Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/2002/03/01/beyond_the_pale_holyoke_and_back.php
Friday, March 1, 2002
Friday morning I awoke to find that my bronchial infection, despite hopes, had pervaded even deeper into my lungs. Letting out a chest-rattling cough, the phone rang. 'Gorsche...you ready for Holyoke?' Andrew asked. Pleading with him not to make me attend the 'Beyond the Box V: Identity in Motion' Conference in Mount Holyoke due to my illness, I hung up the phone despondent. Andrew agreed he would pick me up around three in the afternoon. With another death-rasp I half-heartedly began packing my overnight bag.
Hours later, we found ourselves hurtling down I-91 in Andrew's car, the speedometer breaking 100. Sitting in the passenger seat, my head throbbing, I was enthralled by Andrew's stories of all the strange characters he had encountered at last year's 'Box' conference (TDR 2/12/2001). I assured myself that at the very least Holyoke promised us a free dinner.
Free dinners aside, we both agreed extra provisions were needed to get through this weekend, so Andrew turned the wheel towards the friendly orange glow of the sign marked 'Liquors.' Sitting in the car, I became somewhat frightened as a gang of youths approached our parked auto, but a few minutes later Andrew emerged with a box marked 'Corona' and a bag with plenty of goodies to go around. The woman behind the counter had given Andrew some flack over his out-of-state driver's license. His passport was viewed with equal suspicion...as an 'out-of-country' driver's license. Nonetheless, she backed down and let him purchase said supplies, and reminded him to grab some limes. I mentioned the youths to Andrew, and we both agreed we would ask around about gang violence and if the threat concerned students.
A few minutes later, Andrew parked the car in a Holyoke faculty spot and we walked towards the Blanchard Student Center to register for the weekend's event. Andrew and I were each handed some information describing the weekend's various seminars, a free pencil, and a T-shirt. The free gifts alone had already made the trip worthwhile. A student volunteer explained to us we must sign up for one 'dialogue' group. Andrew and I agreed that 'Sexuality and Its Complexities' was the place for us; it was the only dialogue open. We were then directed to our free dinner...a $5 certificate to one of the Holyoke's dining facilities. I ordered a grilled cheese that had some sort of Mace or pepper spray instead of butter, and soon afterwards my bronchitis was replaced by some sort of stomach sickness. Andrew's mozzarella sticks' odd selection of spices made him equally ill as well. This conference was already shaping up to be plenty of fun.
After I had recovered from the meal, we headed back to Blanchard for our evening 'entertainment.' Just in case it turned out to be a dud, we brought with us concealed beverages. The stage was set with about twenty orange Home Depot buckets and a drum set heavily guarded by a seven foot tall anorexic and ponytailed man, and an Asian woman who looked like a cross between a Chinese sweatshop slave driver and a pit fighter from some sort of kick-boxing movie. Other conference goers shuffled in and the evening's festivities began; the tall man drummed and demanded we clap along. Soon the group began performing some sort of rhythm game called a 'pulse' that the tall man explained was 'an expression of feeling inside your body and inside your souls. That's what gives it power. That's what connects us.' Not wanting to display our souls or connect ourselves with complete strangers, Andrew and I agreed that we would participate in no such clapping, drumming, gyrating, or chanting, and seated ourselves a few rows behind the crowd. While the group danced around together whooping and hollering, the drummer humming 'Ch-ch-ch,' bystanders began gathering to gawk at the scene of lunacy before them. Despite the gyrating crowd, we managed a survey of our fellow participants, which consisted of mostly women, of which about 90% were minorities.
'That was really good,' the ponytailed giant congratulated the crowd, eyeing the two of us, explaining that he called the next exercise 'put yourself in someone else's shoes.' We thought perhaps some passive entertainment would begin, or perhaps we would be freed to visit the Holyoke parties, but as I started gathering my belongings the slave driver demanded, 'let's get another pulse going.' Fuck.
After some more loud banging, the group decided it was time to talk. We started by taking a multicultural awareness test— various questions about Super Bowl Sunday domestic violence rates and the proportion of professional athletes that are African-Americans (10%); must be all the golf pros. As it turns out Andrew and I were among the most multiculturally aware individuals at the conference, scoring an impressive eight of ten; most participants answering only two or three correctly.
Next the group gathered in a circle, but Andrew and I remained outsiders. A 'Box' Volunteer suggested we move inside the circle. 'I'm incredibly shy,' Andrew admitted. 'Well...alright. Hey, what's with all the note taking?' she asked. 'I have a condition...I compulsively take notes,' Andrew responded.
A new game, 'I am, am not,' was suggested. I told everyone that 'I am Southern, but I am not a redneck.' Andrew said that while 'Dominican' (which he is not) he wore no dentures. The 'bisexual, but no I don't want to screw everyone' slave driver nodded in agreement with Andrew's statement. By this point, not even the 'beverages' could cure our boredom and disgust, and I informed Andrew that if nothing happened soon, I was going 'to kill myself. I am going to leap out through those windows.' Andrew scribbled my threat in his notebook and kept me away from any sort of untimely demise by promising the program would end shortly.
The group segued into a discussion about their personal shortcomings. One black man, who identified himself as a college professor, admitted that sometimes, 'I just see a picture of a white man and think, man, that guy looks so racist.' I sat there shocked and appalled, Andrew sank in his chair, while the remainder of the crowd nodded in empathy. Later the focus shifted to discussing multi-cultural, bi-racial, multi-racial and multi-sexual topics, as well as women's intuition. Somebody discussed how they judge people upon meeting others, and someone began advocating eugenic theories to the approving group. This speech awakened me from my delirium.
Finally, after more complaining the discussion ended on a high note by battering the orange buckets with drumsticks. Tired and still sick, my head shook violently in pain. When it seemed I could take no more, it all ended, and we were shuffled out to meet our Holyoke hostesses who would share their rooms with us. An effete young man, Vincent, came and made our acquaintance, bubbling with enthusiasm about tomorrow's programs.
Our luck running stronger then ever, neither of our supposed hostesses showed, and we instead were assigned to a set of roommates who may have been two of the uglier persons I have met. Heading back to their dorms, we asked about any sort of night activities. We were angrily told their were none, unless we wanted to go to the 'Delt' party, which 'is mostly lesbians.' We declined.
Entering their dorm building, the thrilling party sounds of bass rocking 'Missy Misdemeanor Elliot' and loud conversation could be heard. 'What about that party?' I asked. An especially angry glance told me to quit pursuing this line of questioning. Inside their room we agreed on a time to wake up. The uglier of the two informed us that a 'Vincent' might call for us later. Though Andrew denies it now, I remember him violently punching the wall, yelling 'rippiz lungs out.' Seeing trouble brewing, I made up an excuse about knowing some friends at Holyoke that we promised to meet. We received some even angrier looks that Andrew took to mean that they may or may not have believed us. Either way, we ran like hell.
Grabbing our bags of goodies we headed back to the first floor party, where we were quickly accepted into the fold of twenty-some girls. They explained that the Coronas weren't needed as they already had plenty of drink, but a peek in their cooler told us otherwise. Our donation to their collection saved the day. Andrew and I split up, making the rounds. I met a young man, whom I nicknamed 'the Spaniard.' He was a pudgy one filled with Henny Youngman lines, and we quickly became fast friends. He lamented having failed to gain admission into college, 'any college,' and not wanting my night to be ruined by a young man drowning his tears in beer, I moved on.
Andrew and I met each other again and introduced ourselves to two young ladies, Hotplate and her roommate Kitty (names have been changed to protect the promiscuous). We were soon lured upstairs by promises of lewd Twister. Once inside their room, the Twister board was brought out. Realizing that they actually wanted to play Twister, I declined, creating an imaginary squash injury that kept me from stretching in all directions. The game was dropped and the party resumed.
My head began throbbing yet again as Andrew and I were serenaded by Kitty's extensive Britney Spears collection, including a video of 'Slave.' The girls gawked at the video's steamy portrayal of the pop princess. 'I'm not a lesbian, but I'd have sex with Britney Spears,' Kitty told us. Despite admitting to be lesbians, the other girls agreed with Kitty's sentiments. Soon, the ex-Mickey Mouse Clubber's hit songs were replaced by a barrage of gangsta' rap. This party was nearly more enjoyable than the 'Box.'
Soon other girls began pouring into the room, including one named after a wine, maybe Thunderbird or Ripple, and several pairs holding hands. The remainder of the party consisted of us making inane conversation, sharing the names of our pets, and discussing differences between Holyoke and Dartmouth (e.g., that Dartmouth also had male students). At the end of it all, Andrew and I informed all present that we had no place to stay and were finally welcomed with open arms and turned-down sheets.
At six AM I crawled into the ridiculously tall bunk bed I was told I could share...as long as I slept on my side, that being the edge. Precariously balanced fifteen feet off the floor I prayed my nine AM breakfast wake-up call would come soon.
Waking up at noon the following day Andrew and I realized that we had missed the morning activities, including the free breakfast, which was the main thrust of Andrew's argument in convincing me to come along. We each had a quick shower in the 'Co-ed,' which required us to warn of our impending male presence so as not to catch any women off-guard while they brushed their teeth.
Thirty minutes later, at 12:30, we found ourselves back in the Blanchard Center readying ourselves for some exciting lunchtime conversation about 'Sexuality.' Since signing up, Andrew and I joked about the dialogue, and how we would claim to be tri-sexuals, or a-sexual, or even vegi-sexual. Unfortunately, the furious looks shot our way informed me that all were aware of our nightly activities with our jilted hostesses. There was to be no joking in this dialogue.
The group gathered and was introduced to our facilitator Un Jung Lin, a senior at Mount Holyoke. We then went around the circle giving our names and describing what fruit we would be and why. I fancied myself an apple, because 'I like them.' Andrew was grapes, because 'hops aren't fruits.' Everyone else was fruits I've never heard of. One women, a Holyoke alum, spent twenty minutes explaining the difference between a mango and a 'mangocene,' after becoming offended that someone had dared confuse the succulent red flesh of her beloved Indonesian 'mangocene' with that trollop of the produce section, the mango. All were thrilled to learn of this little 'mangocene,' though I still think she was making it up on the spot.
Anyway, I couldn't find one at P&C.
Next came the 'role-playing.' Would I be the 'buxom nurse?' Instead, our facilitator had us close our eyes and picture ourselves on a date, first with a man, and then with a woman. Afterwards, we were paired up with partners to discuss 'our feelings.' I found myself speaking with Beth, a dredlocked lesbian from Smith. I told her I couldn't fathom going on the date with the man, and giving him a goodnight kiss, because I'm not gay. Beth snorted.
A little game of Pictionary followed, where two partners sat back to back. One was given a figure to describe while the other drew the picture from the instructions given, but the only pictures anyone got to draw were some houses and cars. I frowned in disappointment.
The game ended, and was replaced by group discussions in which we explained how we identified ourselves by choosing some colored stickers that corresponded to headings 'Race, Social Class, Religion, Ability, and Other.' Andrew chose 'social class,' and I chose 'other,' explaining that my category stood for 'Texas,' my home state. I felt somewhat discriminated against as few in my 'dialogue' group appreciated that.
Next, everyone was allowed to write 'stereotypes' of certain sexual headings, 'Gay, Straight, Bisexual, Transgendered.' One girl described straight people as 'scared.' A Swedish participant asked why there was no 'Queer' explaining that 'it's possible to be queer, but not gay, and vice versa.' Everyone applauded.Eventually, the talk degraded into a free-for-all of discussion about various sexual-preferences. My new friend and ex- partner Beth explained that her school was very gay friendly. Her straight professors, when discussing their husbands or wives, refer to them as 'life-partners,' and she 'really appreciated that.' One girl admitted that she was soon to enter a monogamous marriage with her boyfriend, though she had recently discovered she was bisexual. She questioned whether her 'bisexual identity' would matter once she was married to her husband, er, male life-partner. She hoped it did. They asked us what sort of gay support groups existed at Dartmouth. I gave a shrug, and Andrew answered, 'I guess there's a club or something.' Everyone was shocked at our lack of familiarity with the groups. Only then did we realize the basis of their question.
Finally, after two hours of the worst kind of mind torture, they released us, explaining that the next dialogue would begin in twenty minutes. Tears flowed down my eyes in distress, and Andrew kindly promised to take me out for a lunch (emphatically, 'not a date').
Both Andrew and I now refuse to eat food anywhere in Western Massachusetts, and for safety's sake all should refrain from such as well. My meal of greasy beef in a tortilla made my stomach fiery sick once again, and Andrew's meatless-meat lump gurgled when they presented it to him. After this, we started a husband-wife argument, where I angrily demanded that we leave post haste, and threatened a scene in the restaurant if Andrew chose not to comply. He did, but I pitched a fit anyway.
Finally, we sped away from Mount Holyoke, tired and sick, R.L. Burnside blaring on the car stereo yet again: 'We were in the back, and I was busy telling Nellie to keep her belly close to mine, you know what I'm saying?' And, finally, I did.