Recess' Seniors Say Goodbye

3000 Miles from Home

Last Saturday, half-drunk from an afternoon spent pounding beers in a parking lot, I made a seemingly innocuous confession to my girlfriend: I have a soft spot for songs that speak of the desire to return home. From The Beatles' "Golden Slumbers" to Coldplay's "Clocks," any time I hear the word "home" in a low wail, all my deeply held beliefs in stability, in comfort, in simplicity come rushing back.

It had taken me nearly four years to make this simple admission, though, because college was never supposed to be about longing for home. From precocious uncles and hard-charging (and typically single) adult friends, you hear this is supposed to be four straight years of testing yourself, of taking risks, of tearing yourself away from the cozy. And trying desperately to create my own identity, I bought into this philosophy. Hard. I didn't need my parents, didn't need a spiritual base, didn't need crap except myself and some cool to spare.

Never expected that this mindset would get flipped on its head by a festering, white dump at the bottom of Ninth Street.

I first made the trek from East Campus to Biscuit King as a pledge because the fraternal higher-ups sentenced me to eat there once a week. For the glorious occassion I wore a suit, glasses with alarmingly large black rims and a whole crate full of Southern Californian attitude. Walking straight into the most distinctly Southern restaurant in Durham, these choices were meticulously planned and aimed directly at asserting my individuality, attempting to live up to that instilled image of the collegiate risk-taker.

Achingly hip tough guys were nothing new to this crowd, and they knew how to handle me. Jerry Turner, the owner, his beard as thick, but certainly not as clean, as a Brooklyn rabbi's, immediately disarmed me with his charm. He gave me the grand tour of the back wall that had 20 years of fraternity composite photos hung from it. "You're a part of this now, too," he said.

And he was right. I have spent almost every Friday of my collegiate career at Biscuit King, catching up with fraternity brothers I had been too busy to see during the week. This is the place where, no matter how taxing Recess production was or how draining schoolwork became, I could go and know exactly what I was expecting.

It was home, and for all of my early year protestations, it was exactly what I needed.

"You're such a hypocrite," I replied. "Not only are you from Texas, but you dropped pre-med halfway through physics. Don't forget, WE were freshmen--we were ALL tools."

"True... but you know, we did have fun--remember how funny Stone Cold was?" she said before trailing off into thought.

"Have things really changed that much?"

Just like that, it hits me. What have I done at Duke? Four years have gone by, and I'm still unsure as to what I want to do--wasn't I supposed to figure that out? But just when things begin to darken, and I start to worry; I think back to my freshman year, and I realize how much I've grown.

It seems like the majority of seniors spend their time talking about how "Duke was" and "what was better". It's true; things have obviously changed, but so have we. Sure, I miss the Hideaway, and the noisy, late night life of the Main West. But among all those nights of fun, there was something missing.

Sitting there on the bench, absorbed in my own thought, I suddenly realized how moments just like these were the ones I so often looked back on. My best memories are the everyday ones--the ones that are so fuzzy with underappreciation that I can hardly recall the specifics jokes. My best memories are the afternoons on the bench; the ones seemingly thick with the carefree days of youth. Memories of botched four-square, waffle balls, many bad barbeques, water guns, a strategically emptied bucked of water and a particular incident regarding an Australian professor with a boomerang, come flowing back. It isn't the bonfires, the beer-fogged nights or even the basketball games, I cherish--it's the worry-free afternoons during which I was momentarily free of stress.

As I struggled to hold back tears, a few more friends trickle out of the dorm into the warm afternoon sun. Someone brings a 12 pack, another a Frisbee. And for a minute, my worries fade into the oblivion. It is these afternoons on the bench, the ones we rarely appreciate, that I will miss more than anything.

--Tom Roller

Duke at Midnight

I will miss midnights.

This sounds strange, since midnights exist everywhere. Before I came to Duke, coaches turned to pumpkins, bells banged in pitch blue darkness and people banged in pitch black bedrooms. Somewhere, all-nighters were pulled, club music was pulsed, dance moves and dating moves were practiced. But before Duke, I never got to see them.

My high school self slid into class at 8:05. Back then I thought I needed sleep, and planned accordingly. Midnight was for ghost stories, and sometimes weekends. But freshman year of college, I made a discovery: I was actually nocturnal. In fall, my roommate and I stayed up until the moon went down. We whispered questions in our hospital scrubs and high school track tees: "How were tryouts?" "Should I rush?" "Is he your boyfriend?"

When he finally was my boyfriend, midnights became the time the world cracked open: conversations got serious, feelings turned sincere and sex was less scary. For me, midnight was when walls crashed down. I told people how I felt, where I came from, and what I wanted. I was too tired to play a part and too excited to sleep. From midnight to morning, I was something new and crazy: I was true.

The world is not on College Time. At 1 a.m., we can't walk into the Gap, go to class, or even phone our families. But here, the nightlife is sprawling. It's midnight and we're whispering in the Gothic Reading Room, slurping soda at Rick's, stalking a crush in the BC, playing Beirut in a section, or wrestling on a Belmont couch. Some people say they find themselves in Europe. I found myself when the clock struck twelve.

Favorite Faran Midnights: Getting into trouble with my former partner in crime; getting into detail with my fabulous Alpha Phis; sitting with a boy and a beer; therapy sessions in a red hammock; runs with my theater crew; stalking--or "studying"--in the Perk; discovering music and people whom I have grown to love.

Last night I called my best friend, a law school student Out West. It was midnight, and he was almost asleep. "You have to remember," he rasped, "The real world goes to bed earlier!" He hung up the phone and I gazed out the window, the moon slung low like my jeans, my thoughts overripe and ready to leak.

I will miss midnights.

--Faran Krentcil

Seeing Durham from My Car

Ever since I got my first car in high school, I've loved the freedom it's given me. With a turn of the key, I could escape. I knew the back roads of my hometown--from Sorgho to Maceo--within weeks.

The months without my car at Duke were painful. I felt trapped. So, when my car first arrived in Durham, I set to work planning routes of escape--places I could drive to be alone and think when something was bothering me.

When I had a particularly tough problem to tackle, I'd head down to where I-40 joins up with I-85 and drive down into Burlington or even Greensboro. After I'd had sufficient time alone, I'd always head back on I-85--but not because it's the more efficient way to get back to the Gothic Wonderland.

As I crest the hill, barrelling down the highway, there's this exit--not the one from 85 onto the Durham Freeway, but later from the Durham Freeway onto 15-501 towards West Campus--with the most beautiful, clear view of the Chapel. Even at night, it's one of the most breathtaking ways I've seen the Chapel--even if it's only visible for a few fleeting seconds.

Not only was the vista stunning, but seeing it also reassured me that my problems were better, and they were just temporary glitches in a wonderful college experience.

But my time in the arms of Duke has been as fleeting as my view of the Chapel. Now the next view I'll see of it is in my rearview mirror, as I head out into the real world.

--Meg Lawson

As a side note, I'd like to thank my co-editor Greg for a fun-filled volume and our staff and writers for their hard work. Special thanks go to Jonas, Dave, Ambika, Jane and KP Dylan for the advice and criticisms. It's been an incredible year.

WOE ON A TREADMILL

"There are limits on Recess," this magazine's editor patiently explained to me several years ago: "Readers." He was gently deflecting my too-earnest proposal for a retrospective analysis of innovative narrative structures in recent cinema, or some similar turkey of an idea. "If you want them to read something, give them bold headings, fewer words and snappy writing."

In another editor's words: "treadmill reading." Disheartening words, it seemed, to be coming from the leaders of a supposedly independent, alternative publication. If we have such contempt for our own audience, what is in it for us (beyond all the free stuff)? At the time I agreed with popular consensus that Duke was wallowing in intellectual and cultural poverty but thought that Recess could be the smart hipster vanguard. A pied piper leading the clueless mice out of Squaresville.

From the exit gate looking back, this seems pretty wrong. These days we here at Recess are quite happily unhip. More importantly, it doesn't seem so pressing to fight those crusades. If Duke truly is bland, it's only marginally more so than most elite grade machines in this country; and if you've spent four years in the Triangle complaining about Duke being bland then, well, you're part of the problem.

I've talked to as many people who say they've never read Recess as those who say that it's the only part of The Chronicle they read straight through. Tellingly, and brace yourself here for a horribly sweeping generalization, people who will actually seek out an obscure but highly recommended album generally fall into the former category. And on the other hand, people will buy those critic-proof mainstream albums--whether by U2 or by Nelly--no matter what poop we or any other reviewer fling at them.

There was a time when localized publications like college newspapers would have played a vital role in alerting their readers to great music or film. Now there is instant and virtually unlimited media resources accessible within five minutes on Google. In the meantime mainstream pop culture, commonly thought to be a barren wasteland, can be a pretty neat playground if you don't have corporate owners keeping you from swinging on all the fake boobs and terrible guitar solos.

During my sophomore year, I must have reviewed two Dave Matthews Band albums and five Brendan Fraser screwball comedies. Once I had a little seniority, I usually chose subjects that I already expected great things from. If I've learned one thing from four years of Recess, it's that you can't take this crap too seriously. To be honest, it was more fun flinging poop.

In the meantime, I'll miss all the free stuff.

--Greg Bloom