PAGE 4 — THE DECREE — OCTOBER 18,1996
OFFICIAL STUDENT NEWSPAPER OF
NORTH CAROrjNA WESLEYAN COLLEGE
Editor-in-Chlcf — Jessica Brown
Copy Editors — Kevin Corhett, Molly McCliiskey
Staff — Tequila Moore, Karolyn Braun, Monica Alston.
Grant Long, James Bell
Contributinf; Writers — Steve Ferebcc, Benny Saint Romain
Advisor — Chris LaLonde
The Decree is located in the Hardees Building, North
Carolina'Wesleyan College, 3400 Wesleyan Blvd., Rocky
Mount, NC 27801. Weekly staff meetings are held Wednes
day at noon in the Decree of^ce. Re-publication of any
matter herein without the express consent of the Editorial
Board is strictly forbidden.
The Decree is composed and printed by the Spring
Hope Enterprise. Opinions published do not necessarily
reflect those of North Carolina Wesleyan College.
Try Homecoming
during basketball
The recent Homecoming
events at Wesleyan brought
out large crowds of stu
dents to see such sights as
Graffitti Tribe, Hypnotist
Chuck Milligan, and the
dance in the Dunn Center.
However, how many
people went to the actual
Homecoming game against
St. Mary’s? How many
people knew that there was
even a game to celebrate
the “event.”
With Homecoming tak
ing place during soccer
season there is no sense of
school spirit because no
one notices the sport. If the
event was moved to bas
ketball season when more
students attend games, then
the spirit of Wesleyan
might grow.
Basketball season would
be a perfect chance to see
perhaps a Wesleyan mas
cot, the cheerleaders, and
a school team in action all
at once. This is not to put
down the soccer teams who
work hard and are fun to
watch, they just don’t ig
nite the same fires that a
sport such as basketball
does.
Say the Homecoming
game is moved to the first
two weeks of basketball
OR OttR
■F-K-K
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Quilt patch made with love
season, then wouldn’t that
give the school enough
time to get in Homecom
ing before Christmas?
The gym should have air
conditioning soon, so why
not take advantage of it,
even though we probably
wouldn’t need it. The
Bleacher Creatures could
be resurrected, and school
spirit could be strong at
Wesleyan during the week.
Imagine a good game
against a big rival like
Methodist College or
Christopher Newport.
The possibilities are
overwhelming. Such a
change would have to pro
mote Wesleyan spirit, and
all those who ever doubted
its existence could be
proven wrong. After all,
isn’t school spirit the whole
purpose of having Home
coming?
Consider a change in the
plans. Homecoming has
been losing supporters in
recent years due to lack of
interest. Perhaps present
ing it in a new way will
bring those people back.
They will come back to a
crowded gym full of spirit,
and sit down to enjoy a
great basketball game with
the Wesleyan community.
An unexpected trip to D.C.
By DR. STEVE FEREBEE
Driving home from school on
the Friday fall break started, 1
planned my four days: Richard
Thompson show tonight, school
work Saturday and Sunday, gar
den Monday, windows Tuesday.
Yes, I thought smugly. I’ll get all
caught up.
That damn phone, 1 thought,
as I unlocked the door. I warily
picked it up. “Mr. Steve? Mr.
Steve? I finished my quilt, I got
tomorrow off, and you gonna take
me up there.”
That voice. A year ago it had
been so familiar. “Miz
Henderson” and 1 had grown close
during the last six weeks of her
son’s life. He died a year ago from
AIDS complications, and I had
counseled her and been with her
when he “stopped living on this
earth,” as she puts it.
I had forgotten that 1 had told
her about the massive AIDS quilt
that survivors were making and
that she had started working on a
panel for Jason before he died. 1
had also forgotten that the quilt
was being displayed in Washing
ton this weekend.
“But, Miz Henderson, 1 have
so much to do ...”
“What? Hello? Mr. Steve?
You pick me up at six o’clock
tomorrow morning.” And I did.
She was sitting on her porch,
holding a brown grocery bag and
a picnic basket. When she had
settled in the car, the smell of
fried chicken woke me up, and
she said, “Well, Mr. Steve, I know
my Jason always wanted me to
see that D.C.”
“You mean you’ve never been
to Washington?” I asked.
“Well, no sir, I been working
since 1 was a girl and raising kids.
When I have time?”
She sang hymns and shook her
head at the traffic. She talked
about how she missed her son,
and 1 remembered how she had
eased his last days. He was a
painter, and when he went blind
she used to describe paintings in
art magazines.
After parking, finally eating
some chicken, and taking the
Metro to the Mall, we came to
the quilt, spread out in a cornuco
pia of color and pain, crowds of
people milling around and view
ing it. She grasped my arm and
said, “All those poor mamas and
daddies and friends. Look at ‘em
love.”
I had seen the quilt before, and
what 1 saw was the intense mourn
ing, the incredible waste of so
many lives. She saw it from the
other way around: the endurance
of the people who had to let go.
1 asked her if I could see her
addition, and she nodded shyly,
holding out her bag.
A woman helped me unroll the
panel, and she started crying even
before I did. Mrs. Henderson had
taken a photograph of Jason when
he first started dying, and she had
sewn a copy of it onto a royal
blue bedspread that he had died
underneath.
Jason was sitting up in bed,
propped against a headboard that
his grandfather had carved. He
was reading a letter from a friend,
and scattered over the bedspread
were other letters. 1 remembered
how he loved to read those let
ters.
On the wall over his head was
a painting of his family which he
had painted long before sickness
took his strength and then his
sight. Arms linked, they smilingly
remembered.
Mrs. Henderson looked at me
and said, “He sure loved to paint,
didn’t he?”
People were gathering to ad
mire her panel. I was suddenly so
glad 1 had picked up the phone.
You didn’t have to know Jason
or his mama to know what has
survived even this invidious dis
ease. Look at ‘em love.
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