The Week At Wofford

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.

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.

the scoop behind the marsh meeting

Okay, I really can't resist the opportunity to burn off a little steam about the mandatory meeting that Marsh Hall residents attended a couple weeks ago. The article I wrote for the latest edition of the paper discussed how the students were gathered together by college officials because the dorm's vandalism hit an all-time high, the most recent case being anti-Semitic graffiti throughout the fourth floor.

Coming into the meeting, I was already appalled by there being that kind of graffiti in the first place. I couldn't really get a clear answer from people on what exactly the graffiti was -- a couple people mentioned that it might be a few swastikas were drawn on flyers and door decorations, and others said they heard that it was just phrases like "Jews suck." Either way, I didn't expect that anything along those lines would end up in a dorm at Wofford.

Once I was at the meeting, I found out that this wasn't the only problem in the dorm. In addition to numerous cases of vandalism on the walls and doorways, there had been an instance of defection in one of the shower stalls, as well as a bed loft thrown from a fourth floor window. And I assure you, the list goes on.

It happens to get worse. Even more disturbing than all these things happening in the place where at least 150 students live, the residents' attitudes at the meeting were ridiculous. Pouncing on Dean Bigger's inquiry of what the college can do for the students, many students answered they would take better care of the dorm if it was nicer. Quickly, the meeting shifted from a forum about dealing with an offensive occurance to a list of maintenance requests.

Students complained about the carpeting, the need for bathroom doors instead of shower curtains, and the prison-like design of Marsh in general, among other things. With each request, the more I wanted to get up and walk out of the meeting. I was almost embarrassed to listen to the 20 some-odd students that complained.

True, Marsh is definitely not the most desired dorm on campus. As a former resident of the fourth floor of Marsh, I know that living conditions aren't spectacular. The very first night I got into my bed, I laid my head on my pillow and found a spider right beside me. I can't say that at that moment I didn't think that I'd rather be at home in my clean, bug-free room. But really, it's not horrible and it definitely didn't deserve 15 minutes of complaints when there were much more important and relevant topics to discuss. I don't think any of the current or past residents of Marsh would say it's unbearable to live in.

Thankfully, there were a couple of Marsh residents that felt just as disgusted as me about the complaints. One guy stood up and asked why should the students expect the college to improve Marsh if students are tearing it apart as it is? A good question.

Overall, the meeting left me a little jaded about Wofford's newest class. Being friends with quite a few of its members, I know that a few people's behavior shouldn't and doesn't reflect the overall class. However, I really hope that Marsh residents realize that the problem won't go away by fixing the dorm; it's only gone when the people who destroy it leave or get their act together.