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Let's say this woman's pregnant. She's got nine kids already and no husband. Her back hurts and the kids's going to be a handful--a deaf and syphilitic womanizer with high chances of dying young. Should she abort? Say yes? Congratulations! You just killed Beethoven!
I was driving home for fall break, on I-95 about 25 miles south of D.C. I was listening to the soundtrack of "Pippin", when, one lane over and two cars up, a white Explorer swerved off the road, hit the barrier, and flipped 15 feet in the air, landing in the foliage on the side of the road where the undercarriage burst into flames. The highway turned smoky with white dust and tire fragments, and although no one screeched to a halt, everyone slowed down.
We present this report not only with the aim of improving the climate for women at Duke, but also to improve the experience for all who work or study here."
We all know the story. Boy meets girl, girl likes boy, eyes wander/eyes meet, little bits of fire fly, and the next thing you know the door's locked and there's lip lockage and wandering hands and backs on the futon, or the bed or whatever's available really.
You may have seen the buses pulling into East last week, or maybe just smelled them after they opened their doors, as the freshman participants and upperclass leaders of Project WILD returned to campus in their sweaty, unshaven, two-weeks-without-showers glory. Then again, you might have missed them--by the end of the day most had showered, dressed for success, and scarfed a SuperValue Meal. It's symbolic of returning to civilization--back to a culture based on appearance and ease. Although every year when I return from the woods I vow to keep some of what I've learned in my everyday life--I'll carry a spoon with me and eschew plastic utensils, I'm going to walk when I could ride--it always peters out eventually.
Last November, the night before driving back to Duke after Thanksgiving break, my phone rang. Planning to leave by five the next morning, I snapped when I answered it and tersely asked whoever it was to please call me back in the morning; I'd have plenty of time to chat on the road. I didn't realize from the caller's voice that what she had to tell me couldn't wait - our friend Maggie had been hit by a drunk driver and was in a coma. She asked me to think of Maggie and shoot her some uplifting e-mails in the morning, for her to read when she woke up.
