PAGE TWO
THE BENNETT BANNER
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1980
Telephone conversation reveals much
Myra Jewel George
In high school I often envisioned what college life would be like; however
most of the time I wasn’t even sure which college I would attend. As each day
at Bennett passes, I find that at least one of the things I had imagined does not
happen quite the way I thought it would. The thing I thought about most back
then was all the people I would meet, especially guys.
Since I’ve been at Bennett I find that I “meet” more guys on the telephone
than on the campus. Last year I lived in a room beside the phone and I answered
it most of the time. The telephone calls were all alike: the guy asked for some
one and if she wasn’t in, he talked to me. It got to the point that I had talked to
the guys on the phone several times before I ever met them. From that point,
some of the relationships have been disastrous and a few have blossomed into
beautiful friendships. One phone call that I had the other day reminded me most
of one of the less fortunate “telephone romances.”
Practically everyone in the dorm had gone home and those who stayed were
downstairs talking. I was on my way down when the phone rang. I answered it
and a man with a deep, masculine voice asked for Shelia, who lived across the
hall from me. I asked him to wait while I checked her room and downstairs. I
knew she had gone home but I didn’t want to be accused of not checking.
Out of breath and slightly angry, I climbed back upstairs to the phone. “She’s
not in,” I answered in my Reynolds Hall, second floor voice, “would you like to
leave a message?”
“No, that’s okay,” the guy returned. “It’s not important.” He paused and then,
“You have a very nice voice . . Here it comes, I thought. I’ve heard this so
many times. Next he’ll ask me where I’m from. On cue, the guy asked, “Where
are you from?” I rolled my eyes and answered impatiently, “South Carolina.”
“Really,” the guy said and laughed. “What’s so funny?” I asked him, getting
more angry with each second. “Nothing,” he answered. “You just don’t sound like
you’re from the south.” The south, I thought; he’s probably from North Carolina
and talking about “the south.” “What part of South Carolina are you from?” he
asked, livening up the conversation. “Bishopville,” I answered knowing that he
had never heard of it. “Oh, I’ve heard of that,” he answered with interest. Sure,
I thought, what a liar. “It’s about an hour or so from Columbia, right?” he ques
tioned. “Yes,” I answered. Just about everything in South Carolina is an hour
or so from Columbia, I thought. Then I realized that I didn t even know the
person’s name.
As if he had read my mind, he said, “By the way, my name is Tony.” “That’s
nice,” I responded, not offering my own. He laughed and asked, “What’s yours?”
Should I lie, I asked myself quickly. “My name is Myra,” I finally admitted.
“That’s a pretty name and you sound like a really nice girl,” he said. “What are
you doing tonight?” I was going downstairs, I thought to myself before answer
ing him. “Nothing much,” I finally said noncommittally. “Well,’ he began, “could
I come over and visit with you? I mean, I really like talking to you.’ What is this,
I asked myself. Then I asked him, “What about Shelia?”
“Oh,” Tony said, “she’s just my cousin.” Yeah, I thought, if the girl isn’t a
cousin, she’s a sister or a homegirl. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I answered
his question. “Why?” he asked, “scared of your old man?” “What’s the difference,
I wondered. “Excuse me?” I said in my Bennett Belle voice.
“I said, do you have a boyfriend,” he revised. “Yes,” I answered. “In Greens
boro?” he proved, with an edge to his voice. “No,” I returned, “in South Caro
lina.” “Oh,” he said quickly. How do I tell him I’m just not interested, I asked
myself. “Why don’t you want me to come over then?” he wondered. I waited.
“Because I’m not interested in anyone else but my boyfriend,” I answered frank
ly, wanting to end the conversation. “Oh,” he said again. “Look, I only wanted
your friendship. I mean, I wasn’t asking for anything else,” he said, letting him
self off the hook. Fine, I thought. Neither of us spoke. “Well,” I began, “are you
sure you didn’t want to leave a message for Shelia?” Remember, I thought, that’s
why you called in the first place. He waited a little longer. “No,” he finally an
swered. “You really do have a nice voice,” he added. “Thank you,” I responded,
“goodbye.” I hung up and started downstairs. If only I had a penny for every
call like that, I thought. I’d be a millionaire and could afford to go to Princeton.
Halfway down the stairs I heard the phone ring and automatically started back
up. Then I turned around. It’s just not worth it, I said to myself.
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1980-81
Co-Editor Myra George
Co-Editor '-'sa Harris
Advisor Martha Brown
Circulation Manager
Business Manager „
Cartoonists Venus McDowell
Norman Barbee
Photographer Shelly Coston
Reporters
Leslie Barr Monica Motley
Karen Heck Pam Pate
Katherine Winston Andrea Burch
Yolanda DuRant Jeanette Hatch
Denise Wilder Wanda Edwards
Tina Johnson Yvette Barbour
Terri Ford Veronica McKinney
Shelly Coston
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Letters to tlie editor
St udents attack cafeteria problems
To the Editor,
I would like to make a sugges
tion concerning the cafeteria line.
Is there any way possible to place
two “guard rails” in front of the
cafeteria doors, spaced just enough
apart for a single line only?
I think that this would eliminate
the present double line system.
Recently I was almost knocked
down by hungry, impatient, and
impolite Belles. And what makes
it even worse I happened to be
in line before they were! ! ! !
Leslie Monique Barr
To the Editor:
I am writing to express my
opinion about the hamburger that
I was served on Thursday, Oct. 30,
1980. When I took a bite out of
the hamburger, I encountered
much difficulty chewing it. The
reason I had such difficulty chew
ing it was because it had such
large gristle-like particles in it.
Could it have been possible that
it contained some type of horse-
meat? ? ? We are humans, not
pigs. There is a chance that some
one could have choked from the
unidentified particles. Instead of
having an “A” sanitation grade,
David Jones cafeteria should have
a “C”—for CONDEMNED! ! !
Jacqueline Denise Kennedy
BANNER
COPY
DUE
MONDAY,
NOV. 24