The Week At Wofford

Sermon by Ron Robinson

Rev. Ron Robinson, Wofford's Perkins-Prothro Chaplain and Professor of Religion, delivered this sermon during commencement weekend here at Wofford.

Sky Water

In Yeats country I walked down a rough slab of concrete and stood on a piece of sky. Lake Innisfree was quiet. The tourists had left for Rosses Point or Glendalough after a round of photographs, the fevered click clicking of their cameras sounding small and distant. I was alone. Above was blue wispy sky straining from the weight of clouds that hung low and clung to the rolling hilltops of Sligo. Below was a perfect mirror version. Thoreau would have called Innisfree sky water, and I was reminded of his own Walden Pond that was impenetrable to dust and storms and stones.

I arched my back to watch the falling red-rimmed sun. Rose pink and midnight clouds spread across the earth. Two worlds slowly darkened. When I finally stood, I felt a stirring in a body part I do not know the name of, though I sometimes call it the soul. I did not try to interpret the sensation as ache or bliss. I held the feeling high above me, far removed from human understanding.

Six months before, on the Li River, the same stirring came to me. For two hundred yuan, a shirtless fisherman took me to Yangshuo on his boat, and for fifty more, he allowed me to sit on the narrow prow. Karst mountains stood as noble as ancient kings. Moss crept up the sides like dust and spider-web. Unlike Innisfree, the water here was as thick as mercury. Ripples the boat made ran like folds of velvet.

I had run out of batteries for my camera, and unwittingly bought some the day before from a street vendor in Guilin, but like most things in China, the batteries were a scam, no doubt foraged from a town dump and then washed off. Deprived of film, I could only sit on the prow and watch.  At some point I ceased to see, and became a part of what I saw. I had emptied myself of everything. I had stilled my mind. I was simply one of ten thousand things rising and falling.

Those two brief moments of clarity filled me with a sense of profound contentment that I had never felt while attending the small Baptist church of my youth. Lodged in bare, cramped rooms, we sang hymns as one and prayed as one to the empty, stagnant air. Head bowed in prayer, I willed the preacher’s words to move me in a way the Our Father had for Simone Weir.  She often recited the prayer lovingly, for the words transported her thoughts to somewhere “outside space where there is neither perspective nor point of view.” But I could not lose myself in solitary contemplation when always I was aware of the person next me. After the prayer came the sermon and after the sermon, another hymn.  The church’s program was tightly regimented. I began to dread the Sundays that left me exhausted but never fulfilled.

When I was seventeen, I left the church, but I did not abandon religious service altogether. I held my own. The warm, unhurried creek behind my house wandered along, exploring every tree limb and wildflower, and I roamed with it. Sunlight warmed me more than prayer and birdsong sounded more pleasant than hymns. I was alone with the infinite that had no schedule to keep. Some might have called me a nature worshipper, but I found the term too base and reminiscent of two hippies addicted to starlit nights. No, I was not a hippie. Like Thoreau, I had found divine inspiration in nature, but I did not worship it.

If anything, I was inexplicably drawn to the water. Water awoke my soul that so often lied dormant and unmoved. I spent many hours gazing upon fields of water, and at certain unexpected moments, an infinite energy drifted up out of its depths as slow and languid as mist turning lazy circles. The water’s energy sought out my soul, the rhythm of its pulse merging with the movement of the lake, the river, and the ocean.

Water is formless, shapeless, endless. I can stare into its depths for all of my days and still never see the bottom. My religion is the streams and rivers that flow into the amorphous sea. The sea is never-ending, the vast length of which cannot be wholly comprehendible by human notions. Once, some friends and I drove to Folly Beach in early March. While they bared winter white skin and dived into the ocean, I sat alone on the sand. Bare bottom feet ran over sea grass and seashell. Tiny grains explored the spaces between my hands. Towards the east sunlight brushed across the waves dusting hazy gold as far as the eye could see, and cerulean sky tucked his shirt into slate-colored water. After awhile I looked for my friends, but the sea stretched wider so that I could make out nothing. In vain I tried to penetrate its murky depths, but everything remained veiled from me. That is the same way I view religion. The Dao de jing  says that the way of the universe cannot be defined. “Look, it cannot be seen— it is beyond form. Listen, it cannot be heard— it is beyond sound. Grasp, it cannot be held— it is intangible.” I did not want the mystical explained to me in human language and broken down into tedium. I wanted to remain awestruck. I desired nature’s inarticulate religion, its invisible energy that somehow matched my heartbeat and allowed me to sense it doing the same for the ten thousand other things alive.

I understood why Thoreau lived by the shore of Walden Pond. He called the lake “earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.” On the Li River I realized my nature in comparison to the nature of the earth. I was infinitely small. I was the youngest of ten thousand things. The limestone mountains counted the number of my breaths and considered me as harmless as a bug skimming the river’s surface. The boat that carried me parted the water into two undulating lines, but when I looked back, my presence had been smoothed away, the last ripples meeting the forested shore.

I yearned to be like the impenetrable water that absorbs all things and remains tranquil on the surface. I wished to be like the valley river. The water makes its way from the sky to the mountain peaks, the peaks to the river. Along the river’s journey, a young doe will sip from it. An ancient tree will sink its roots into it. A murderer will wash the blood from his hands in it, yet the water remains calm. When faced with conflict, I let the tide ebb and flow— stir up the lakebed and watch it settle. I was happiest and most content as an observer. I enjoyed all that flowed into my life for the pleasure of enjoying the flow itself.

"The Thinking Men," by Nikky Finney

Nicky Finney read her poem, "The Thinking Men," on campus last week. The poem honors enslaved artisans who worked on the construction of Wofford's Main Building.

Nikky Finney Convocation

Today was one of those days that I know shaped me as a person; inspiration is flowing out of me. Wofford had a convocation today in which they recognized and commemorated the slaves that built Old Main in 1856. I've been taking a class at Wofford -- called the Black Arts Movement -- about a historical movement during history in which African-Americans advocated, through music and literature, a move towards embracing their "blackness." Before I can even talk about today, I have to say that this class is the ideal class: we aren't just in a classroom, intaking information, but instead we're forming a family as we go through the emotions of the movement together, and trying to apply it to today's world.

The convocation featured poet Nikky Finney, a brilliant artist and remarkable woman who teaches at the University of Kentucky. As a South Carolina native and daughter of a Wofford graduate, she's had a taste of the Wofford world and if she didn't know it's racial problems before, she voiced it today when she visited our class: "Wofford was showing it's slip today," she said. She wrote a poem in honor of Old Main's builders (see below) -- a line of this poem is to be etched into the glass covering a display of bricks on the basement floor of Old Main. These are the originally bricks that were layed by these fateful slaves; when they were uncovered last week, our B.A.M. class went downstairs to touch the bricks and talk about our reaction to them. In response, we also wrote poems, which we handed out in booklets at the convocation.

A note about these poems: some people believed they were a protest to Nikky Finney, which is in NO WAY true. Our class truly supports this phenomenal poet and wanted only to include more student involvement in the convocation; we wanted the student's voice to be heard. We hope, and have already found, that many of our classmates and professors support this voice and are making every effort to hear it -- by demanding more copies -- if they haven't already. I'll include mine below; the other poems are on facebook!

I'd just like to say that this day spans beyond college into the real world of which we're standing on the outskirts. This is more than race or education or politics or literature: this is life, simply put. Our decisions this early in the game will affect our evolving attitudes as we continue through this journey; if we don't make that conscious effort to evaluate the world around us and make our own conclusions about it and try to affect it in some way, we're merely clutching a string of floss that's pulling us through each day -- hoping it doesn't break or slip through our fingers. It's not just about making a mark on this world, your eternal fingerprint that can never erode away, but it's more about not living a wasted life.

Here's Nikky's poem, which she delivered with passionate voice and a rich explanation:

The Thinking Men
for the builders of Old Main, circa 1856
"Thinking has it that the workmen were Negro slaves; but whether that applies to only the common laborers or to skilled workmen I cannot say." History of Wofford College, David Duncan Wallace

We were more than fingers & endless backs. To teach us was against the law.
Our math, mind, and muscle could see beyond what they thought they had enslaved.

We knew more than we could say.

In the middle of a cow field every heart hammered purpose, nailed a learning floor, poured tower one and two one hundred feet high,

while arms & legs ballooned and sweltered in the endless daily march & task, holding close okra soup, waist beads, and the old old names back across the water.

We slide and pushed adze & auger, laid roof & wall, from east to west, all progress depending on weather, twentypennies, and architect's disposition.

We were thinking men. Our hands were living blackboards.

A true and readable account is what we wanted left behind.
The toil and task
of character planted in the soft stew of dirt, rain, oak, tar, & longleaf pulp.

From can see to can't see, in between the pegging and plugging of labor,
a man can sign his name to his grindstone task with or without budget or permission.

With or without quill or lead a signature can still be minted in vermilion mud. Who he is and the thing done, melded into his own cash & coin, as long as the walls

themselves stand tall. This was no simple field fence, some easy throw of dung,
sod & sop, meant to keep hog & mountain lion out. We raised this place

in the name of the new day coming, how we would one day be counted, along with the day to day blight of life equally wormed out.

We carved out these doors and hallways for the long grasp and bright understanding that one day would arrive, realizing all the while that those who entered might not only

fish for answer, root and dive for more than heads or tails, but also memorize for the beauty for the words themselves, even if

we could not join in the lifelong hunt for any of it ourselves.

In every arch & swirl of ruby brick there is a mix of fingernail, spit, Bantu and Gambian oil. Tin cups of elder chokecherry blood run along 226 feet & cord.

In every whorl of mud a print of history has been made great and permanent.
Math, mind, and muscle plied deep into each and every dark seam.

The part of us they could see was tethered like a mule's back.
The part they could not; our levitation into one whole sky of black & beating wing.

It took math and muscle, mortise and tenon, to build ten plus one recitation rooms,
to cut chapel (48 x 80), laboratory, office, and one museum (30 x 37).

I stood, many a day, in the shadow of the next day coming, just before the big
bell had finished sounding, just after the shout to line and circle up, testing my

mind against the tired muscle of my spine, walking the plank before myself, thinking plain, and in the loud, with reaching outstretched hands. Once done, I would bow

to the eyes of that nearly finished room, where I had cut the floor and windows through myself, making certain with rule & plane that the good sun could bounce

here and there and high enough, to reach the precious printed page. This light and learning floor was the way forward through the wilderness. Why else was it kept from

us with such force and might. They would like us to believe that some men are born to read and turn pages, while other men are born to walk on nails and turn the earth.

Our hands were living blackboards. Math, mind, and muscle, the long-drawn fingerprints of thinking men, left behind for good -- here -- in every wall.

All of this can leave a clear mark upon the world.

-- delivered March 20, 2008

Also, here's my poem that I wrote in reaction to my class experience when we went and touched the bricks: (PS the formating is weird, so it won't tab in places that it's supposed to...)


"I touched a brick today"

I touched a brick today
It was crumbling
disintegrating... dusty on my fingers
I rubbed my hands together
Hoping the dust would become
a part of me
--- whose hands touched these bricks?
when they layed
them down

It's funny how they're in a window there
Instead of looking out
I can look in
See the foundation of my school
just through a window
isn't it neat

But now the glass is gone
And instead of looking
through
from far away
I can touch
I touch
the brick
you touched

I'll never know you

Just a little glimpse instead
inside
A past I'll never know
Unless
You tell me so
I've got to look through a window
to a hole
in the wall
to get a glimpse

Isn't it pretty
that window
you would never know
the bricks are crumbling
unless
you reach out and touch them
through that glass You put
there to keep it contained

Are You scared that I might touch those bricks...
and know?

If we really cared about those brick-layers
those people, don't cha know?
We'd smash the window glass
peel the border
wrench apart the wall
direct all our staircases to it
put it on display
get a bright light to burn on it all day long
and say thank you
thank you, bricks
thank you, people
For holding up ---
our college
What a foundation
you are

Sweet bricks.


Thank you, Nikky Finney for such an inspiring day.

Wofford podcast, March 13

We hear from Debbi Thompson, who is lead coordinator for an Easter Egg hunt on the Wofford campus, as well as students who participated in an international mathematics modeling contest.

Dr. Matthew Cathey - Conversations with Faculty

Dr. Matthew Cathey discusses in this video the appeal of a liberal arts college and the wide range of students attracted to the math major. He also offers a glimpse into his field of computer-based research, “circle packing.”

The sophomore slump...

Last night, I came to the realization that I've fallen deep into the sophomore slump -- the very thing I feared may happen this year. Just in case it hasn't happened to you, or you can't remember the feelings, I'll recap: lack of interest in classes, complete unawareness about your future vocation if you can even pin-point one, thinking only about the future and never appreciating the now... overall, just a feeling of restless and disappointment. Before you start recommending a psychiatrist for my depression-like symptoms, let me explain.

Over interim, I had the fortunate opportunity to travel to Namibia and Botswana, two English-speaking countries in Africa. I confess that this experience was eye-opening in so many ways; not only did it cause me to become more aware of the conditions of many African countries, especially in Southern Africa, it gave me the conviction that Africa was a place that inspires me. Whenever I sat down to my journal to pen the day's events, emotions flowed onto the page -- the writing never seemed to end, there was a continuous stirring inside of me. I thought this would be my only opportunity to travel to this intriguing continent; as my 18-hour flight began its shakey ascent into the sky, I promised myself I'd be back -- whether it was in 2 years or 20.

Arriving back at Wofford, I had a high that never seemed to quite wear off. Not only did the mention of Africa send me into a fit of discussion, everything else seemed to matter a little more. I wanted my life on track. I wanted to be proactive. I wanted to write -- something I've done over the years living in apprehension of what criticism my writing would receive. I never even stepped into the game; I practiced behind closed doors and refused to let anyone see the results. I was scared. I still am.

Anyways, back to the words. The words I couldn't keep down. Words were everywhere for a blissful couple of weeks. Even if they were forced by assignments or obligation, I delighted in the feel of these words -- forming like rain clouds in my head and pouring out of me... drop drop drop on the keyboard. I had lived in a drought for months; I welcomed the rising flood. I began to regret my decision that I didn't turn anything into the Journal. That gripping fear had arrested me. No matter  -- I promised myself I'd do it next year. I was finally buying into that old illusion again: who says I can make a life through these words?

But they're gone now, I'm sad to say. My excitement and general love for most of my classes have diminished, too. I remember when I was eager, always wanting to share my opinion in class; now I check myself before I open my mouth. What happened to me?

I recently got a letter telling me I've been accepted to study abroad in London next fall -- ever since that letter, all I've wanted is to empty my savings and go. Don't get me wrong, it isn't Wofford -- I love this school and it isn't the one that's changed. It's me. I don't know what it is I need or am searching for, but it isn't here. Whether it's papers or meetings or romantic interests, I'm tired of them all because there isn't any progress. I'm stagnant, glued to the floor when all I want to do is break into a sprint.

I'm very sorry if you read this hoping for any kind of cheer or lesson. If you want the closest thing I can get to a happy ending, here it is: there's a reason they call it a slump -- because you can always get out of it. Though I'm back in my drought, the rain will come again. Besides, you can't live a life of rainy days.

Why Are There No Feminist Fathers?

Tonight I went to hear Carol Adams' talk, "The Sexual Politics of Meat." Though I haven’t had a life-changing epiphany and decided to become a vegan tomorrow, I did come away with a lot of things to think about. More about the sex part of the talk and less about the meat. As I sat in my room after the talk and leafed through her book, I thought about my own life and some ways in which, though I often proclaimed myself to be a feminist, I really wasn't. In fact, I realized, there were many ways in which my boyfriend was truly more of a feminist than I am. He takes a tougher stance on pornography for instance, finding it very unappealing (I understand for some of you that sounds like a mild statement but amongst the men I know, the majority are pretty pro-porn), hates strip clubs, and has strong sexual preferences against any sort of dominance/submission. Though I appreciate these things about him I realized that for as long as we have been together I have viewed these parts of his character as "unmanly" something "quirky" or "different" about him and often even been a bit upset by it. What I realized is that I am playing into the cultural assumptions about what is male, more than he was! My desire for him to be more "manly" at times was the result of my wanting to impose the simplicity of stereotype rather than understand him as an individual. This general revelation led me to think about the role that men can play in feminism. Now some women will argue that men have no place in feminist issues other than that of the oppressor and I will admit that as a social group men are unlikely to ever decide, en masse, to give up all the social privileges that are allowed them and quietly walk away from power, creating true equality for all. I will not go so far as other feminists who claim that men are as oppressed by social constructs as women. To be oppressed is by definition to not be the oppressor. I will say however that men can be hurt and confused and basically messed up because of the same social issues that oppress women (and minorities, and animals if you follow the logic of Adams).

Perhaps I am too optimistic but I do not see the men that are interested in women's rights as opportunists, though I am sure some are. I believe, because I have the joy of speaking to one everyday that some men are honestly and simply concerned with seeing the women they love and respect reach their full potential. Now, don't get me wrong men will never know what its like to be a woman and thus there are some aspects of feminism that are likely to be obtuse to them but this does not negate their role as positive players in the large scheme of equality. It is this very "otherness" that makes them the best person to deliver certain messages. Just as males (and females) can be led, by advertising, the media, consumerist culture etc, to see women as pieces of meat, men can also be led to think the opposite. Men who already see women as individuals, as humans, as non-meat, can influence those who do. All it takes it one guy at a frat party who doesn’t laugh at the sexist joke to ruin the mood. Only one guy to not make cat calls at a women to make his buddies see how stupid they look. One man pointing out the humanity of a woman brings it to light for the others. In many situations, woman cannot do this, if you are already objectified, you can’t be the one to talk. If a man is looking at you and thinking, "sex" or "meat" or "consume" whatever it may be, telling him he is wrong is going to sound no different to him than the script of a porno, or the moo of a cow about to become steak. If it does, it will register as bitching.

Thinking about all this, I began to look forward to the day when I will possibly (if we decide to marry or have children, still haven’t decided how those issues factor into my personal feminist philosophy) raise a child with this wonderful man. I thought how great it would be to grow up with a father who would so fully support his daughter’s independence and free-will, one who will not only allow it, but encourage it; to have a father who will, instead of telling you to stop wearing low cut tops and high heels (in patriarchal culture, the man is head of the family and thus his family under his control i.e. a father who's daughter is showing too much cleavage is not being adequately controlled/monitored; controlling women’s sexuality, etc) tell you that wearing low cut tops and high heels makes you an object of mens visual stimulation and not a human being.

However, a quick web search of “Fathers and feminists” revealed no evidence of such thinking. Every website and group was devoted to “protecting the sacred nature of fatherhood” from evil man-hating feminists. Pages upon pages were devoted to “father’s rights” (an issue that I believe does has merit however) and other, mostly relgious, issues concerning fatherhood. This was not what I was looking for, several edited searches all returned similar results.(To be fair the results for “mothers of feminists” were not promising either) There must be a significant disconnect somewhere in our society if there are not groups devoted to fathers of feminist daughters. (There are groups devoted to anything and everything one can imagine, if you don’t belive me look on Facebook) Are there no feminists out there with fathers worthy of standing beside in the fight for equality? Are there no fathers who see that feminism is important if their daughters are ever going to achieve great things? Are there no feminists willing to admit that some men are good fathers and that the role of a father is not, by nature, a negative one? Where is the problem?

I don’t know the answer, I’m honestly posing a question here, please comment if you have a suggestion.

Dr. William DeMars - Conversations with Faculty

Dr. William DeMars chairs Wofford’s government department. He talks here about the rigor of a major in government as well as the preparation it provides for graduate school, law school and the workplace.

Wofford podcast -- Feb. 29, 2000

In this audio segment, we hear from Samie Clowney, the Director of Multicultural Affairs at Wofford. Clowney talks about events he has coordinated for Black History Month as well as other aspects of his work at the college. Also: a short interview with newly elected Campus Union president Brent Troxell.