Duke institution, a grand-slam tour-de-force that would expose the unstable and deep faults that run throughout our community. You, reader, would be inspired--and would go on to inspire countless others--to take an active hand in affecting the conditions of your own education. It would be righteous.

In fact, I was going to write it every time. But I never quite got around to it, and now this paralysis has set in and I can't find it in me to strike that big blow in the name of justice for students everywhere. Nothing to complain about--unprecedented! Have I resigned myself to that ugly beast of apathy?

Am I failing in my responsibilities? Every time I start to write, a tiny pipsqueak of a Blue Devil will poof into the air and sit on my monitor, taunting with churlish giggles. "Come on, swat me. Tell them how an inflated reputation and decadent athletics program and nice weather has lured them into four years of Gothic purgatory. Let them know that their education is feeble and that their social experience is limited to like- and close-minded individuals, that Old Duke is dead and New Duke is as drab as ivy." He imitates Darth Vader's guttural croak: "Strike out with your hatred!" He pops up in conversations, shakes his little pitchfork in the air and titters something about how boring the Duke conformity is or how bad race relations are, only to scamper away with someone else to spout off about parking tickets. After almost three years of shouting in my ear, he's become very persuasive in his reasoning. He's easy to talk to because he's all talk, and, in the end, everybody knows him but nobody takes him very seriously.

There is a bit of truth to it all in many cases. Our yearly tuition is higher than many Americans' yearly income--that has to mean something more than a number in the U.S. News and World Report! If it's true that students are not happy with the service they are paying for, and if judged by the pages of The Chronicle or conversations at any given party this is often the case, then we should demand better. Being able to come to a school of Duke's prestige is a privilege, yet once we're here, it is our right to expect that its promises will be fulfilled.

But what kind of promises have even been made?

For my own personal gratification, another one of my plans was to ask President Nan Keohane out to lunch: a friendly meeting at the Oak Room, a mature discussion in which I would gracefully expound for her everything that is at fault with Duke. She, the University president, would be instantly enlightened--and would go on to enlighten the Board of Trustees--and be newly equipped with the ability to seal those unstable and deep faults that run throughout our community. Because after all, she's just been waiting all this time for someone to tell her what's what.

No, I'll probably never meet with Keohane, either, even if it was just to hear what she has to say. What would come out of it other than more frustration? The other week, when administrators stood before the men of my selective house to explain the warped disciplinary logic that will bar us from hosting any social events virtually until next spring, we waited patiently through the torrent of straight-faced bureaucrat-speak. When they were finished, I calmly raised my hand and proceeded to voice a deep dissatisfaction with the process by which the University deals with selective living groups and the social scene in general. Many others lodged their own complaints, several of which were articulate and legitimate. Few received satisfactory answers; the rest were met by smiles and nods.

For a fleeting moment, it felt good to see administrators squirm when confronted with the flaws of the system they defend. But they don't make the rules--at least, not the one that still makes it illegal for me to drink. In the meantime, living groups--like so many parts of the Duke community--are mystified as to what option they have other than cowed deference.