Senior Year

Tuesday, 20 May 2003

Senior Year was by far my best year of col­lege. My grades were su­perb, I had a room all to my­self, the foot­ball team un­der the new tute­lage of Tyrone Willingham, was 10 – 2, and to crown it all off, the fenc­ing team won the na­tion­al cham­pi­onship, and I get a ring out of it!

It start­ed out in­no­cent­ly enough, fall se­mes­ter is al­ways ridicu­lous­ly busy, and mine was more so than usu­al since I was tak­ing an Intermediate Film Production class, a class my pro­fes­sor de­scribed more as about stress man­age­ment than mak­ing an ac­tu­al film. The foot­ball sea­son was spec­tac­u­lar, and re­ju­ve­nat­ed the with­er­ing ND spir­it. The last home game as a se­nior was against Rutgers, the same team we played at my first ND game, when I was 16. I cried af­ter­ward.

I al­so got to trav­el with the fenc­ing team, some­thing I would have done the pre­vi­ous year, apart from my dis­lo­cat­ed knee in­ci­dent. This was quite en­joy­able, though it did eat in­to my week­ends con­sid­er­ably. Most of the rides were by bus, but the flight to the Duke Duals in North Carolina was great. And then I have the hon­or of be­ing named the Knute-Rockne Scholar Athlete, and re­ceiv­ing the DeCicco/​Langford Inspiration award. Not on­ly that, but a pic­ture of me, and a lit­tle blurb ac­com­pa­ny­ing [sp?] it was put on the wall be­tween the Football Office and the Basketball Office.

Graduation was a bit of a dis­ap­point­ment, the cer­e­monies were a drag, the Baccalaureate Mass, and the homi­ly that went with it, seemed fo­cused on try­ing to con­vince us to do­nate mon­ey to the University, and the speech by Sen. Richard Lugar, was com­plete­ly in­ap­pro­pri­ate. He did not ad­dress the grad­u­ates ex­cept in pass­ing, and fo­cused on a pro-war for­eign pol­i­cy speech bet­ter suit­ed to the Senate Foreign Relations Committee than a no­tably an­ti-war Catholic cam­pus.

It was, how­ev­er, quite nice to have my fam­i­ly show up at the cer­e­monies.

This is what I learned in col­lege:

  1. How to make ba­nana bombs.
  2. That the breeze­way al­ways smells like wet dog
  3. Once you find out a girl likes you, it is al­ready too late to do any­thing about it.
  4. It is quite pos­si­ble to climb the walls of the dorm, pro­vid­ed your shoes have enough trac­tion, you have strong wrists, and am­ple lever­age.
  5. The on­ly time the Grotto is emp­ty is when the weath­er is too in­tense for even the town­ies.
  6. Quarter Dogs are like very cheap crack, and much more dan­ger­ous.
  7. While you might be able to drink 12 oz of Cuervo, pol­ish­ing it off with a shot of Everclear is not in­tel­li­gent.
  8. No one cares about fenc­ing, even the friends of fencers.
  9. It is on­ly ac­cept­able for women to write po­ems about rape.
  10. How to think


Wednesday, 30 April 2003

so… i’m — aahh — i had a po­em in the stu­dent lit­er­ary mag­a­zine, The Juggler. does that make me a pub­lished po­et? or does it have to count else­where? can i call my­self a po­et now or is that still pre­ma­ture?

i was al­so in­duct­ed in­to the lamb­da al­pha be­ta chap­ter of the Anthropology Honor Society. I got a groovy card and a cer­tifi­cate. I don’t re­al­ly know what it means to be what­ev­er I am now. In fact, I think it is just a thing to say that you are and has no re­al mean­ing or im­pact. Kinda like Shriners. Or maybe not, cuz Shriners get to dri­ve around in go-carts at pa­rades and they get to wear fezzes (sp? fezi?). More like a mem­ber of Congress. Yeah, def­i­nite­ly con­gress.

Sophomore Year 2001 – 2002

Friday, 25 April 2003

this year was my sec­ond best in col­lege, most­ly due to be­ing on the fenc­ing team, which let me ex­pel my — ex­cess — en­er­gies. i al­so de­clared my ma­jors, Anthropology and Film & Television, and got firm­ly in­to the swing of my class­es. First se­mes­ter I got a pity D in my Classical Greek 103 class most­ly be­cause I was one of three un­der­grad­u­ates in a class of grad­u­ate the­ol­o­gy stu­dents, thus the pro­fes­sor struc­tured the class to­ward them and did not re­al­ize it un­til it was too late for my­self and an­oth­er un­der­grad. The third un­der­grad had tak­en Greek in High School and was the best in class at trans­lat­ing the Iliad.

I took an ex­is­ten­tial­ist phi­los­o­phy class, and re­al­ly got in­to that for awhile. I saw my­self as an ex­is­ten­tial­ist of the Albert Camus school, ex­cept in­stead of be­ing au­to­mat­ic in my life of ab­sur­di­ty, i laughed along with it.Thus, when the cam­pus sprin­klers would turn on and spray me, i could do noth­ing more than shake a rue­ful head. some things (the sprin­klers for in­stance) nev­er change.

i still lived in sec­tion 4B, and it was great to have a group of fresh­men in the sec­tion. We told them to do things and they did them. hehe. I al­so made a good friend out of Jeremy May, a new guy in 4B but a se­nior, who lived at the end of the hall. Through, him I al­so be­came friends with Steve Luke who spent in­or­di­nate amounts of time in my room play­ing Playstation (46 hours in one week that we kept track of).

Rooming with Mike was pret­ty darn good, apart from his taste in mu­sic which i thought rather taste­less. Our room was the com­mon room for much of the sec­tion and it would not sur­prise ei­ther of us to come back from class­es and find some­one else in the room do­ing some­thing (usu­al­ly steve).

the foot­ball sea­son was much bet­ter than the pre­vi­ous year, we were 9 – 2 and went to the Fiesta Bowl, a de­ba­cle where we were beat­en to death by Beavers from Oregon State. On the fenc­ing end of my sports life, i was work­ing my tail off, com­ing in ear­ly and do­ing drills, beg­ging for lessons, etc. I be­gan to im­prove slow­ly, and my big break came when my cap­tain Jan had to be in Cuba for a fenc­ing tour­na­ment the same week­end of one of our tour­neys at Northwestern. Thus, I got to trav­el, I did rel­a­tive­ly well for my first col­le­giate fenc­ing ex­pe­ri­ence and by the end of the year I had man­aged to win enough bouts to mono­gram, a feat I was told was im­pres­sive for first year walkons. (PUFF PUFF EGO PUFF PUFF)

my love life sucked, but i al­so wasn’t try­ing that hard. I was sex­iled for a 17 hour stretch one evening/​night/​morning by my room­mate who let his girl­friend “ac­ci­den­tal­ly” sleep past vis­it­ing hours and then told her she would have to spend the night. I spent the night on a couch in the sec­tion lounge. I then wrote about this in Harlem’s Hitlist, the vul­gar sec­tion newslet­ter i wrote for the sec­tion in place of the in­cred­i­bly spo­radic ‘Roos News. This newslet­ter, quite harm­less re­al­ly, picked on par­tic­u­lar peo­ple in the sec­tion each week, but the per­son picked on was al­ways in good hu­mor about it. ex­cept the RA, he took it up­on him­self, and al­so the rec­tor, who hap­pened to read my most of­fen­sive ver­sion to tell me to cease and de­sist, i in­stead took it un­der­ground and dis­trib­uted it via email. i can­not be stopped.

I fi­nal­ly man­aged to get in­to the in­tro­duc­to­ry film course, sec­ond se­mes­ter of my sopho­more year, af­ter jump­ing through flam­ing hoops and wad­ing through pi­ran­ha in­fest­ed wa­ters. i had de­clared as a ma­jor yet they (the de­part­ment) still would not give me a spot. I even­tu­al­ly got a spot through the gen­er­al reg­is­tra­tion pe­ri­od, but be­cause of the Film department’s ex­treme help­ful­ness, I was two se­mes­ters be­hind and there­fore I was nev­er able to take Advanced Film Production or Pro Video Production.

Thus en­deth the year of the half-wise.

Freshman Year 1999 – 2001

Wednesday, 23 April 2003

This is sup­posed to be the tough­est year of col­lege, and in terms of in­tel­lec­tu­al growth that rings true. Although personal/​social growth would al­so top this list if not for my Junior year. That comes lat­er how­ev­er.

I sup­pose I was a bit scared about go­ing to col­lege and liv­ing in an 8′ x 14′ room with some­one I had nev­er met be­fore and shar­ing an­oth­er room with two oth­er peo­ple I had nev­er met be­fore. Actually, per­haps I was quite scared, or even ter­ri­fied. Needless to say, my lifestyle was not suit­ed to that of my room­mates. I did not have a fake ID, nor did I drink. at all. I al­so liked my sleep, 8 hours if I could get it. My room­mate Mike Lane and my oth­er quad­mates John Antonucci and Paul Buser were all busi­ness ma­jors, whilst I was an Arts & Letters ma­jor. Business ma­jors have it eas­i­est here at Notre Dame in re­gard to class dif­fi­cul­ty and course work (with the pos­si­ble ex­cep­tion of the Sociology Dept.) and they would of­ten throw im­promp­tu par­ties 2 or 3 times a week. On nights when they didn’t have par­ties they of­ten went to the Boat Club and stum­bled back usu­al­ly at 5 in the morn­ing. This hap­pened pret­ty much the whole year.

On top of this, my room­mate, who drank at least 5 times a week, and skipped most of his class­es most of the time sleep­ing off the al­co­hol man­aged to swing a 4.0 his first sem­ster, while I strug­gled with chem­istry and cal­cu­lus and got a 2.7.

As for the oth­er fresh­men in my sec­tion I was the on­ly A&L ma­jor. 14 to­tal fresh­men, 3 pre-med, 1 en­gi­neer­ing, 1 A&L, and 9 busi­ness ma­jors. The up­per­class­men con­sist­ed to a great ma­jor­i­ty of sopho­mores who were nice but had their own things to do, some ju­niors who I nev­er even talked to, and a group of se­niors who I owe quite a bit to.

The foot­ball games took a bit of get­ting used to, but here I knew what to do, hid­ing in plain sight cov­ered in blue and gold body paint with a bright blue wig. The seats were in the cor­ner as is usu­al for fresh­men, but we were al­so the heart from whence all spir­it was pumped. Bob Davie was the un­for­tu­nate coach at this time. He sucks. The tail­gat­ing be­fore the games was not great fun how­ev­er, drink­ing drink­ing drink­ing every­where. Was there noth­ing else to do at ND?

I strug­gled with this, even to the point of con­sid­er­ing a trans­fer to a state school where it was eas­i­er to get off cam­pus, where many off cam­pus places are geared to­ward the stu­dents and to where I wouldn’t feel as pres­sured to drink, and to where the gen­der re­la­tions would be some­thing ap­proach­ing nor­mal for col­lege stu­dents. Apparently, that didn’t hap­pen — al­though per­haps it did in an al­ter­nate uni­verse.

The se­niors Jes s Morales, Liam Thidemann, and AJ Boyd, and my RA Joe Hyder had a great deal to do with pulling me out of my shell. There was this nasty con­coc­tion that the DH would serve about once every two weeks called Toad-In-The-Hole. I will not de­scribe it suf­fice to say it was hor­ren­dous. Each time it was served I would smug­gle out one more than the last time and present them to my RA in cre­ative ways (ex: The Blair Toad Project). He had no idea who it was un­til some­one snitched. But it was all in good fun. The se­niors who deshelled me to some ex­tent did so when one day Jes s no­ticed that I had a Magic deck. He al­so played. and from there it was down­hill.

We start­ed play­ing mag­ic, which led to Starcraft, which led to me al­low­ing them to set me up for the Chariot Race dance. Which led to me meet­ing Brian Johnsen. Which led me to meet­ing Brian Stone, who when I ex­pressed an in­ter­est in learn­ing to fence agreed to teach me to do so, as he was the as­sis­tant coach of the fenc­ing team. So its a good thing I played Magic or I would be a to­tal­ly dif­fer­ent per­son to­day.

I al­so made a friend from out east named Abby. I met her through AIM and she came out to vis­it me on her spring break and I rec­i­p­ro­cat­ed once the school year end­ed. I last spoke with her dur­ing this last sum­mer but per­haps she still reads this.

Other no­table things that hap­pened my fresh­man year: I saw the Smashing Pumpkins for the first time at Purdue University where I vis­it­ed my friends Brian Rose, David Ledman, and Bo Ledman and met his soon to be wife Kerri. I lost my vir­gin­i­ty. I learned what a glo­ri­ous thing Stolichnaya vod­ka can be. I made friends with Meagan Call. I down­loaded my first mp3 us­ing Napster. I de­cid­ed to be room­mates in a dou­ble (glo­ri­ous! more room!) with the lone en­gi­neer in the sec­tion, Mike Castorano. I suc­cess­ful­ly walked on to the Notre Dame Fencing Team. I ate at both Bibler’s Pancake House and CJ’s Pub in the same day.


Thursday, 17 April 2003

with four rel­a­tive­ly de­cent sized pa­pers loom­ing over me this east­er week­end i am stay­ing on cam­pus for the du­ra­tion. the pa­pers are due as fol­lows

  1. April 24th — Film Theory — 8 – 10 pages. I’m writ­ing on how class struc­tures are as­sumed in­to racial iden­ti­ties and how that plays in­to film spec­ta­tor­ship in Spike Lee’s Bamboozled.
  2. May 2nd — Irish Cinema Culture — 10 pages. I’m writ­ing on the dif­fer­ing por­tray­als of Irish im­mi­grant com­mu­ni­ty life in Far and Away and Gangs of New York.
  3. May 4th — Otherworldly Literature — 10 – 12 pages. I’m writ­ing on how J.R.R. Tolkien’s var­i­ous works are filled with an al­most atavis­tic sense of his­to­ry through a frame of English lit­er­a­ture in a world­wide form.
  4. ?????? — International Migration — 6 – 10 pages. I’m not re­al­ly sure what I’m go­ing to write about this. I’ve on­ly been to two class­es.

Hit the Fan

Wednesday, 16 April 2003

it hit the fan to­day in po­et­ry class, but i do not feel vil­i­fied. what i want­ed was dis­cus­sion and by gum i got it. some few were of­fend­ed, most dis­cussed what ex­act­ly i was go­ing for, rang­ing from satire to pri­ma noc­ta rights. some want­ed me to make the end­ing dif­fer­ent to ac­knowl­edge my un­der­stand­ing of rape = bad. oth­ers dis­agreed. every­one had some­thing to say. all was well. i suc­cess­ful­ly stirred the pot. then i was al­lowed to speak. i said that there have been a sig­nif­i­cant amount of rape po­ems writ­ten in this class by var­i­ous peo­ple and that i have had trou­ble en­gag­ing with­in them. there is the fe­male vic­tim, which women can iden­ti­fy with, but for men there is on­ly the rapist. i said that i do not feel that i am be­ing ad­dressed by these po­ems.

there was much dis­agree­ment to this. i was told i was wrong, that i was be­ing ad­dressed. alas, there was no more time for dis­cus­sion, be­cause the pro­fes­sor made us move on. if so i would have re­spond­ed that if i do not feel like i am be­ing ad­dressed but i am sup­posed to be, then there is a fun­da­men­tal prob­lem with the po­et­ry. al­so, i would have said that even if i did feel ad­dressed, i am still of­fered no frame of ref­er­ence for how to as­so­ciate my­self as a non-threat­en­ing male to­ward a vic­tim­ized fe­male. the di­a­logue takes place be­tween the rapist and his vic­tim on­ly.

over­all the class be­came what i want­ed it to. i am quite pleased.


Tuesday, 8 April 2003

i’ve been get­ting emails from the class i dropped late­ly. ap­par­ent­ly, the group i had signed up to do a pre­sen­ta­tion with at the be­gin­ning of the year had not re­al­ized i dropped the class over a month ago. i’ve been rev­el­ing in their email strug­gles to set up a time to meet with my pro­fes­sor. to­day how­ev­er, my sadis­tic voyeurism end­ed. the prof fi­nal­ly re­al­ized that i was on the email list and was no longer in the class, there­by in­form­ing the rest of the group that “Adam Harvey is no longer a part of the class.” i could sense the ven­om in those words, es­pe­cial­ly since she sent the email to me as well. poor crap­tas­tic ex-teacher of mine.

in oth­er news, i’m so tired of read­ing po­ems about rape in my po­et­ry class that i am go­ing to fight back. Now, the very fact that each week there is at least one po­em a week writ­ten by a girl about sex­u­al as­sault or rape or the in­va­sive, vi­o­lent as­pects of sex, points to a va­ri­ety of prob­lems. first, that things like this oc­cur on a scale such as this, sec­ond, that even if said writ­ers have not been raped, they still feel that they must write about it con­stant­ly. third, that i have yet to see a po­em that is con­struc­tive or feels even slight­ly en­joy­able to­ward the sex­u­al act. And fourth, that the po­ems i’ve been read­ing about rape are so un­con­struc­tive and have be­come so stale that i feel that i must write a po­em from the stand­point of a rapist. at first my friend Kate sug­gest­ed i write a po­em as if i’d been raped. i im­me­di­ate­ly changed it to be­ing a rapist. its quite more con­fronta­tion­al and i think i can chan­nel my ex­as­per­a­tion af­ter 13 weeks of rape po­ems quite nice­ly. what is my po­et­ry class com­ing to? jee­bus.