#dillonkraus

My dearest Ed, I saw you in the showers yesterday,

‘Neath scalding water and guardsmen’s gaze, I let my thoughts elope,

My mind did race unhinged—a thousand words I thought to say,

And I did pray that oh, my darling, you would drop the soap.

  As darkness fell I peered into your lonesome cell,

Your hazy silhouette reclined, the shadowed room was filled,

And I, a lonely fraudulent banker, in this metal hell,

Drew giddy solace from the thought of all those kids you killed.

  It’s been now nigh two years, oh Ed,

Since last I held my son or wife,

But I’d endure here ‘till I’m dead,

If by your side I’d spend my life,

For by your side’s where I belong,

‘Tis not the world for me out there,

So next time, though you’ve learnt it’s wrong,

As I reflect on my time in college, I find myself overcome with nostalgia for the way in which young men and women used to interact. But compared to the foolhardy, shortsighted, and emotionally insatiable marriage culture that is prevalent in today’s college students, I can’t help but feel grounded in my remembrance. 

I was surprised when my 20-year-old nephew got engaged in his sophomore year, but when he tied the knot 2 weeks later—that truly stunned me.  This “hitch-up” culture, as it has been coined by the popular media, has become the norm, replacing the healthy practice of impersonal, unprotected sex.  In the United States, the age when people first marry and attempt to reproduce has been pushed forward significantly, while at the same time the age of puberty has risen, resulting in an era in which young adults are psychologically ready to “settle down” and begin a family, but not physiologically able to reproduce. 

Last Saturday I got back to my room drunk, tired, and depressed, having come home alone once again, continuing a streak yet unbroken in this, my sophomore year.  My eyes fuzzy and aching from within, I didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. I didn’t want to see my rumpled dress and disheveled hair glaring back at me insultingly from the mirror over my dresser.  I shed my clothes lugubriously, feeling my stockings tug as I rolled them down my legs in desperate need of shaving.

Suddenly, I heard what sounded like breathing behind me.  I bolted up, my heart thundering in my chest, and strained my eyes through the oppressive darkness.  Only then, thanks to the stupor hanging over me, did I see the body of a naked man sprawled sensually on top of my comforter.   I opened my mouth to scream, but a sharp, modern yet postmodern voice reached me before my vocal chords could tear the air.  “Don’t, Alison.  I won’t hurt you.” 

My man-beard is a part of me. Now I am largely defined by my densely populated face-hat, but I wasn’t always so eager to accept it.  My story began in the 5th grade, when the first signs of bristling beard burst forth through my acne ridden cheeks without the harbinger of fluff or fuzz to warn of its arrival. 

I clearly remember the feelings of shame and fear when, at a mere 10 years old, I approached my father and told him, “Dad, I don’t know how to say this, but I need a razor.”  The look of fear and concern on my father’s face tore me inside in a way I’ll not soon forget. It was a number of years before my family accepted not only the existence of my beard, but my decision to keep it, to nurture it, to not shave it off in shame—a decision I knew I would only regret. 

Going to school wasn’t easy.  Elementary school is a dark cathedral filled with vampires and hookworms, hitting quickly and mercilessly, fighting, tearing away, turning a natural, beautiful part of human existence into an isolating burden; the other students made me resent my beard and question my resolve to keep it.  Constant requests from passersby to stroke my face, and the subsequent titters and whispers behind hands kept me up hours past my 8:00pm bedtime. 

True relief came when I found sanctuary. Bearded and Brave was an after-school support group, and it was just the outlet for self-realization that I needed.  Surrounded by similarly mustachioed men-of-the-earth, I began to not only accept my beard, but to cherish it, to nurture it, and to gather my own identity and self-assurance from maintaining its well-being. 

Looking to meet other men and live in a house with them? Rush season is fast approaching, and many of Wesleyan’s fresh freshmen men will be considering the possibility of going Greek.  

“Which frat I choose will not only define me as a person,” says Zac Cuzner ’17. “It will define me as a man.”

Michael King ’16 reminisces about his experiences with the courting aspect of the AEPi rush process. “I really didn’t think I was going to pledge, but when I got my first gift basket delivered to my room I just couldn’t say no.  I opened it up, slathered myself in the delicious smelling body oils, lit the fresh avocado candle, and cracked the brand new copy of No Doubt’s “Return of Saturn” for an unforgettable night of self-reflection.”

The process can be stressful, but the reward is immense: entry into an undisputed bastion of masculinity.  An anonymous DKE brother describes his initiation: “We were led blindfolded into the basement. I was afraid.  They told us to take off our shirts, our shoes, and finally our blindfolds.  To our delight, the brothers were standing in a circle around a bust of Nero that was shrouded in Christmas lights. Suddenly, they burst into song. We immediately recognized “Carpe Diem,” the intro song to Dead Poets Society. All the initiates joined in, and as our deep savory baritones permeated the air, I shed a single tear.  Long live DKE.”