Everything ends.
As scary as that sounds, it's unfortunately true. Even when we weren't ready for it, when we were fighting it tooth and nail, we've all had our share of things that came to an end. You move out of the house where you raised your kids. A beloved pet dies. Your favorite TV show airs its series finale. The company you've worked at for years goes out of business.
Sometimes you have the chance to make the call, sometimes Fate decides for you. Even the boundless, infinite Universe we live in will one day collapse in on itself in the mother of all endings. (Heavy, huh?)
My biggest ending, my most personal moment of monumental change, happened in that weird limbo between childhood and adulthood that some call "college". And let me tell you, I wasn't prepared for it. Not at all. The only thing that helped soften the blow was the synth pop genius of...
ERASURE.
For me, college was, in a word, awesome. I was exposed to the big wide world that existed outside the tiny confines of the high school bubble I inhabited in my small corner of North Carolina. I was exposed to new ways of thinking. I discovered an amazing amount of great music. I worked weekends in a comic book store. I actually had girls interested in me.
The best part of the whole magilla, however, was my choice of campus residence. See, when I was going through the school's information packet, I noticed a small article that promoted one particular dorm, Alexander, which was involved in a unique cross-cultural program. Every American kid who was accepted as a resident was placed with a roommate from a different country. Whoa! That sounded exotic and different and exciting! I was so enthralled by this scenario, I wrote the required essay and mailed it off with my regular college application. A few weeks later, a letter from Alexander appeared in my mailbox. To my amazed delight, I had been accepted!
So for five glorious years, my days were filled with interactions between me and a veritable United Nations assembly. I met people from Syria, Sweden, and Sri Lanka. I went to the dining hall with Italians, Indians, and Iraqis. My four roommates were citizens of Spain, Pakistan, England, and France, in that order. Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Copts, Buddhists, Christians, and atheists lived on every floor. For a kid who came from the whitebread rural environs of North Carolina, it was mind-bending.
And there was no bigotry. No divisiveness. We were a broad-minded group of youngsters from vastly different cultures, just hanging out and learning and befriending each other. Applying for the Alexander program was, without a doubt, the best risk I have ever taken.
Alexander International. The greatest dorm on the face of the planet.
If I'm honest, though, I have to admit: I was in college a year too long. It's not because I was dragging my feet, I swear. I had been struggling to cram in a minor to go along with my computer science major. Going into my fifth year, however, I realized that I'd started the required coursework a year too late. The instructors wouldn't let me double-up on classes for my minor, since there was a strict chain of prerequisites. And there was definitely no money for a sixth year of school, or even another summer session. In hindsight... I screwed up.
So when classes started in August of 1988, it wasn't long before I felt out of place. At twenty-two years old, I was now one of the "old guard" in the dorm. It was sobering to see the incoming freshman class, this energetic group of teenagers who had no idea what the next several years had in store for them. I still felt like a young punk, but I wasn't. Not to them, at least. They made me feel old just by virtue of their youth. Alexander, this wonderful place I'd been happy to call home, no longer felt like it.
But at least Alexander's vibe of inclusiveness and friendship was still intact. One group of whipper-snappers in particular welcomed me enthusiastically into their first-year clique. Because of their shared love of Mountain Dew, they had crowned themselves "The Dew Crew", and each member had their own unique nickname. There was "Big Mac", an African American kid who DJ'ed. "Special K", a big teddy bear of a guy from the sticks. "Karate Wolf", an Asian martial arts enthusiast. "Spanish Fly", a handsome Colombian who loved to dance. (They gave me the nickname "El Jefe", 'cause I'd been elected dorm president the year before.) They were as diverse as any incoming Alexander class ever was. They were all different, and all cool.
I got to hang with these guys quite a bit, as most of them lived in the vicinity of the mailboxes at the end of the first floor hallway. So more often than not, after checking the mail, I'd spend an hour or so sitting in the hall, chatting, sipping Mountain Dew, and listening to the music coming out of Spanish Fly's room. Fly (or "Luis", if you're nasty) had his finger on the pulse of current pop music. He seemed to be aware of great tunes way before they hit mainstream radio. He provided the soundtrack for many, many hours of socializing.
My sketch for an unproduced Dew Crew T-shirt. That’s me, “El Jefe”, with the Batman shirt.
It was the little things like this, hanging out with friends, that made college so enriching. Going away to school was the best thing I ever decided to do. I didn't want it to ever end.
But that wasn't to be.
When that last semester began in January of 1989, something felt... off. As the weeks passed, my days were filled with this weird sense of dread. Well, I wouldn't quite call it "dread", really, but it was close. A buzzing unease permeated the background of my every waking moment, but I couldn't give it a name. Something was on the horizon. Something big. Something that wasn't going to be very pleasant.
Have you ever watched the special features for the Lord Of The Rings trilogy? (Don't worry, there's a point to this odd tangent.) There's one part of the Return Of The King section that's germane to this rambling conversation I'm having with you. On the very last day of live-action shooting, the only people left on the set were director Peter Jackson, actor Elijah Wood, and a small number of crew members. Jackson had to film one final line from Wood's character Frodo. Jackson had Wood do a take, and he nailed it. But then, Jackson had him do it again. And again. And again. Over a dozen times, if my memory serves me.
After this Kubrickian string of retakes, Jackson realized he'd prolonged things as much as he possibly could. That was it. The assistant director called it: the film was wrapped. And as the crew applauded, Jackson and Wood hugged each other. I don't mean one of those clasp hands/pull in/pat the back "bro hugs". These guys embraced. And they couldn't let go.
They had spent the better part of two years on an incredible journey. The journey of a lifetime, as they say. They'd endured incredible highs and lows, staggering successes and failures, powerful happiness and sadness. They had bonded in a way that few people could ever understand.
But then, in the blink of an eye... it had ended.
And that's what I came to realize. While I was sitting in the Well at the Design School (my unofficial "happy place"), it hit me like a ton of bricks. Like Jules in Pulp Fiction, I had a moment of clarity. I realized why I'd been so rattled. I was Peter Jackson, and my university was Elijah Wood. I had embraced college with all my strength, and I didn't want to let go.
The last few weeks of school were seeping through my fingers, like sand at the beach, and I couldn't stop it. I could sense that the most important, the most monumental and seismic part of my life, was coming to an end. But it wasn't building to a Hollywood-style finale, with bombastic orchestras, and manly heroics, and city block leveling explosions. It was quiet. It was unspectacular. It was just... life.
It was later, still in this haze of existential upheaval, that I found myself propped up in the first-floor hallway with the inimitable Dew Crew. I was not really participating, not really plugged in. I was too distracted. I was trying to be part of the gang, but it just wasn't clicking.
And then, from Luis' stereo... Erasure's "A Little Respect" started playing. He jumped up, declared his love for the song, and started dancing.
Now, I'll tell you something for nothing: I don't dance. I can't stand dancing. I have zero coordination, and I look like a spaz when I hit the dance floor. (My wife says otherwise, but you can't trust her judgment. I mean, she settled for me.) But something inside me that day... something compelled me. Like Joliet Jake in Blues Brothers, I'd seen the light. I leapt up and started flailing around like no one was watching. (Despite the fact that about a dozen people were watching.) Luis and I just danced and danced and danced, as Vince Clarke and Andy Bell filled the hallway with one of the most perfect synth pop singles ever. When the song ended, Luis played it again. And again. And again.
For days afterward, Luis and I would dance to "A Little Respect" a few times every night. (Okay, many times.) He didn't realize it, but Luis was helping me deal with the unwanted event that was barreling towards me. I handled my insecurities and doubts by whirling and gyrating to a great song with a great friend. What had been a period of time filled with sadness and trepidation, became a celebration of everything I'd experienced over the previous five years. All the friends. All the lovers. All the hard work. All the victories. All the losses. All the personal growth... All of it, every single second, was distilled into the simple, cathartic act of dancing along with a friend to a three minute pop song that made me so happy I could cry.
We did this for weeks. Up until finals, when, as everyone finished their exams, they scattered back to their homes in the four corners of the earth. A lot of people packed up and flew out before I even realized they were gone. I'm not even sure I got to say goodbye to Luis. In all the chaos of trying to complete everything I needed to graduate, a lot of people disappeared without my noticing. I apologize for that. It wasn't intentional. Things were crazy for all of us.
The Tuesday after exams were over, and I'd gotten my diploma at a very uncomfortable graduation ceremony (more on that at some later date), it was time to go. Me and Dad packed all my stuff into the Nissan Maxima. I said goodbye to the few people that were left in the dorm. I handed my keys to the Head Resident. We climbed into the car. We drove off.
And that was it. College was over. For all intents and purposes, my "childhood" was over. The life that I'd known for five electrifying years... it had ended. I had entered college as an innocent, clueless, blank slate of an eighteen year old who slept with a Star Wars pillow. But I left as a wiser, experienced, cultured, twenty-three-year-old young man... who still slept with a Star Wars pillow. (Okay, so I didn't mature as much as I should have.) But thanks to Luis, and Erasure, it wasn't as painful a separation as I'd expected. I'd been lucky enough to wrap up my college career in a delightful bow of music and friendship.
My old life had ended. But my new life... it was about to begin.
The last photo of me taken before I graduated. I wonder what I was dreaming about?… ZZZZ… Nien Numb… ZZZZ… Bo shuda…. ZZZZ… Maclunkey…
A note from your humble author…
I have to admit, dear reader, this week's column almost didn't happen. I've had a hard time feeling creative and witty, when the world around us is on the verge of total collapse. It's been jarring, spending hours reliving these cherished moments through the lenses of my rose-colored glasses, while the country has spiraled into partisan chaos that's lit by crimson flames.
Oddly, the current unrest has made my experience of living in the international program even more special. I got to see first-hand how people from all over the globe could actually come together and live in peace. Maybe what we had was a tad unrealistic, but dammit, we created a cross-cultural Garden Of Eden of which I'm proud to have been a part.
We did our best to be neighbors. We did our best to be inclusive. We did our best to be good people. None of us, not a single soul, would have wanted the negativity we're seeing around the world now. All the hatred. All the violence. All the willful ignorance. All the divisiveness.
All that horrible stuff... it will end. I hope.
BIO
Don Stroud is not the famous actor and world-class surfer of the same name. He is the non-famous California transplant who became an award-winning film editor and struggling amateur screenwriter. He loves cats, sushi, comic books, movies, music, and Cherry Coke. What's that, dear? Oh yes: and his wife. You can follow him on Twitter, where he pops up sporadically, at @DonStroud2.