University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said

"…still my guitar gently weeps."

Contrary to popular belief, when I think back to my time spent at the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said, my memories are primarily positive: the PFLAG skit with Little Amie, the road trips with Ms. Parker, downhill skiing in jeans and sweaters with True, etc. Included among the countless memories is the long-overdue day on which I mastered the world of irony. And in an ironic twist, this triumph occurred not in the classroom for which I was paying (and still am paying) for my education, but rather in the viewing of the film Reality Bites in which a character explains that irony happens when the actual result differs from the expected result. These thoughts were on my mind last night as I reached for the last rock of a rock-climbing route (the white one for the one of you keeping score at home) that had, in previous attempts, proven too difficult for my amateur (read: not-exactly-in-shape) skills. But since irony considers the sequence of events leading up to the result, first let me back up a bit.

When it comes to dating, I wouldn’t exactly place myself in the same league as a Casanova, but I have had my fair share of girlfriends and thanks to the wonderful Internet, most of them have had the pleasure (or pain) of finding their (nick)name in my blog’s print. For the most part, I’ve never considered this a bad thing. However, thanks to said wonderful Internet’s ability to archive everything, I worry that my past is going to start coming back to haunt me. I saw it when one girlfriend became jealous of the Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, and I saw it again when another future girlfriend questioned the sincerity of my words.

It’s an honest question: how sincere could a guy be when his written words from relationships long gone are similar to the words coming out of his mouth in the present? I’m sure you’ll agree when I say that things said in current relationships are almost always unintended carbon copies of past relationship sweet nothings (who can go 15 years of dating without repeating some feelings along the way?). But only the fools stupid enough to blog their feelings get caught duplicating love and heartache. The closed-off souls who don’t share their feelings never suffer this fate. (I suppose an alternative solution is to date someone who shows no interest in your blog whatsoever, but what fun is that?) My most recent relationship, built on a blogging foundation, had to deal with this question of sincerity in the beginning before grabbing the next rock and pulling itself up to bigger and more relevant topics (read: when life gets in the way and love becomes complicated).

It’s hard to imagine what life would have been like had I not walked down Church Street that fateful summer day, and some would argue that it’s not worth the time and energy spent wondering. You can’t change the past; you can only deal with its consequences, make the most of the present, and put yourself in a position to enjoy the future. So regardless of why it happened, what happened happened and, through a series of mostly-related (emphasis on related) events, led me to join a local rock climbing gym to go climbing with my new friend, Mr. Extracurricular. Two weeks ago, I nearly backed out of a planned climb but I didn’t and the rock climbing walls kicked my butt for it by letting me complete only one route. Last week, against my instincts to stay home and not exercise, I went back and completed two routes and vowed to come back to do better. Last night, I found inspiration in the unlikeliest of people and completed six routes and found myself halfway up a route set at the next level.

As is often the case, in between climbs while giving our arms (and for me, my fingers) a rest, Mr. Extracurricular and I talked about the different challenges we face while climbing. I always feel a little embarrassed having a discussion like this with someone whose challenges are tackled on routes that are 3 or 4 levels more difficult than the ones I attempt, but Mr. Extracurricular humors me nonetheless. Now that I’ve learned to use my lower body more and my upper body less, for me, aside from building up strength and endurance, my biggest challenge is simply staying on course. Because multiple colored routes are entwined together on the wall, I often find myself skipping a challenging handhold on my route and instead opting for an easier one not intended for me. And so, if/when I reach the top, I’ve inevitably taken an unintended route. With this in mind, as I grabbed that final white rock, I wondered if I was being ironic. (I think because the outcome and the expected outcome were the same, I wasn’t.)

Although there’s no irony to be found in the rock climbing walls, it could be argued that the last four months of my life have been ironic simply because the expected outcome was never realized. While climbing to the top, I stumbled, the rocks moved on me, I reached for the wrong holds, and now I find myself perched high on the wall on a different course, looking up at a final rock I can no longer see. But I know it’s there and I’m not going to quit climbing simply because my instincts tell me to let go.

It’s hard to imagine how my life will change because I chose to join the rock climbing gym, but as always, I look forward to the climb.

Parker, Benchly, and True

Near the end of the underrated motion picture Starship Troopers (which you should see not only for its eye-candy cast and unapologetically corny story but most importantly for its seemingly-psychic pre-9/11 commentary on the War on Terror), in a scene that shows a rare reunion of the three main characters after yet another gruesome and deadly military battle, one of the characters hugs the other two and says, “I don’t know why, but every time the three of us are together I feel like everything’s going to be alright.”

For the first two years of college, Ms. Parker, True, and I shared nearly every waking moment together on the campus of the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said. We cracked jokes, told stories, wrote songs, and believed ourselves to be the modern day Algonquin Round Table (as evidenced by two of our nicknames). Sadly, in the ten years since we parted ways, I can count on one hand the number of times the three of us have been together. When we are together, though, as was the case 6 weeks ago for Ms. Parker’s 30th birthday, I find myself identifying with the Starship Troopers character’s optimism.

"Read books, fall in love, dream a lot." – Clayton E. Hudnall

In the second semester of my sophomore year at the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said, I was lost. I had yet to declare a major, I had yet to take a college class I truly enjoyed, and I had yet to take the entire college process seriously. Then, on a whim partially influenced by Ms. Parker, I signed up for Gay and Lesbian Literature taught by Professor Clayton E. Hudnall. And instantly, I hated it.

By this point, I had taken 15 college classes and while passing them all, it’s safe to say I barely did any work. I coasted through my classes like a high school senior preparing for the beach. What I hated about Professor Hudnall’s class was that he didn’t accept my coasting. He graded my work for what it was: delicately teetering between average and below average. I resented that. He’d often say, “This is college, folks. You’re paying to be here. Act like it.” or something similar. And I tried like hell to ignore him. For awhile, I succeeded.

Then, over time, my stubbornness wore off and I opened myself up to the wonders of learning. You can chalk this up to a number of reasons: the incredibly eccentric and animated classmates with whom I shared the class (Sciaretta, Briggs, Theatre, Excessive Hand Motions Girl, Mr. Billings, Ms. Parker, Arizona Boy, the Uncle Lover, etc); Professor Hudnall’s passionate and lively debates/lectures that forced a student to contribute; and hell, I’ll admit it, the lesbian fiction. For the first time in college, I anxiously awaited each new class (except on those days when I had neglected to read the assignment and feared the Wrath of Hudnall). And with my new dedication to work and learning, a funny thing happened: my grades got better. Of course, because I slacked off for so long in the beginning, I couldn’t achieve the highest marks for the semester, but I did break par and it was the first grade in college I truly deserved.

When my sophomore year ended, I declared my English major and I immediately signed up for a fall semester class taught by Professor Hudnall (American Poetry). When my junior year arrived, I poured my heart into his class each and every week (well, maybe not the Walt Whitman week) and I was rewarded with yet another inspirational performance by Professor Hudnall. His passion for poetry was infectious. And while I’m the first to admit these poems could have stood on their own without our professor there to support them, I’ll never underestimate the importance of his guidance and lessons.

Professor Hudnall’s classrooms were his stage and with the spotlight glued to his every move, his classroom audience was always on the edge of its collective seat. We listened. And though he would have cringed to hear me say so, in some ways, his words were more important to us than the words of those he quoted. Through his actions, and through his stories, and through his enthusiasm, you knew his words were words worth remembering. He had lived a life worth noting and each glimpse into his world and his life and his thoughts gave you that much more of a chance to be a better person.

I am who I am today because of the paths I have crossed and one of those paths was Professor Hudnall’s. He taught me how to be a college student; to take responsibility for myself and my actions. He showed me the power of the written and spoken word. And he gave me a newfound appreciation for life and all of its beauty. His final lesson to my class was: “Read books, fall in love, dream a lot.” These are words to live by and by them he lived.

Professor Clayton E. Hudnall of East Windsor, Connecticut, passed away on August 25, 2004. He was an Associate Professor of English from 1970 to 2000. And for his priceless contribution to my life, I am forever grateful.

URTs and other signs you’re having a pre-midlife crisis

This past weekend, I was busy with the first of hopefully at least 67 annual life-altering road trips with old college friends. For those of you unfamiliar with this trip (all zero of you), the official title of the trip was the First Really Excellent and Annual Kick-ass International N’ Ultimate Road Trip (FREAKIN’ URT for short and URT for really short). I hope that those of you familiar with the trip will agree when I say that it was an incredible success. The highlights of the trip are as follows (in no particular order except maybe chronological):

1. Seeing and speaking to my friend Ms. Parker (who, incidentally, is the answer to the future trivia question: “Which one of Mr. Benchly’s friends did he mention first in his blog?”) for the first time in over 5 years;

2. Seeing my friend True for the first time in over 4 years;

3. The Travel Log, the official Weight Watchers Travel Log Pen of Justice, and the unofficial North Conway, NH Travel Log Pen of Justice that replaced the dead official Weight Watchers Travel Log Pen of Justice a few days into the trip;

4. Running over a baby seal at 75 mph;

5. Running into Baker at 3 mph;

5a. Baker running away at 5 mph;

6. Seeing my friend Mr. Billings and his significant other Cross and the wonderful world of Augusta, Maine;

7. Winning $4,500 from a scratch-off lottery ticket in Maine;

8. And discovering at the end of the trip that all participants were now speaking like Mr. Billings (a language we affectionately referred to as “Shaneish”). eg, “Mr. Benchly – talking like Mr. Billings. Ms. Parker – not amused.”

These are only a few of many factual and fictional highlights from the trip. More to follow later possibly.

Now, onto the most important part of the trip:

The URT allowed us the opportunity to venture to our old stomping grounds (aka, the University Whose Name Shall Never Be Said.) And after an all-too-brief walk around campus in which we discovered all students talking on cell phones; an all-you-can-eat buffet-style school cafeteria; motion-censor classroom lights; a Hudnall-less English Department; Freshman who could have very well been born after the Challenger explosion; and Seniors who were born after our first memories, the group decided in my head that we were all old. Very old. This concerns me.

That’s all for now. Goodnight.

In Stan the Sandwich Man’s name, I remain…

Mr. Benchly