We weren't past the Nasher before I knew that the kid next to me on the C1 will attend Session I of summer school, after which he will "probably be doing some volunteer s-." His buddy in front of us is "GOING TO GET A 'B' IN WRITING 20, CAN-YOU-BELIEVE-IT?" Also, Ice Ball was totally lame. Apparently.
On another day, I could have ignored their conversation altogether, opting instead to read quietly, or to beat my head violently against the seatback in front of me. But this bus ride was special. On this bus ride, the guy in front me-the one getting the B in Writing 20-was speaking exceptionally loud, and he was about 12 inches from my face.
"I STUDIED ALL WEEKEND," he said. I could feel my retinal tissue start to throb in time with my temples. I closed my eyes and, as soon as I did, started thinking about what an asshole gesture the pained closing-of-the-eyes is. Just as I was about to re-open them, though, they were jolted open for me.
"WHAT DID YOU DO?" he shouted.
I wanted to thwop him between the eyes and tell him to hush, but I was somehow caught without my Fig Newtons, gray wig and frumpy Ferragamo purse-necessary props for use of the word "hush." Thus I sat silently in my seat, sighing heavily and rolling my eyes, hoping I could lead by more mature example.
If the volume of the two boys' conversation was off-putting, it was the topic that was probably most grating. Duke students are loquacious with respect to three topics-grades, jobs and basketball. Least offensive are the latter two. Everyone talks about work and diversions from it, and they always have. Why, however, we want to endlessly chatty-chat-chat about GPAs and-worse-individual grades on trivial homework assignments is a mystery. It seems people prefer this topic to most others, particularly those beyond the scope of Duke.
When grade-centric grandstanding is within earshot, I think of a secondary school that I visited this past summer in England. I was working in London and was dispatched to a poor school district in Kent to report a story about in-school drug testing. Loosely, my orders were to find the most wretched-looking children and ask them how it felt to have their civil liberties violated by the heartless establishment.
Anyway, this was harder than it sounds. Seems there are things like "parental permission" and other dictates of authoritarian school districts that I had to accept if I wanted quotes. I thus agreed to have children rounded up for me by the headmistress.
"Come Tuesday next," a school secretary barked into the phone. I imagined her in olive drab, Soviet-style suiting. "They'll be waiting in a room for you."
And waiting they were when I finally arrived. They were adorably waiting. They were freckled and gap-toothed and smiling in their little uniforms. They had names like Rupert and Zoë and scabs on their knees. They were cute. Suspiciously cute.
I sat down in a chair in the middle of the room, while the kids sat primly around me on couches. Then Headmistress James unexpectedly waltzed in and began talking. "Alright, children, ask away!" she said.
Ask away?
"Tell us about America!" exclaimed Hannah, 13, her tangled blond hair pulled back under a pink headband.
"Um, OK," I said. "America is. cool."
"WOW," the kids said in unison.
Headmistress James smiled benevolently. "They're so excited. They've had so many reporters come talk to them about the drugs, but none from American newspapers. Children, let's have more questions!"
This was weird. I was here to work on a tight deadline, as per the stated terms of my visit. Yet here was James, deliberately whittling away my "candid" interview with the kids. I felt like I was the one being interviewed, and for a governess position. Any second now this passel of rosy children-eerily seated in height-descending order, from sixth-form down-was going to bound into my lap and beg me to sing "Raindrops on Roses" just one more time before bed.
"Moving on," I said, cutting to the quick. "I'm going to ask you guys some questions about being tested here at school. No pressure-just tell me what you think."
"We-e-ell," started Rupert. The headmistress focused her gaze on Rupert's bowed, crew cut-sporting head.
"People who take drugs are a minority-an alienated minority," he said. "Drug testing gives us an excuse not to give into their pressure." He smiled, nodding. So did everyone else in the room. I shivered.
Janisha, 14, started to say that her strict Indian parents forced her to sign the consent forms. "But I really wanted to; I like the tests," she added quickly, looking in the direction of the headmistress. "Drugs are. bad."
"Drugs are bad," I sighed, drudgingly scrawling the happy quotes in my notebook.
I believe that Janisha, Rupert and their fresh-scrubbed buddies meant what they said. Drugs are bad, anyway. But whether they meant it or not, they had no choice but to espouse that opinion.
Conversely, our freedom to say whatever we want at Duke, irrespective of President Richard Brodhead's stern gaze, means that we can talk about gosh-darn grades if we please and can issue any opinion concerning them.
It's our choice-it's simply a choice I wish we were less predictable in making.
Sarah Ball is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every Thursday.
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