I was running, late as usual, trying to make it to the front of Dartmouth Hall before 9 o'clock. I didn't know exactly what I would find there, but I didn't want to burst in late (as usual) and make a scene. I anticipated the solemnity and sacredness that would pervade the next few hours and was embarrassed as I tripped into the waiting group, breathless and disheveled.
What I found, however, was calmness juxtaposed with strained faces and hushed voices. I glanced around, surprised at the students I recognized, and looked for someone in charge. I found Peter Jacobson '00, who handed me a candle along with his thanks at my coming. I smiled, headed back into the comforting anonymity provided by the crowd and waited. The bustle of activity served as a distracting pseudo-busyness as we all partially wished we could avoid what was to come. Instead, without pomp or circumstance, we headed across the Green, a trail of candle-bearing ants marching two-by-three-by-four.
I wish I knew how to explain the beauty of walking by candlelight. I held onto my candle with both hands, as in prayer, and allowed its light to engulf my face. I found that my little rods and cones were confused, and soon I could see nothing outside of the small sphere of brightness that I held. It was as if the light, my small light, had someone found a way to trick me, and the darkness couldn't fight back -- my candle was all there was for that moment.
Once we arrived at the Roth center we awkwardly filed in and began yet another oddly comforting communal effort to set up chairs and sit down. The room was full, with people standing in the back and yet empty chairs in front, as though there was some place of honor. The ceiling fan rhythmically grated upon itself, sounding out a beep reminiscent of some hospital room pulse-rate monitor; this one kept beeping, however. We sat expectantly, and then began reflecting. We began remembering Matthew Shepard, a homosexual college student who was mortally beaten with a pistol, burned, slashed and left to die, which he did-- National Coming Out Day.
There were words of anger, personal words of fear, rallying words of hope and mostly words of uncertainty. I listened to administrators speak about the campus ownership of any fear that exists. A gay student spoke of discovering anti-gay graffiti that bore his name. A female student spoke against the ease with which we at Dartmouth can distance ourselves from these experiences. Other hate crimes were remembered, specifically the murder of James Byrd, a black man who was dragged behind a truck in Texas this past June. A "straight white male" who also happened to be in the army spoke. A Jewish student recalled his own experience with discrimination that still failed to prevent him from perpetuating campus discrimination. He took responsibility. We took responsibility. There was crying and laughing and all the while I thought of my loved ones dying a violent death, alone and afraid, without companionship or compassion. I though of my younger brother, whom I adore, spending his last few minutes in this world staring into the faces of hatred and in pain. I thought of Matthew Shepard and thought of his life, his death and of his family.
I do not know exactly what to think, as a Dartmouth student in the wake of such a tragedy. I am afraid that no one cares. I am afraid that a heinous crime of this nature could occur on this campus. I look around and want to trust who I see; it is easy for me to do so. But if I am gay, then what? Do I get a beating? Should I live my life in fear, never knowing who will lead me to a field and string me up like a scarecrow as was done to Matthew Shepard? Must I always wonder?
I overheard, around campus, disdain for this vigil for Matthew. There seemed to exist a general sentiment that to take this time was silly, touchy-freely and self-indulgent. I will not deny that in that room was a profound display of human frailty. There was complete and utter terror within some speeches, as well as despair and heartache. Yet this was not self-pity. This was honesty. This was a sincere admittance of a social cancer. And this was a collection of the ashes, in the hopes that a phoenix would soon rise.
If you missed this vigil, but wanted to attend, then be comforted with the knowledge that the phoenix will rise. There, in that room, each person resolved that activism is not dead or reserved for middle-aged hippies. If you scoffed at this vigil, don't care that Matthew died or even support these types of atrocities, then I pity you. Just as I can affix a pink triangle to my book bag, so I wish I could plaster some emblem on you that would alert me to your presence and allow me to use the tool of social coercion to change your views. And I would ask you this one question: What does it matter to you that I make choices different than yours?
I wish I could tell you how beautiful the night was as I held that candle. I walked by Braille and let the light be as it was. I wish you had been there, listening and understanding. I wish you knew the feeling of the hot wax dripping on my hand as I thought and I walked. And I wish that I could take that time and bottle it, that it might be uncorked when needed. Most of all, I wish I knew, with certainty, that never again would there be an occasion for such remembrance. I wish.