Page Four
THE VOICE
Thursday, May 25, 1967
Nine Of The Voice's
Best In 1966-67
... THE EDITOR
Library... Heart Of The
College
COME DWELL ON PARNASSUS-
The seamstress uses her cloth
and needle to sew, the baker uses
his flour and pans to bake, the
shoemaker uses his leather and
threads to make shoes. The col
lege student uses the library to
make himself a scholar. The lib
rary is the student’s sustinence.
Though he listens to instructors
a great portion of his time, though
he writes a goodly portion of the
time, it is at the library that he
must get the “Who,” "When,”
“Where,” and “How” of knowl
edge. The library is the fount from
which the diligent student cups
the flow of all those wondrous
things, people, places and actions
that have brought mankind to his
sometimes dazzling, sometimes
horrifying twentieth century.
It is at the library that the
thought that was thought, the seed
that was sown, the eye that was
quizzed, the aim that was desired
blossomed into a fertile whole-
som"’’ess akin to sweetness and
light. Its aftermath of journeys
and flights burst open vistas that
send its once devoted inhabitant
into realms of discovery and ser
vice, through which the nation
flowers.
It is at the library from the scan
sion of old history’s lore that a
coed becomes a mother of coeds
because of its glow. She reaps the
fruits and becomes more than
mother — many things in many
places. It is here that the song be
gins for those who knew no lyrics
and affords the new lyric maker a
lifetime of music. It is here that
the devout follower winds himself
into the worthy leader.
The very ebb and flow, the
bread and the wine, the parnassus
of what is, this is the library. The
hub of all scholastic activity that
suffers the weak to become strong,
the strong to become stronger —
that when day is done and semes
ter ends, never the sad lament of
the malcontent who did not con
tent himself with its contents.
Won’t you fly with us to parnas
sus?
It's Nice To Be Important, But
It's More Important To Be Nice
This is an adage that should require no further unfolding, es
pecially in an air of academic study, enveloped by scholars, young
and old, who hold intelligence as their chief asset. It warrants a word
though.
Far too many of us are carried away in our own narrowly created
worlds. We have forgotten the joy of existence that being true to this
adage brings. We have come up with new definitions for all the old
terms, meanings that have meaning only on our own terms.
We seem to relish those false worlds that we have built, in order
to keep the real world from seeing our real selves at work, at play, at
peace. As Miss Hayes puts it in her poem at the right, they are worlds
made deceptive by our favorite hues.
The injurious results of these make-bclieve-worlds, built mainly
on insecurity and its accompi'hes, are inharmonious relations and un
organized organization. We do no one justice, least of all ourselves,
because in such an atmosphere, everyone is cheated out of something.
The most tragic effect of this false cloak is that we taint those
about us, who ape this structure of grapevines and inefficiences as de
sirable, and who enter the real world only to form similar colonies.
This mental hazard presents a dilemma for a minority, trying to escape
one kind of bondage, only to come face to face with a more soul
demanding kind of bondage.
If we forget it all the year around, at least let us remember at
Christmas, that, while it’s nice to be important, it’s more important to
be nice.
On a clear day, rise and look around you and you’ll see just who
you are. If then, you find it impossible to be nice — just be fair.
The Weight
The pier is narrow, the ocean is wide and the walk, quite treach
erous. The unwary traveler is certain prey to the cooling ocean foam,
incognizant of the perils therein.
One walks carefully along, toeing the mark as best one can —
then suddenly a slip, pressure, and the weight. The arms start to
flail, recklessly and aimlessly, but swimming comes hard under the
pressure and the weight. Everywhere there is water, too much to
drink, too deep to tread. The pressure increases and the abominable
weight presses on, pushing one ever downward, downward toward
chaos and calamity.
The body cavities begin to give way to the outside pressures and
that devastating enemy, illiteracy, sets in; first vegetating, now apro-
sexia. One becomes increasingly aware of the weight, the desire to
escape responsibility and the pressure, the need to forever compete
and excel. The easy way out seems to be death, but many choose
otherwise, many wish to live.
The eyes are now open as never before and the mind registers
more clearly the need to shake the weight and cope with the pressure.
One sees bodies, bodies quite like one’s own, floating upward toward
success and accomplishment, their weight supported by those objects
of buoyancy, books. From them comes the inspiration; in them is the
key to knowledge and the route to the illuminous pier. Now the
designated few find themselves reaching upward, grasping desperately
for the buoys and the ascension to success. The voyage is rugged, the
body seems ready to give way, but the fulfillment of accomplishment
gives one the stamina.
Now the wounds of illiteracy start to heal through the magic of
knowledge; the trip is much smoother now and the rate of ascension,
controlled through desire.
One could never know the joys and rewards of knowledge, fully,
without first having experienced the weight, the pressure and the
ultimate trip to sanctuary.
Rendell Brown
AUTUMN
By BARBARA MYRICK
Almost gone is the season when
I sat in the sudden warmth of an
autumn sun and felt the wistful
ness of days, so beautiful but sad,
vanish.
Who can ignore the radiant
beauty of grass touched by frost,
or brown leaves turned brilliant
hues of scarlet and yellow, or
nights when one gazes into the
starlit heavens and wonders at
God’s majesty and creativity?
I looked at nature’s autumn and
felt fear-fear which magnified my
inability to perceive such loveli
ness, for I felt melancholy at the
thought that death would soon
come, because it was fate that na
ture should end her glory in the
chill and restlessness of earth’s
dissatisfaction with life.
And silence, penetrating, icy
silence, I heard as I stood below
that same star-studdied sky, insig
nificant and alone, and asked the
eternal questions, “Who am I;
why do I exist; what role am I
to play in this tragic comedy
where I laugh and smile, as I suf
fer the agony of an emptiness in
side, which makes me as a dead
thing?”
The only response came in the
wind, and the wind asked the same
question, “Who are You?” It had
no answer; it forced its way
through the tree tops, suffering an
agony of its own. The wind was
the traveler who stopped at every
door and inquired if it could rest,
but brought the chill of unanswer
ed questions with it, and the inn
keeper slammed his door to shut
out the icy blast.
The wind was an echo of my
uncertainty; it, too, was searching
for answers and security in know
ing where it belonged.
I lowered my gaze from the tree
tops and the heavens, and turned
my thoughts to . . .
Days to come when I shall sit
Before an open fire
And feel the warm glow;
And hear the gentle thud of
snow
And dream on.
A Placid Area
Show me a placid area
Where to rest and be myself
Nothing to change my
Mood of good feeling
That Nature hasn’t coined
And deftly placed
To Sooth itself.
Nothing but a wind or
Bird calls or rattling
Leaves in a groove,
Nothing but its finest
Art of woman.
A drink to liven me
Where Nature’s purity is
Concerned, to bathe in it
And come up with the
Purest eyes, so pure as.
To welcome Nature’s
Finest art discerned.
Nothing coined by the
Brewer while he was
There with his darling
Nothing but a day of
Summer-rainy.
No words spoken.
Just left alone
Kindling the emotions
Nothing but the sounds
Of Nature so common
To the senses that minds
Are not entangled with
Their Notions.
Nothing is more natural
Than to sleep and be
A genius, when endowed
With the spirits of
Shakespeare’s poems.
—dockery
And Then She Prayed
By BETTY COOPER
She stood before a crowd of more than 1200 people and
received her tribute. She thanked God for the founding fa
thers of our institution, for all presidents who have served
our institution, for all trustees, and, in general, for all persons
who have contributed in any manner to the growth of our
institution. She thanked Him, too, for the contributions she
had made, the many young minds she had influenced, and
the many students she had helped.
The audience was very quiet. No feet shuffled, no papers
rustled, all sneezes and coughs were supressed. Everyone sat
in eager anticipation of what she would say.
And then she prayed. She prayed for the success of our
institution, the success of us, (the students) and for our
president. For a split second all was quiet and then the
walls reverberated with the sound of applause. We applauded
out of respect, love, and admiration.
Who was she? Her name was Dunie A. Bryant. She had
served Fayetteville State College for 26 years as dormitory
matron. She, who had helped to mold the lives of countless
nurnbers of students, had returned. For what purpose? A
dedication ceremony. The new girls dormitory had been
named Dunie A. Bryant Hall in remembrance of her. Did
she deserve it? Twelve hundred people thought so . . . and
so do I. That makes twelve hundred and one.
True Beauty In Natural Hair Styles
By CHRISTOPHER SIMMONS
Of all the new and modern fads that I have witnessed since I
have become old enough to ofcserve and to form what I consider a some
what valid opinion of them, I am convinced that there is true beauty in
the “Natural” hair styles of Negroes and these styles are a part of their
culture.
Negroes have a long line of glorious culture of which they can
be proud.
The culture of the Negro can be traced back to the glorious,
ancient civilization in the world.
Today, Negroes have been robbed of their true culture by the
modern civilization. At the time of the Emancipation, the Negroes
knew very litle about their true culture, after spending three hundred
years in servitude. Because of this, the Negroes adopted the ways of
the white man, whom he felt was superior because he was his master
for three hundred years.
The poor, ignorant Negro, desiring to become socially accepted,
tried all in his power to become like the white man. The first step was
doing away with the “nappy” hair because his master, the white man,
did not have it. Now, in modern times, Negroes have given up portions
of their culture, culture that could be looked back upon with as much
pride as that of the Polish American, Italian American, French Ameri
can, Irish American, etc.
I felt proud of my people when they ventured out with the
“Natural” look. I felt that the Negro was finally reaching back anu
connecting himself with his culture. I felt that he was finally being
socially indignant, which is one of the things every other group has
done since these groups came to America.
We all are God’s creations, and God chose to make Negroes with
their thick lips, nappy hair and with broad noses. If God made us that
way, I think we should be proud of it. I think he knew what he was
doing.
HOOD HALL GOES TO GIRLS
BICKETT HALL GOES!!!
By ELOISE SHERROD
What happens to an old soldier?
Well, that’s what happened to dear
Bickett. Bickett Hall has lost her
sheep and Hood Hall has reached
out and roofed them.
It wasn’t just a one minute
break away; there were many
hours and plans in preparation to
make this change possible. Sad
that the destruction of one build
ing was the construction of an
other, but as the baseball player
says, “That’s the way the ball
bounces.” Hood Hall wasn’t recent
ly erected by a long shot, then
Bickett Hall was no chicken
either.
The change has been remark
able. The battle to make some
thing better of what was left took
much more than wishful thinking;
it took effort on the part of many
people to make a pipe dream a
reality — and not a little elbbow
grease was released.
Repairs had to be made, walls
had to be cleaned and repainted
Rooms had to be redone to accom
modate young women and make
life enjoyable and beneficial for a
student’s home away from home.
It was a worthwhile effort, though
the boys may give it much after
thought.
Now, where the boys once lay
and dreamed their many dreams,
some of those very dreams have
come to lie where they were first
dreamed. Pity the golden-fleece-
less chaps; they hatched all those
images under that ancient roof,
then fled the roof, only to miss the
images when they did come. Oh
well, they are only mere mortals
and they cannot very well have
their cake and eat it too.
Annie L. McCullough, of U. S. History, Section 8, presents the
instructor, Mrs. Wilma King Hunter, a wedding gift, following
the former Miss King's marriage to Lt. Alvin R. Hunter, U. S.
Air Force.