Senior Year

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

Juggler

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

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

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.

Papers

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

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.

HORK!

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.