NOBODY GETS BACK IN - 1981
For over a year, Ted Koppel had called out the days that the hostages had been held in Iran.
It was day 436 – And I wasn’t dating Natalie San Simeon, but I didn’t know that yet. Because she was my first girlfriend, and I needed to clear as much time to be with her as possible, I plagiarized my term papers and didn’t study for my finals so I could have time to randomly appear where she was – like at her campus – in her dorm elevator – 9.75 miles from my campus.
In fact, a couple weeks before, when George Washington University’s term was over and everyone else had gone, I’d spent a week in my empty dorm, so that I could coincidentally happen to be leaving the same day that Natalie’s term was over at Maryland, and be able to drive her home for Winter Break – “How cool, we’re both done the same day!” Everyone thought I was dating Natalie too. In fact the only person who knew I wasn’t dating Natalie was Natalie herself.
Day 437 – I got a letter from the Dean of Academic Probation that I’d been expelled – something about a 1.2 grade point average. I made an appointment to see him.
I didn’t want to leave George Washington. For the first time in my life I had a girlfriend. Besides, I’d recently been voted the most popular kid at school… at my dorm… on the 6th Floor of my dorm. And the politics of being in DC were intoxicating. I had met the Vice President of the United States, Walter Mondale. And I’d seen President Jimmy Carter not light the Christmas tree.
I’d worked at Kennedy Headquarters, where I’d used a Xerox Magnafax Telecopier that transmitted words on paper. I sent Ted Kennedy’s speech to him on the road using the phone. In as little as four hours, I’d been able to send ten whole pages to Oklahoma.
Day 438 – There was no way I was going back to New Jersey. I drove the 9.75 miles to College Park and filled out an application for the University of Maryland Continuing Education program. The admissions advisor said, “As long as you haven’t been expelled from George Washington your application looks fine.”
Day 439 – I had my appointment with the Dean of Academic Probation. I arrived early and sat in reception practicing looking like I was trying not to cry. Finally he saw me.
“How do I get back in,” I asked.
“Nobody gets back in,” he told me. I looked like I was trying not to cry.
“Fine,” he grumbled, “write a statement of appeal explaining what happened last semester get some letters of recommendation from professors, and TAs. But, not from students, and don’t work too hard on it; nobody gets back in.”
I worked fifteen hours on my statement. I began with the death of a relative at the beginning of the semester, not mentioning I’d only met the man once. I then tore into the epic of living with my insane, and since dropped-out roommate, Tony Abruzzi. I indicated there was voodoo and Satanism involved, although I failed to site any examples, not knowing what real examples would be. By the time I was done, the document was twenty pages long, but it wasn’t enough to save me.
Day 440 – With no sleep, I trudged to the offices of every professor I had ever had who had given me at least a C. I came back to with two letters of recommendation. I got two more from my RAs. Four letters wasn’t going to cut it, but I wasn’t going home. I was staying to meet more Presidents, spend more time with my girlfriend and continue to be the most popular kid on campus… in my dorm… on the 6th Floor. Suddenly it occurred to me, I was the most popular kid on the 6th floor of my dorm. Maybe two letters from students wouldn’t mean anything, but what about 15? What about 20? Fuck the Dean of Academic Probation. Let’s see him swim through 25 letters.
I went from door to door, leaving notes on all the dry-erase message boards and telling my story to all who answered. I poured my soul out to Jappy girls, to preppy boys, to closet lesbians, to stoners, to preppy girls, to Jappy boys, to out-in-the-open-but-I-didn’t-get-it-yet gays, to library moles, to fraternity drunks, to smokers, to tokers, to jokers, to weird kids no else one talked to. My plight became the cause-celeb of the dorm. Everyone wrote me letters. Letters upon letters upon letters piled up on my desk, each one of them extolling the virtues and the promise that was Chuck Freericks. There were typed letters. There were letters on flowery girl stationery. There were letters ripped from spiral notebooks. There was a letter on a brown paper bag. Close friends wrote two page long documents. Kids from the 5th and 7th Floors joined in and wrote letters. That night, after dinner gaggles of students sat all over the hallways, writing letters as the 4th and 8th Floors joined the Chuck Freericks cause.
Day 441 – I had 112 letters. I placed my 20-page statement on top of them and carried the pile to the office of the Dean of Academic Probation. When I handed the pile to his secretary she said, “You don’t expect him to read all of this do you?” I starred at her, looking like I was trying not to cry.
Day 444 – President Ronald Reagan was inaugurated. I didn’t care much for Reagan, but, I wanted to experience DC one last time, so I went down to Pennsylvania Avenue and when the Caddy limousines with police lights passed, I cheered for Reagan and Bush just so I could be part of the crowd.
After the parade, I went back to my dorm, and found a huge swarm of kids from my dorm standing outside. Across the street from us was The F Street Club, “The” Republican Club in the Capital City. We all whooped it up as President Ronald Reagan climbed out of his limo with Nancy and walked up the stairs to the club. Then, George and Barbara Bush got out of their Caddy and headed up. Alexander Haig, Ed Meese, Michael Deaver and James Baker followed. I cheered for each and every one of them, good Democrat that I was.
After it was all done, I went to move my car to the parking lot on 22nd Street. As I pulled up to E Street, home of the State Department, the late John Lennon was singing, “It’s Just Like Starting Over.” The song was interrupted and the Z-107 deejay said we were going to the Associated Press for a special report.
“Frankfurt, Germany, The hostages are free, the hostages are free, the hostages are on a plane to Frankfurt.” And then I cheered a cheer that had nothing to do with festivity or pomp. I cheered for lost causes and how the hostages were finally free even after we all thought they’d never come home. They were getting a second chance.
“Secretary of State, Edmund Muskie,” the radio went on as I turned right, “has just flown into National Airport and is on his way to The State Department. Muskie successfully negotiated the release of the hostages this morning.”
As the radio said this, I pulled up to the light at 20th Street. A limousine pulled next to me. I assumed it was another Republican wonk going to the F Street Club, but when I looked in the rear seat, I saw, sitting alone, Secretary of State Edmund Muskie. He looked at me. I smiled and gave him a thumbs up. Muskie grinned back at me, gave me a thumbs up too and a hearty nod. Then his car pulled off and Muskie went back to his office for the last time. Alexander Haig was now the new Secretary of State.
Later, that night on TV, I watched tape of Jimmy Carter waving anemically from the podium while Reagan was sworn in. Carter looked like he was trying not to cry. Edmund Muskie had freed the hostages. Jimmy Carter had tried to clean up Washington. Unlike me, they’d come here to actually do something, these two great men, and now they were being expelled from DC. They had no appeal. The Dean of Academic Probation had said it all, “Nobody gets back in.”
Day 445 – The phone rang. It was the Dean of Academic Probation.
“You’re back in,” he said. “In twenty years of doing this, no one has ever shown your fortitude. I’ve never seen a student with such a capacity to produce results. Go enroll in your classes. Have a good semester. Put the same effort into your classes as you did into your appeal and you’ll do great.”
Now I can’t say I ever put as much effort into anything in school again as I did my appeal, but I did keep my grade point average above 3.0 for the next two years. And, even I eventually figured out that Natalie wasn’t my girlfriend. The fact that she brought friends on our dates clued me in. As happy as I was that I got back in – I have to admit the lesson I took away from it was that being a little weasel gets forgiven (and even can get you to be the most popular kid on the 6th Floor of your dorm). While being great men of vision gets you ridiculed and run out of Washington DC on a rail – but I guess we’ve always known that, anyway.
For over a year, Ted Koppel had called out the days that the hostages had been held in Iran.
It was day 436 – And I wasn’t dating Natalie San Simeon, but I didn’t know that yet. Because she was my first girlfriend, and I needed to clear as much time to be with her as possible, I plagiarized my term papers and didn’t study for my finals so I could have time to randomly appear where she was – like at her campus – in her dorm elevator – 9.75 miles from my campus.
In fact, a couple weeks before, when George Washington University’s term was over and everyone else had gone, I’d spent a week in my empty dorm, so that I could coincidentally happen to be leaving the same day that Natalie’s term was over at Maryland, and be able to drive her home for Winter Break – “How cool, we’re both done the same day!” Everyone thought I was dating Natalie too. In fact the only person who knew I wasn’t dating Natalie was Natalie herself.
Day 437 – I got a letter from the Dean of Academic Probation that I’d been expelled – something about a 1.2 grade point average. I made an appointment to see him.
I didn’t want to leave George Washington. For the first time in my life I had a girlfriend. Besides, I’d recently been voted the most popular kid at school… at my dorm… on the 6th Floor of my dorm. And the politics of being in DC were intoxicating. I had met the Vice President of the United States, Walter Mondale. And I’d seen President Jimmy Carter not light the Christmas tree.
I’d worked at Kennedy Headquarters, where I’d used a Xerox Magnafax Telecopier that transmitted words on paper. I sent Ted Kennedy’s speech to him on the road using the phone. In as little as four hours, I’d been able to send ten whole pages to Oklahoma.
Day 438 – There was no way I was going back to New Jersey. I drove the 9.75 miles to College Park and filled out an application for the University of Maryland Continuing Education program. The admissions advisor said, “As long as you haven’t been expelled from George Washington your application looks fine.”
Day 439 – I had my appointment with the Dean of Academic Probation. I arrived early and sat in reception practicing looking like I was trying not to cry. Finally he saw me.
“How do I get back in,” I asked.
“Nobody gets back in,” he told me. I looked like I was trying not to cry.
“Fine,” he grumbled, “write a statement of appeal explaining what happened last semester get some letters of recommendation from professors, and TAs. But, not from students, and don’t work too hard on it; nobody gets back in.”
I worked fifteen hours on my statement. I began with the death of a relative at the beginning of the semester, not mentioning I’d only met the man once. I then tore into the epic of living with my insane, and since dropped-out roommate, Tony Abruzzi. I indicated there was voodoo and Satanism involved, although I failed to site any examples, not knowing what real examples would be. By the time I was done, the document was twenty pages long, but it wasn’t enough to save me.
Day 440 – With no sleep, I trudged to the offices of every professor I had ever had who had given me at least a C. I came back to with two letters of recommendation. I got two more from my RAs. Four letters wasn’t going to cut it, but I wasn’t going home. I was staying to meet more Presidents, spend more time with my girlfriend and continue to be the most popular kid on campus… in my dorm… on the 6th Floor. Suddenly it occurred to me, I was the most popular kid on the 6th floor of my dorm. Maybe two letters from students wouldn’t mean anything, but what about 15? What about 20? Fuck the Dean of Academic Probation. Let’s see him swim through 25 letters.
I went from door to door, leaving notes on all the dry-erase message boards and telling my story to all who answered. I poured my soul out to Jappy girls, to preppy boys, to closet lesbians, to stoners, to preppy girls, to Jappy boys, to out-in-the-open-but-I-didn’t-get-it-yet gays, to library moles, to fraternity drunks, to smokers, to tokers, to jokers, to weird kids no else one talked to. My plight became the cause-celeb of the dorm. Everyone wrote me letters. Letters upon letters upon letters piled up on my desk, each one of them extolling the virtues and the promise that was Chuck Freericks. There were typed letters. There were letters on flowery girl stationery. There were letters ripped from spiral notebooks. There was a letter on a brown paper bag. Close friends wrote two page long documents. Kids from the 5th and 7th Floors joined in and wrote letters. That night, after dinner gaggles of students sat all over the hallways, writing letters as the 4th and 8th Floors joined the Chuck Freericks cause.
Day 441 – I had 112 letters. I placed my 20-page statement on top of them and carried the pile to the office of the Dean of Academic Probation. When I handed the pile to his secretary she said, “You don’t expect him to read all of this do you?” I starred at her, looking like I was trying not to cry.
Day 444 – President Ronald Reagan was inaugurated. I didn’t care much for Reagan, but, I wanted to experience DC one last time, so I went down to Pennsylvania Avenue and when the Caddy limousines with police lights passed, I cheered for Reagan and Bush just so I could be part of the crowd.
After the parade, I went back to my dorm, and found a huge swarm of kids from my dorm standing outside. Across the street from us was The F Street Club, “The” Republican Club in the Capital City. We all whooped it up as President Ronald Reagan climbed out of his limo with Nancy and walked up the stairs to the club. Then, George and Barbara Bush got out of their Caddy and headed up. Alexander Haig, Ed Meese, Michael Deaver and James Baker followed. I cheered for each and every one of them, good Democrat that I was.
After it was all done, I went to move my car to the parking lot on 22nd Street. As I pulled up to E Street, home of the State Department, the late John Lennon was singing, “It’s Just Like Starting Over.” The song was interrupted and the Z-107 deejay said we were going to the Associated Press for a special report.
“Frankfurt, Germany, The hostages are free, the hostages are free, the hostages are on a plane to Frankfurt.” And then I cheered a cheer that had nothing to do with festivity or pomp. I cheered for lost causes and how the hostages were finally free even after we all thought they’d never come home. They were getting a second chance.
“Secretary of State, Edmund Muskie,” the radio went on as I turned right, “has just flown into National Airport and is on his way to The State Department. Muskie successfully negotiated the release of the hostages this morning.”
As the radio said this, I pulled up to the light at 20th Street. A limousine pulled next to me. I assumed it was another Republican wonk going to the F Street Club, but when I looked in the rear seat, I saw, sitting alone, Secretary of State Edmund Muskie. He looked at me. I smiled and gave him a thumbs up. Muskie grinned back at me, gave me a thumbs up too and a hearty nod. Then his car pulled off and Muskie went back to his office for the last time. Alexander Haig was now the new Secretary of State.
Later, that night on TV, I watched tape of Jimmy Carter waving anemically from the podium while Reagan was sworn in. Carter looked like he was trying not to cry. Edmund Muskie had freed the hostages. Jimmy Carter had tried to clean up Washington. Unlike me, they’d come here to actually do something, these two great men, and now they were being expelled from DC. They had no appeal. The Dean of Academic Probation had said it all, “Nobody gets back in.”
Day 445 – The phone rang. It was the Dean of Academic Probation.
“You’re back in,” he said. “In twenty years of doing this, no one has ever shown your fortitude. I’ve never seen a student with such a capacity to produce results. Go enroll in your classes. Have a good semester. Put the same effort into your classes as you did into your appeal and you’ll do great.”
Now I can’t say I ever put as much effort into anything in school again as I did my appeal, but I did keep my grade point average above 3.0 for the next two years. And, even I eventually figured out that Natalie wasn’t my girlfriend. The fact that she brought friends on our dates clued me in. As happy as I was that I got back in – I have to admit the lesson I took away from it was that being a little weasel gets forgiven (and even can get you to be the most popular kid on the 6th Floor of your dorm). While being great men of vision gets you ridiculed and run out of Washington DC on a rail – but I guess we’ve always known that, anyway.
1 comments:
Anybody gets back in.
Exactly 10 years ago (September '98) I learned from my then immigration lawyer that by the end of the month I was to be "expelled" from the good old US of A on a legal technicality.
The ungodly amount of paperwork, generated by my new immigration attorney who I hired after I left the country at the end of the month of my own accord, included embarrassingly verbose petitions vouching for my indispensability from well-wishers I didn't even know I had until I started asking around.
Every little bit helped. Even the faxed image of a CD-ROM that included a freeware utility that had my name on it as a co-author (I never saw this CD, the image was faxed over by the other co-author of the utility), added yet another page to increase the thickness of the tome which I find unreadable to this day so I'm not sure if the poor Federal employee who got assigned to review my petition could keep a straight face if he actually leafed through it.
So nine months after my departure I was back in the country and shortly thereafter the laws changed so the legal technicality that got me "expelled" in the first place did not exist any more.
Two more years later (nine years after I first arrived at JFK in September '92), a few days after September (anybody can get in) 11, 2001, I received an official letter informing me that based on the same piece of classic literature, I'd being granted permanent residence.
Anybody could get back in. But I didn't care any more. And there was nobody around to see me looking like I was trying not to cry.
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