T
Page 8, The Carolina Journal, March 20, 1969
UNC-C Retreat ‘‘Happens
(Continued from Page 3)
was). Friday finally came. We
were supposed to assemble in the
Union parking lot at 2:00, but
group activities have a tendancy
to run behind schedule, and, this
being a group activity, it was
closer to 3:00 than to 2:00 when
we all finally tromped into the
parking lot laden with suitcases,
coats, and those omni present
books. (Yes, Dr. McCall,
Wordsworth was there, and 1
spent several valuable
volleyball-playing hours getting to
know him better.)
People tend to arrive at these
things in groups, and as each
group arrived there was always the
same reaction—laughing and
talking, and the sudden realization
that our means of conveyance was
a city bus. (Have you ever tried to
store the luggage and assorted
paraphernalia for 43 people on a
bus which doesn’t come equipped
with storage space?)
The first thing we noticed
after we had finally gotten
everyone assembled and the four
boys sitting closest to the driven
had given him conflicting
directions as to how to get off
University property, was that the
bus was segregated. All the faculty
and staff were in the back of the
bus. Soon, just as they’ve done on
every bus trip I’ve been on since 1
went to MYF summer camp in the
sixth grade, someone started
singing. In a matter of a few
minutes, the whole front of the
bus was in full disharmony, and
the back played bridge, talked and
wished we would be quiet.
The two and a half hours to
the Betsy-Jeff Penn 4-11 Center
A.A.C.T.E.
50NDOLA
trshi lira iil
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w MOKtHf AD At N(){ ncF
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OriN 4:30-ll:4S Mon.-Sal.
7:30-11:45 Sun.
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were over in almost no time, or so
it seemed. We really weren’t
expecting the accomodations to
be very good, so everyone was
really surprised when we pulled
through the gates and saw the
camp. It is lovely. The buildings
of grey, rough board are new and
modern looking but blend with
the trees which cover everything.
The camp sits on a rise which
overlooks a small lake. Even
amidst all our noise the thing that
you noticed first was the calmness
and peacefulness of the place.
We got off the bus, found out
cottages, picked up our linen
(either some nice person had
already made up my bed, or 1
slept on dirty sheets), and went to
supper. After supper we got down
to serious business. That business
being the discussion of the topics
“Implications of Residence Halls
on Campus—The Commuter,
WHAT?’’ ‘‘Student
Organizations,” “Student,
Faculty, and Administrator
Relations and Communications,”
“Student Opinion on University
Policy,” “Social and Academic
Discipline,” “Relevancy of
Atheletics at the University;”
“The Community and the
University: Theis Relationship,”
and “The Black Crisis.” The
discussion groups were really
good, althougli it is a sort of
funny feeling to be disagreeing
violently with a doctor under
whom you happen to be taking a
course. But they were very good,
they listened to what the students
the
for
The University of North
Carolina at Charlotte has been
accepted into membership in the
American Association of Colleges
for Teacher Education.
The organization is a
voluntary, national association of
colleges and universities for the
improvement of teacher
education; an autonomous
department of the National
Education Association.
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had to say; they were really
interested in exchanging ideas
with us. The discussion groups
were scheduled to last for an hour
and a half, but they generally
lasted much longer-unless they
recessed to watch those basketball
games on tv.
The most popular group
activity was volleyball. Every
night at 10:00, a group would
head to the recreation building
and play for a couple of hours
(Friday until 1:00). Have you ever
seen a dignified professor fall all
over a court? Canoeing is fun too,
especially if you’re three girls in
one canoe with four canoes full of
boys surrounding you who take
pity on you because you’ve rowed
to one end-the far end- of the lake
and are too tired to row back
home and let you hold on to their
rope on the end and tow you
home.
We had a lot of fun, but we
learned a lot too. I think some
channels for communication were
opened that will be of great
benefit to the University in the
future. There are plans to make it
an annual event, and I hope the
funds are found to make it
possible. If you ever get the
chance to go, don’t be like the
seventeen who turned down
invitation this time, do it.
The deadline for paying
your space in the yearbook is
April 1, 1969. Failure to do this
will mean exclusion from the
organization section of the
yearbook.
One Step Forward,
Two Steps Back
Scissors of Death
It has been said that man is the only animal who knows that he must
die. This is misleading. We know it, but we choose to ignore the fact.
We surpress it - drive it to the furtherest point from our consciousness ■
try to forget it. How is it that man, recognizing his limits, his finitude,
can conduct himself in a manner that implies eternal strife towards
some goal that will be reached at the moment beforythe end of the
world? Case in point; A man enters local politics in order to solve a
problem with which he is presently concerned. He is a success. He goes
on to run for state governor, and from there he enters national politics.
He is traveling in ever-increasing concentric circles, working hard,
getting nowhere. He does not act as if he knows that his death wUl
mark the end of all of his efforts. Sure, improvements that he has made
will continue to be in effect, but the work that he has put into it will be
viewed from an ignorant perspective. If history were the basis for
determining the longevity of accomplishment, then the only men whose
life-works could be considered worthwhile would be the man whose
efforts were recognized as the culmination or peak of a movement or
struggle.
Death is an ultimate; it ends all endeavors of the subject, whether
they are finished or inconclusive. It does not matter. A man’s life is like
a string (and a very short one at that) that is fastened at one end and
stretches toward another object. When he dies, the string is cut. It is left
to dangle in the capricious breeze.
Now, if a man’s life is structured in such a way as to imply a specific
direction for the string to be extended in until it is cut, then the life is
suddenly reduced to an absurd incongruity at the moment of death (as
in our hypothetical politician). If, on the other hand, the man keeps
that dangling string right at the most handy level of consciousness, then
he, and he alone, can laugh as the scissors of time close on the thread of
existence. And why can he laugh? Because he has fooled the system,
and isn’t that, after all, what it’s all about?
Is the answer, then, to this paradoxical dilemma of absurdity (ie.
why strive for meaning if there is none & why live if not to strive) a
belief in immortality? Positively not. The man who bases his actions
and choices on an obtainable Valhalla is living under the tickest veil of
maya that man can be subject to. Many men must posit this existent
nirvana in order to face the terror and anguish of life without wilting
under the strain. These men are not the courageous beings that we
imagine them to be. We are proud of them that put off their own
happiness for an afterlife. We consider them to be brave, self-sacrificing
individuals. They are not. This deffered gratification is based on
ignorance and a lack of will. The indidivuals whose existence hinges on
this misbelief are thesheep referred to by Neitzche. They are hiding
behind a lie.
These believers in an afterlife are akin to the Grail questor of old.
They endure many hardships and trials with a future reward in mind.
Imagine the virtuous knight who travels for weeks without food or
company in the deserted wasteland. He comes to the halls of the Fisher
King and battles an army of antagonists there. He journeys across arid
and frigid desert and arrives at the Chapel Perilous, where he nearly is
killed in a duel with the unknown black hand. A storm rages
throughout the night, but the questor finally goes to sleep. Now
suppose that he awoke the following morning to find himself in an
uiiknown location, without reward of grace. His journey and quest
would seem pretty ridiculous, pretty absurd. Such is the fate of the
believer in immortality, with one exception - he will not awake.
Death defines a man. Only after he has died can his earthly accomp-
hshments be summed up and evaluated. As long as a man lives, he is free
to make an about face. Heredity and environment do not have the restrain
ing effect on a creative man that they are fabled to have. So how may a
man give his life meaning before he dies. How may he defeat the absur
dity of sociological existence and metaphysical speculation? This is the
most important eschatalogical question that a man can ask himself. (An
answer next week?)
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Tliink it over, over coffee.
TlieThink Drink. ^
For your own Think Drink Mug. send 75C and your name and address to:
Think Drink Mug, Dept. N, P.O. Box 559. New York, N.Y. 1(X)46. The International Coffee Organization.
At:
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