"When I met you I thought you were a pissant."
I was crouched in a cramped military tent on my last night in Biloxi, Miss. John, a long-term volunteer, was sharing his first impressions of me while five other volunteers exhorted me to partake of their pot.
"It's your last night! You have to!"
A laptop looping Pink Panther cartoons provided the only light.
John continued, "You probably thought I was an asshole."
"At first," I admitted.
"You're not a pissant."
"Thank you, John. You're not an asshole."
I politely declined the joint and walked out into the Mississippi night, looking for Berry.
Andrew Berry '08 had arrived two weeks earlier. We tutored kindergarteners on his first day, and the teacher requested introductions.
"I'm Andrew. I'm studying how computers work and how brains work. I really like diving off diving boards, I do it a lot. We're best friends."
The first important thing about Andrew Berry: among divers, no one in the Ivy League jumps higher. The second: his utter disregard for the apathy that is so fashionable in our age.
We had lunch at the Salvation Army base. After a silence, Berry said, "Does it bother you that at any moment I could do a back flip?"
Later that afternoon: "Do you want to memorize every rap song ever while we're down here?"
That musical exuberance led to his role as general manager of Friday Night Rock. During his tenure, FNR formed an unofficial, unholy alliance with Bones Gate and Panarchy in establishing, with startling success, a credible indie scene (what AD would be if soccer and rugby did not exist -- perish the thought!) -- credible enough, in fact, to become a legitimate extra-Greek clique option for incoming freshmen.
It cannot go unsaid that, in this coup, Berry played Tony Blair to our dearly departed Sean Adam's Queen Elizabeth II: Berry was the day-to-day man in charge, but Sean Adams was the look, the lifestyle and, inevitably, the subject of the movie.
Berry's FNR success is all the more remarkable for his Greek affiliation: He is an enthusiastic Psi U.
In writing this column, I have so far labored to avoid frat jokes and Mirror memes. Evidently, that was the worst idea I've ever had. Mirror columnist emeritus Alice Mathias '07 embraced those very concepts -- albeit armed with unfailing wit and originality -- and is now blogging for no less a publication than the New York Times. All of which is to say, I give up.
Psi U 1: Okay, okay, I've got one!
Psi U 2: Ooh, go!
Psi U 1: A black guy walks into Psi U--
Psi U 1 & Psi U 2: Hahahahahahaha
Psi U 2: I love that one. Although when I first heard it he was gay.
Psi U 1: It's a good thing I'm not gay, or I wouldn't have a girlfriend to knit me --
Psi U 2: You didn't!
Psi U 1: I did. She made me a seersucker pong paddle pouch.
Psi U 2: My next sailboat is going to have a pong table built in.
Psi U 1: Are you kidding me?
Psi U 2: Oh dear! Did I say sailboat? Yacht. My next yacht.
Psi U 1: Wait -- which one of us is which?
Psi U 2: Not again!
Psi U 1: Here, let's look at our credit cards. You know your dad's name, right?
Let us never speak of this again.
As I was saying, the time had come for me to leave Biloxi. I write this in my parents' house in Cincinnati, intent on returning to the Gulf Coast as soon as possible.
Naturally, my sudden free time led to unhealthy Wikipedia binges. I have this to report: The second Secretary of State under Bush I was a man named Lawrence Eagleburger. How he failed to reach the Presidency with a name as American as Eagleburger is beyond me.
Lawrence was not unaware of the potency of his name. In fact -- and I quote -- "He has three sons, all of whom are named Lawrence Eagleburger." The three young Eagleburgers do sport different middle names, although I don't know why Papa Burger failed to finish what he started.
I reported the findings to my dad, who had this to say: "If that doesn't sum up the state of late twentieth century foreign policy, I don't know what does."
Fortunately, Steven Howe does not limit his pithy quips to criticisms of American hubris. His most recent: "If I were a tornado, I would take out the tornado sirens first."
Recently the family was discussing the world of insects -- my brother is taking AP bio. I remarked that, given the extent to which the total ant biomass outweighs the human race, "It's a good thing there's never been an ant Malcolm X."
Steven Howe: "There was. I stepped on it."
Home is strange, and not just due to my father. My perception has not shed the context of disaster relief; I find myself scanning the leafy hilltops of the Midwestern upper middle class for blight that does not exist -- for purpose.
I must emphasize that, before Biloxi, I was an unusually complacent, self-absorbed person -- even for a Dartmouth student. By no means am I suddenly selfless, but I am now at least paying attention. What long-term service work did to me it would do to anyone. It is as if, returning home, I am entering a familiar country but had never spoken the language until now.
E-mail Alex at howeas@gmail.com
