May
8, 2002, 8:45 a.m. College
Carnival
Campus life.
By Albert Keith
Whitaker
et
us look grave: here comes a fool!" So the great 18th century theologian
and philosopher Samuel Clarke warned his students, when they were out
"unbending themselves" one pleasant day, in "the most playful
and frolicksome manner," and Clarke spied a pompous courtier approaching.
Clarke knew that inhabitants of the "real world" expect the
academy to be a scene of grim seriousness, and he wasn't about to sacrifice
the pleasure of keeping up the act.
I thought of the
great Dr. Clarke when I was walking recently in the heart of Boston University
— a warm breeze in my face, Magnolia and Dogwood blossoms all around,
and before me…a Carnival. In stately Marsh plaza, surrounding a monument
dedicated to Martin Luther King, stood stalls of salesmen handing out
Skittles, bottled water, and T-shirts, right next to tabernacles devoted
to the various religious groups on campus — a truly American mélange
of God and Mammon. But the real amusements lay off to the right, on one
of BU's few patches of green earth. One ride resembled a huge gyroscope
with shackles in which a fellow was bound, twirling about, looking like
da Vinci's sketch of Vitruvian Man doing somersaults in the air.
Nearby stood a "moon-walk" with a Velcro wall on one side. A
student, dressed in a Velcro suit that made him look like a cross between
the Michelin man and a Swiss guard, lumbered over the walk, Neil Armstrong
style, took a leap, flipped, and stuck himself upside down to the wall.
All the bystanders shouted and then laughed as he peeled slowly from the
Velcro and flopped limply, face down, onto the quivering plastic.
Spring-time amusements
have always been a part of college life. Nathaniel Hawthorne and future
president Franklin Pierce, besides drinking and gambling at Bowdoin, occasionally
cut classes and fished, shot game, and watched logs flow down the Androscoggin.
Few students nowadays reach for fowling pieces when the weather gets nice,
but Frisbees and footballs fly freely. And, for the last couple of decades
at least, that favorite instrument of young men searching for authenticity
— the bongo-drums — has reverberated wherever students unwind.
Of course, college-sponsored
fun goes far beyond these afternoon rambles, football games, or jam sessions.
Today, when students arrive at school in Boston, they are immediately
treated to tours of the Harbor, trips around the historic downtown, dances,
in-dorm movie screenings, and many other activities to help them acclimate.
Throughout the semester, their schools arrange for them rock concerts,
theater trips, skiing and boating excursions. There have always been plenty
of characters on the Boston streets who hand out nightclub passes to good-looking
students, trying to lure them and their friends in for drinks and dancing.
In recent years, colleges themselves have joined the entertainment business,
big time.
To some degree, this
revolution in collegiate entertainment — not only in loco parentis
but in loco social planner — which swept through academia
in the 80s and 90s, reflects a simple fact: As colleges have become ever
more uniform, and increasingly serve only as a prelude to the "serious"
work of graduate or professional school, the consideration of which one
is the most "fun" has risen to the top of prospective students'
minds. In response, plenty of contemporary critics have slammed these
festivities, rightfully so, when the tail begins to wag the dog. For example,
my graduate alma mater, the University of Chicago, has an old reputation
for joylessness: I recall parties whose high points involved Euclidean
demonstrations. So, few were surprised when, in 1995, the Princeton Review
ranked the U of C as the "worst party school," behind even West
Point, whose plebs are not allowed off-campus without special permission.
Many U of C'ers responded proudly, "You just don't understand our
notion of fun." But the university administration was deeply mortified,
and since then, they have tried to jazz things up with new dorms, a new
student center with all sorts of games, a new emphasis on sports —
and the slow dismantling of the rigorous Common Core. These administrators
fail to see that games should provide a respite from, not a replacement
for, intellection.
But perhaps even
this is not quite right, and old Dr. Clarke saw the matter most clearly:
that "fun" should be an element, a charm, belonging both to
leisure hours and to moments of intense thought. Perhaps, if they're not
treated as the purpose of a college education, even the Velcro wall and
the gyroscope can serve to recharge the mind, and provide a healthy unity
to its life. So, to all the college students out there I say: Enjoy the
Carnival while you can. Before you know it, it's back to the old grind
of parents, siblings, burger-joints, or babysitting, and, in short, summer.
—
Albert Keith Whitaker is a professor of philosophy at Boston College.
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us look grave: here comes a fool!" So the great 18th century theologian
and philosopher Samuel Clarke warned his students, when they were out
"unbending themselves" one pleasant day, in "the most playful
and frolicksome manner," and Clarke spied a pompous courtier approaching.
Clarke knew that inhabitants of the "real world" expect the
academy to be a scene of grim seriousness, and he wasn't about to sacrifice
the pleasure of keeping up the act.
