Exactly 30 years ago, the ROTC building on the
campus of the college I was attending burned to the ground in the middle
of the night. With it went most of the skin off of two young men I knew
well from sharing classrooms and seminars, and endless cups of truly terrible
coffee at the student union building. They were arrested, charged, but
never jailed because of the extent of their injuries. Their parents were
devastated. So was I.
About a month later, a "police action" in southeast Asia claimed one of
my high school buddies, and just the legs of another. Meanwhile my hapless
boyfriend -- after losing his student deferment and adapting a whole new
olive green wardrobe – wrote letters to me from the other side of
the world. I worried about grades, FBI investigations into student unrest
and arson, and the end of the world. When I sat around with friends on
a week-end, we talked about death, sex, and politics. We swore we would
remain in touch with the important issues, and would never forget what
we had seen and learned. We never, ever gave a thought to status cars
and facelifts.
Recently, I ran into a woman who had been in college with me back in Indiana.
We lived on the same floor for four long years. I had some lunch with
Kathy, and offered to buy her a cup of coffee with dessert. She said she
couldn't drink anything with caffeine so close to surgery. I said, "Oh,
I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
"Sure," she said. "I'm just having a little touch-up work done on my eyes
and chin."
I paid the check, and she waved good-bye in front of the parking garage.
I watched as she got in her Mercedes and drove away.
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