Remembering Lessons from College

One afternoon in my junior year of college, I found out that The Princeton Review had named my school one of the top ten most homophobic colleges in the country. Furious, I spent the next hour reading everything I could about this survey. What methodology did they use? Did they just phone up a few drunken frat boys? What was the publication’s history of covering things like this? Did they have some axe to grind, some ideological bent one way or the other?

I only stopped my search when I needed to go to class. The trees had begun to display fall colors, while the ivy climbing up the side of Old Main's stately bell tower was still a deep, verdant green. My picturesque campus barely registered on me, however; I marched with my head down, staring at the sidewalk, my mind churning. I was angry that someone could hurl such an insult at my school, a place I loved and respected despite its faults. Sure, the student body was more conservative than I was, but then, I was left of many people who thought of themselves as liberals. Our faculty were compassionate, dedicated, talented educators and academics; every day they provided not only knowledge to students, but the ability to think critically and make sound judgements. Graduates left as better people than when they entered. The campus aspired to all the ideals that made me want a liberal arts education in the first place.

And then I thought, “What if . . . what if I’m being naive and simplistic? What if I’ve been living in my little sheltered bubble, bouncing between my classes and my circle of friends, isolated from what the rest of campus really thinks? What if my fellow students really are this ignorant and hateful? What if the survey was an accurate reflection of my school? What if they’re right?”

With these thoughts still swirling in my mind, I walked by Dr. Barbara Faires, my department chair and a woman for whom I had immense respect as an educator. She spoke to me by name and said pleasantly, “How are you doing today?”

The rage and frustration that had been simmering boiled over at the question. “How am I?” I snapped. “I’m mad as hell! Did you see this BS in the Princeton Review? Can you believe that crap? There’s a college not 20 miles from where we stand that would probably kick you out if you’re gay! When did they do this study, exactly, and how? They do some weak phone survey with five or six people, and that’s supposed to reflect who we are?”

Somewhere in the middle of my rant I realized how discourteous I was being, the rudeness of my words. I was swearing and raving at a professor who had simply offered a passing courtesy. “I’m sorry, Dr. Faires,” I said, trying to make my voice even, walk back my outburst a bit, and regain some civility. “I’m just furious and disgusted at the whole thing.”

She could have simply accepted my feeble attempt at apology and left it at that. Had she wanted to give me what I deserved, she would have been quite right to berate me, to tell me that I should mind my words and tone if I ever wanted a graduate school recommendation from her or any other faculty member. Instead, after listening to my raving, she said something I doubt I’ll ever forget.

“What do you think you’ll do about it?”

She didn’t chastise me for my rudeness. She didn’t brush off my outburst. She didn’t dismiss my anger or indignation.

What do you think you’ll do about it?

She said it calmly and with warmth, as though she we were both admiring the lovely fall weather around us.

What do you think you’ll do about it?

She hadn’t questioned if I should do something, or doubted my abilities. Her tone was without a hint of challenge, but I felt like she'd dropped something at my feet, daring me to pick it up.

What do you think you’ll do about it?

I’d been so caught up in my anger and righteous indignation, I hadn't given the possibility any thought. “I . . . I . . . I don’t know.” I stammered out, flailing about for a better response. But my rage had already been deflated. Dr. Faires wished me well and went on to her next appointment, leaving me with an entirely new set of questions and possibilities.

In the weeks that followed, I kept mulling over what my next step would be, keeping my ear to the ground for something that might provide direction. Soon, I discovered some like-minded people. I was not the only one furious about this slight to my school, not the only one looking for a way to take a stand for justice and compassion. We started to organize. I attended my first student government meeting, and walked out with funding for a new campus group that we named Allies. Westminster, for the first time, had an organization to support LGBT students. We sponsored lectures about biology, psychology, and sociology. We volunteered for local charities and raised money for non-profits. We staged events that made students and faculty pause and consider issues — consider people — in a new light. I even had a heartfelt conversation with my academic advisor about his family and the struggles he’d had reconciling his beliefs. Of all the things I did as an undergraduate, I am most proud of my work with Allies.

It’s been over a year since the election, and yet I’m still shocked every morning when someone uses the phrase “President Trump” in the news. Not a single week goes by without some juvenile outburst, a nonsensical statement masquerading as policy, or blatant lie from the White House, and so I remain angry and disappointed at the state of my nation. I wonder if my optimism and faith in my country is misplaced. I wonder if I should accept that Patton Oswalt was correct when he said the night of the election, "What I've learned so far tonight: America is WAAAAAAAAY more sexist than it is racist. And it's pretty fucking racist.” I’m searching for some way to reconcile the vision of what I think my nation can be with the daily reminder of how far away we still are.    

I’ve come together with like-minded people and become part of a sustained movement. We’ve called our congressmen, written letters, sat in their meetings. We’ve supported candidates that reflect our values. We’ve protected health care. We've protected our state parks from logging. We’ve gotten out in the streets and protested, again and again and again and again, demanding that we not be ignored, insisting that changes be made, showing them what democracy looks like.

Righteous anger is impotent unless it is combined with action, and the last year has reminded me that even the most basic things I had taken for granted must be continuously protected. Removed from my alma mater by tens of years and hundreds of miles, the lesson Dr. Faires taught me that day still echoes. She reminded me not only that determined, informed, consistent effort can and does change the world, but that I could be a part of that change.

The common good is under attack. The character of my nation is being debased and made the object of ridicule. Democratic principles -- and even basic facts -- I had long assumed were unassailable are under siege. Many of us have been complacent for too long. We are now left with a choice.

What do you think you’ll do about it?