I am much more comfortable sitting in my room writing about issues than I am screaming pithy rhymes in front of John Kerry’s house. And yet this past March 2nd, I found myself doing exactly that. I had finally been stirred to get off Microsoft Word and head to DC because so far as I know—and to his great loss—John Kerry doesn’t read the Nassau Weekly.
It is not often I get to encounter a fellow Dayton, so when I heard about a new documentary called Running Wild: The Life of Dayton O. Hyde, I was suitably intrigued. The film was to be screened on Saturday, February 8 at the Princeton Public Library, as part of the Princeton Environmental Film Festival (PEFF).
Pacifism may sound nice, but it is a hard doctrine to maintain: I struggled for years to reconcile my peaceful intuitions with the idea that we live in a violent world, and sometimes aiding those who are suffering might involve lethal force against those inflicting suffering.
“Lob-what?!” Preston bellowed. “-ster club?” I ventured. I was backstage before my first Lobster Club performance and was unfamiliar with the club cheer. Everyone else had been through this before, but the response was far from unified.
Not long ago, Random House sent a number of free books to the Nassau Weekly in the hopes that we would exercise our considerable influence on campus to publicize and review their products. One volume in particular (a bright pink thing called Anatomy of a Single Girl) caught my eye. It wasn’t just the garish cover or the titillating title, it was—actually, no, it was mostly those things.
They were all gathered behind Nassau Hall, ready for their big moment: dozens of the most influential figures in higher education ready to shepherd a new brother into their ranks, all while dressed in just the silliest dangnabbed robes and hats. I know it’s not particularly clever or original to joke about the unconventional wardrobe associated with pomp and circumstance, but I really think it’s important to remember just how funky everyone looked while all this was going on. In academia, we eschew the slick suit and tie for the eccentric cap and gown, and I love it.
His face was well-preserved, but the body was so frail. The outline of his ribcage protruded grotesquely against his sunken stomach. He was dead, and he looked it. A warm tear ran down my cheek as I read and re-read the placard standing next to the coffin: “Here lies Dayton Martindale.” I was sad, and I was scared.
