I.
Once
a week I sit at the Caliber table on the Sproul Plaza: the hub of free speech,
advertising, and student activity on the Berkeley Campus. It’s an easy enough
job- just sit there, answer questions about the magazine, and try to pass out
copies to passing students or curious types. The fun lies in the people you
meet.
As
I was flipping through an old archived copy of the publication with my tabling
buddy, we found ourselves approached by a little old lady with hair in a neat
bun, tucked under a straw hat, and large glasses with dark-rimmed frames. She
was looking directly over at us as she headed towards the table, so I
straightened in my seat, put on my best smile and prepared to answer questions.
What
I was somewhat unprepared for was her drawing herself up to her maximum height,
raising a quivering finger and crying out
“This is filth!”
I
blinked: I must have misheard. Glanced sideways at my partner, who looked
equally nonplussed. No, she was definitely looking at us. There was a small
black bible clutched in one hand.
“You’re worth so much more than this.” She was genuinely
pleading, and for a split second I saw a look of real fear in her eyes: a fear
for my soul I hadn’t witnessed since the days when the seven-year olds I taught
in Ghana would come to class and tell me
they’d been praying for my salvation the night before . I was peculiarly
touched that she could be so frightened on my behalf, until the fear vanished
in the face of self-righteous indignation.
“This,” a sweeping gesture took in
the Caliber rack, the magazine display. “This is trash! It- it’s worse than Playboy! Uh-huh”, she stared down the
length of her arm, shaking a finger again. “You. You are worse than Playboy.”
I
had no ready response for such an accusation, except for a fleeting glance
downwards to double-check my baggy grey jeans and check shirt hadn’t
unexpectedly morphed into a basque and holdups while I was refilling the
magazine rack. No. Before I could form a polite enquiry as to how she justified
such a statement she was gone, morality rippling in her wake. My partner and I
looked at each other, mouths slightly agape, until, with a slight shake of her
head, she returned to the glossy.
“So, do you want to hear your
horoscope..?”
II.
In
the ten minute scramble between seminars and lectures, the ladies’ bathrooms
fill with long lines of whey-faced students, clutching their shoulder bags,
staring sideways into the mirrors, trying to adjust their fringes while
pretending they’d meant it to look so
flyaway when they left their rooms that morning.
Staggering
between classes, with a few minutes to collect my thoughts and make the switch
from short-lined verse to political polarization, I locked myself into one of
the cubicles, and noticed for the first time the extraordinary amount of
scribbling on the inside walls. Graffiting the inside of toilet cubicles is something
you don’t see so much of in the UK, but on the Berkeley campus it’s another
story. Last week in the International House, the communal bathrooms were full
of flyers stating ‘Marijuana! Hey, at
least it’s not crack!’- (authorized by
the student health centre. Only in California). Societies always seem to think
it’s the perfect place to promote their next meet & greet, or offer obscure
night classes.
In
this particular cubicle the writings were not so organized, but I found them so
fascinating I stayed in the cubicle for ten minutes taking them down and arrived
late to my afternoon seminar. There were the usual suspects, including “If you like big thick cock txt Mike (- - -)
- - - - - - -“, and
“Obama 2012, Romney sucks cock for
breakfast!” just to remind any apathetic ladies that November 6th
is only a month or so away.. On the door, in bold red sharpie was the maxim
I
BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.
I
laughed at this. It seemed the sort of thing my Irish pal in New Orleans would
write during a quiet moment of contemplation on the lavatoire. However, among
the cartoons, the crude impressions of genitalia and the LOL U SUCK’s, I found some
other publications. In scrawled blue biro, a few inches from Mike’s kind offer
of thick action, were the words:
‘I don’t know what I want to do
with my life. I just need to know I’m not the only one feeling so lost.’
There
were no comments around it. It floated, isolated on the crowded canvas. And
there was more. In thick pencil etchings, on my other side, was a crude
sad-faced emoticon and the caption
“I wish people were more friendly
on campus.”
A black arrow pointing to it led back to:
“Tell me about it. I have no friends.”
I
wonder, just how lonely does a person have to be before they pull out a pen and
scratch their guts into a public toilet cubicle, just so some anonymous
stranger can know what’s going on in their head? Do they return to the same
cubicle once a week to see if someone’s offered them a response? There wasn’t
enough time or space to offer one- I was always
late for my politics section- but: blue
biro, pencil etchings, whoever you are, step
outside. Yes, this campus is big and overwhelming. Yes, it’s easy- very
easy- to feel isolated and sad. What I can tell you though, is that an appeal
to a toilet is not the way to make life feel any better.
Be
brave, square your shoulders, and speak to a stranger. You’ll be amazed where
it takes you. Hell, if you ever spot me
passing the Campanile, give me a shout…
I
can tell you this awesome story about the time I got bible bashed.
