Overheard at Duke this week:
Jan. 11, 2008, Duke Women's Basketball game at Cameron Indoor Stadium, 7:34 p.m.: "RAAAAAR!"
A little girl, dressed in a pink Duke T-shirt, scurries with her friends through the student section, attempting to reach the holy sustenance of pizza and candy. In her hasty movements she does not miss a beat, and she attempts to add to the crowd's less-than-deafening blast of sound. In doing so, her growl is that of a fiery kitten deep in a den of Blue Devils.
Jan. 12, K-ville, 11:50 p.m.: "DISCOVERY!"
The tent has sure made a name for itself. The chant can be heard all through K-ville on a daily (and during particularly invigorating times, on a minute-by-minute) basis.
But unlike some other outbursts in the makeshift town, there is no animosity in the tone, no seeking out battle, only a motivation to search and succeed. It is a common thread holding all K-ville campers together in an attempt to weather the surprisingly sunny yet rapidly cooling homeland of basketball fanatics. The shout has become a rallying cry, not just for one tent, but for the site as a whole.
Jan. 13, K-ville, 1:37 a.m.: Blaring of a saxophone and trumpet.
For a brief time, K-ville has not only transplanted dormitories outdoors, but it seems to have brought the Mary Lou with it. Boom-boxes playing the latest in hip-hop have been switched off in deference to the live music being created only feet away.
At first an auditory oddity, the abnormal quickly becomes accepted in this surreal place. The notes are absorbed into the soil fertilized by pizza and beer.
Perhaps just another annoyance for the weary, the emotions buried in the harmony lighten the burden of yet another night for these refugees from normality.
1:49 a.m.: Silence, as the saxophone takes its last bow.
Jan. 13, K-ville, 3:44 a.m.: "You know who's an American? Not Jay-Z. Tupac."
The wonders of the K-ville conversation. Every night is different, but all nights meld into one whole hodgepodge of snippets.
Just listen. The consumption of fermented beverages fosters tremendous creativity. From K-ville, it was ascertained that the American Gangster is in fact not American. While his nationality has yet to be discovered, his late colleague Tupac Shakur most assuredly is a U.S. citizen. Perhaps Jay Hova has transcended the nation state to become a true cosmopolitan. Most likely, we will never know.
But the issue of citizenship quickly moves into a discussion on who really is an American, with the culminating resolution: "Mexicans. They're real Americans." If only Congress would send its key leaders to a couple Duke-UNC games, true political consensus might just be within reach.
Of course, not all discussion takes on such a peaceful and inclusive air. 3:46 a.m.: "I said you get Tyson in my face, I will knock his (fill in several colorful expletives reminiscent of Mike Tyson's heyday) out." If the fight takes place in this twilight zone outside of Wilson, it just might happen.
Jan. 13, K-ville, 4:01 a.m.: "Re-ur... RE... e... e... ur...."
Fear strikes the heart of every Dukie within earshot. It can't be! Maybe they're just not pressing the button down all the way. Maybe we're just hearing things. But no. The gasping alarm sounds again, even more pitifully than before. The megaphone is dying and we are all witnesses.
Even with death at the doorstep, those looking for something to believe in descend to the valley, pouring in to get close to the golden calf of K-ville.
Jan. 13, Crowell Commons Room, 12:47 p.m.: "WOOOOOOO!!!!!"
By midday Sunday, a group of women moved into the commons room, their chattering unbroken. I've been working for some time now in the adjacent room and it's time for a bathroom break and some PB and J. I hear a loud bustle coming from the quad. I look down and stand amazed.
Women, trooping toward the same room that contains my copy of "Milton's Complete Poetry," were everywhere, in a pilgrimage that seemed to resemble the Hajj. I walked down the stairs holding a sandwich in one hand, a glass of milk in the other, and I soon found myself in the middle of two rows of women dressed in purple lining the walls.
The applause I received beckoned me to pass through and into whatever Mecca lay beyond, but my faith failed me and I turned a Dantean left back to my studies. As the minutes wore on, I discovered that I was a witness to the "best damn pledge class" of Kappa Alpha Theta sorority.
To those of you who apologized to me after, there was no need. In fact, I should thank you. I was a witness to history.
Jan. 13, Duke Men's Basketball, 8:14 p.m.: "Let's Go Duke!"
The little girl in pink was nowhere to be seen. Only blue and white existed on this night as the Crazies were out in force.
Crazy Towel Guy became Wild 'N Crazy Towel Guy for a night as he surfed his way across midcourt. Little white handkerchiefs floated above the crowd in constant revolution. And then the bomb dropped.
8:24 p.m.: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Mr. Gerald Henderson needs no introduction.
Jan. 14, K-ville, 2:10 a.m.: "He has boxes of crazy dildos in his home."
Only in K-ville.
Elad Gross is a Trinity sophomore. His column runs every other Thursday.
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