From our first days as admitted students to Georgetown, we were barraged with myriad mission statements, contracts, flyers and pamphlets speak to the unity and integrity of the Georgetown community, and its supposed cohesion thereof. The rhetoric of official university statements, student-group campaigns and mass e-mails has always tended to ring hollow for me, as my eyes glide uncomprehending past assurances of the strength of our traditions and bonds as an intellectual and interpersonal community. For most of us, community is something individual and transcendental;, which usually arises from our ability to carve niches for ourselves within a broader campus and city community, and ultimately feeling a sense of place and rootedness in the institution itself.
I have oscillated wildly in the past few weeks on my feelings of community and continuity here. As I sat comfortably on the retaining wall, taking in for the first time the Southwest Quad and seeing familiar faces after time overseas, I felt the oft-discussed and by now, cliched sense of nostalgia that will only deepen as the years progress. I felt a sense of pride in the school, what it is now, and what it is becoming as we each work within our smaller communities.
Coupled with this feeling, however, is a needling sense of outrage and sadness by the work that remains to be done as the rhetoric of tolerance and community comes is gradually mirrored in practice. My concerns are by no means exhaustive, nor are they individually overwhelming, but just as community is an intangible sensation that is more than a collection of discrete parts, so are the tears within its fabric. Ultimately, it is the little things that we might take for granted as “normal” behavior, or the give and take of living in a city, but it is important to consider that nothing is “normal’”or acceptable in and of itself, and we have much for which to be grateful, and much to question.
I grew up in New Mexico, which to say the least is a complex and unique cultural and environmental context. It was a place that astounded me with its beauty and intrigue, but also unsettled me in intangible ways. In short, given the violence and segregation of much of my city, as I grew up, I could never quite shake the fear of intolerance, violent crime, carjackings, escalation of verbal disputes, break-ins or robbery. My haven was my high school, where I felt a true sense of community-ownership, investment and acceptance, in the context of dialogue, education and diversity. It was the microcosm of the college experience that I felt when I visited universities over the years. In addition to a feeling of safety and respect on the idelogical and identity levels, we were also free from theft or threats of violence that existed elsewhere in the city. If I left my books, as I often did, in the middle of a quad, chances are they would either be returned to me out of concern, or stacked in better condition than when I left them, upon my return. It was a closed and idyllic space.
I get glimpses of that feeling here, a world-class university that should and often does function as a crucible for discussion, expression, even judgement, all within a framework of mutual trust and shared experience. At the same time, I feel nowhere near the degree of cohesion, freedom, or safety that I felt at a secondary school, although I believe the University should be able to do better. To what do I refer? It is not an argument, it’s an impression.
I was frustrated this week, as I often am, to find mice stolen from computers in Leavey-computers that allow everyone in the community access to vital information that are rendered useless without those mice, which in turn have to be replaced by UIS workers. In Leavey where friends have had books and backpacks stolen from the coffeeshop and the lounge, the idea of a lost and found in DPS or Leavey is a virtual joke. I left headphone unattended for five minutes in Lauinger, and they were gone.
It is not safe to walk in our neighborhoods, a fact of which we are continually reminded by the criminal elements from other parts of the city, which prey on our students. Most of the women I know do not feel safe walking across campus at night, not fearing muggers, but other students and their unwanted sexual advances. I have heard of or witnessed fights break out and petty disputes escalate, and we have all seen the specter of vandalism in everywhere from bathrooms to prayer rooms in recent years. Much of campus is trashed and polluted by weekend’s end, a burden that affects our neighbors and the maintenance and grounds staff.
For every act of negativity, however, I have seen positive signs of school spirit, a vibrant community and growth during these four years in everyone from initial strangers, to my immediate circle of friends, and ultimately to myself, as I have hopefully become a more responsible member of our community. My goal is not to deride or critique, but to ask members of the Georgetown bubble to look more deeply at the normal give and take of the University, and consider what we can do, particularly as seniors, to deepen further our bonds, and solidify Georgetown’s place as a center of urbanity, openness and discourse. Clearly, we have no overriding weakness and I have no prescription-it is amorphous and intangible, but when we see the signs of deterioration, we can each look more deeply.
Ian Bourland is a senior in the School of Foreign Service and associate editor of The Georgetown Voice. Please address any complaints to Bill Cleveland.
