I'm sitting in the Coffeehouse with a few friends last week. We are feeling the euphoria students feel when and only when they have just had a class cancelled. It's a giddy euphoria, one which lends itself to the deconstruction of silly paradigms. Silly paradigms like collegiate life, for instance. It can often be hard to attach any real seriousness to an atmosphere in which classes are cancelled like so many lost paper clips, where the professorial voices of authority tremble with such insecurity that they dialogue in incomprehensible jargon, where the bookstore charges more than cover price for used books, where 20-year-olds smoke like chimneys in dank East Campus crevices, convinced that they are somehow immune to addiction and/or lung cancer.
No matter. I inhale the second-hand smoke with pleasure, savoring the aroma of what qualifies as Alternative Life at Duke, ignoring the sons and daughters of the Fortune 500 who surround me, concentrating instead on the matter at hand.
"Did you ever see that Simpsons' episode when Homer saves Springfield from the terror of the runaway monorail?" I ask my companions. Of course we are in the midst of mass culture bonding, the kind of stuff that creates only one degree of separation between you and an Eskimo. A couple of my friends nodded yes, they had seen the Music Man who had seduced the folks into buying a faulty monorail and hiring Homer as its primary driver.
As it turns out, I began to discuss my obsession with this particular episode. I believe it speaks volumes about the inefficiency of civic planning, the selfishness of communal desire (righteous Marge wanted to donate the money to charity), the cult of personality that plays such a prominent role in American politics, and of course the transcendence of heroism and individual life (Homer averts tragedy by using a giant steel "M" as an anchor, hooking it onto the giant donut of the local donut shop).
As interesting as the Simpsons' episode, however, was the subsequent Coffeehouse discussion. In a moment of passion, we decided that what Duke really needed was an East-Central-West monorail as a substitution for the bus system. We began to visualize the revolutionary possibilities. Our cancelled class euphoria evolved into delirium as we imagined a Duke transportation system that was:
- Safe. 2. Pleasant 3. Fast. We fantasized about the political implications of a non-ghettoized Central and East, and the potential undoing of Gotho-centrism at Duke. (I would argue that this logic depends upon the perception of Central and East as ghettos; in fact, they may actually be suburbs, perturbed at the monorail construction which will import drunken slobs from stale, white, inner-city West Campus).
In any event, it sounded like something to think about. A stop at the Chapel, on Anderson, Oregon and the Washington Duke statue on East. And when I say the chapel, I mean the chapel. I envision a monorail with a heinous, imposing white track and a platform right in front of the chapel steps. No hiding this baby. I believe most of us have outgrown the faux-traditionalism of our campus and would welcome a powerfully contradictory impulse. I would go as far as suggesting monorail trains with gothic stone surfaces, as a neat way of emphasizing the quick-decay stone that is such an integral part of our lives.
I envision feminist agitprop warriors painting on the walls of the station, "Frat boys have a one track mind." I envision frat boys writing, "My track puts the monorail's to shame." I envision student art displays inside the cars, perhaps even a little administration propaganda ("Vote for the Senior Gift today!"). Maybe a digital display that served as a form of classified advertising (Best damnÉyou know the rest). I envision professors, seduced by the thoroughly postmodern presence of the monorail, actually taking public transportation to class. Confused by the elderly presence, students actually give up their seats for 35-year-old professors, who, if slightly embarrassed, graciously accept.
And, in the face of all of this absurdity, I could not help but to think that it could happen. In fact, Duke is a giant academic suburb, convinced of the legitimacy (even prestige) of its day-to-day existence for absolutely no reason whatsoever. And I thought to myself, "Duke is Springfield." Few would disagree that we have many Bart Simpsons roaming our campus, wonderfully entertaining boys at whom we laugh, not with whom we laugh. We have plenty of Lisas, too, brilliant prodigies with good intentions and poor social skills. Who could argue that Montgomery Burns, the devious owner of the Nuclear Power Plant, is not Mike Krzyzewski? A sometimes odious, crooked-mouthed character upon whom we are dependent for our power and money. Are the assistant coaches not like so many Smithers?
The point is that although we separate ourselves from the banal, the retrograde, the anti-progressive, we are very much a part of it. We go home (some of us to Springfield) and tell everyone what a wonderful place "Duke" is. We are convinced of its supposed excellence, and yet in fact many of us are just little yellow people amused by "Itchy and Scratchy," a.k.a. the nose-picking and masturbation of "Blow by Blow" (see the comics page).
So when's the ribbon cutting?
Jay Mandel is a Trinity senior.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.