The Large Hadron Collider is: under construction in Switzerland, hours of future exceptional History Channel programming and the world's largest and most powerful particle accelerator -- which is to say, breathtaking, real-world nerd porn. The Collider is the most ambitious physics experiment ever, and some fear it will literally destroy the planet.
From this month's Harper's Magazine: "Scientists speculated that the Large Hadron Collider might not simply produce microscopic black holes; it might also make a 'black Saturn,' a spinning black hole surrounded by a spinning black ring."
The exhilarating possibility of a Black Saturn apocalypse got me thinking about other big questions. How does consciousness arise from gray matter? Can economic policy coherently synthesize the inevitability of globalization and prudent protectionism, much less ethical obligations to the world's poor? Is Rachael Ray actually fat, or does she just look fat exactly half the time? (And if so, is she the human manifestation of the wave/particle nature of light and the Heisenberg uncertainty principle? And therefore famous? Because I don't know why else she would be famous.)
Such distracting digressions became necessary for my sanity when John Beardsley '08, Josh Ring '08 and Eli Mitchell '10 left our Biloxi volunteer camp, Hands On Gulf Coast. I was a wreck: it was either contemplate cosmology or blast Ben Folds Five's "Brick" and blubber.
They did not leave quietly. We cooked breakfast for camp on their last morning, and like every good initiate of the cult that is Dartmouth, we did not shrink from an opportunity to wave the Big Green flag: our breakfast was green eggs and ham, and Josh and Beardsley -- both alumni of Trips' Croos -- woke everyone up with an ecstatic shouted performance of the book.
Volunteers typically give brief speeches during their last dinner. All three spoke of needing to return -- Eli's next stint will be her fourth. Beardsley was typically eloquent, lauding both long-term volunteers who've worked "since the waters receded" and short-termers: "If Hands On is a bank, short-termers are the money."
Festivities continued with a Dartmouth date auction. The four of us were put up for purchase one by one, the proceeds going toward camp maintenance. We chose theme songs: I went with "Every Time We Touch (I Get This Feeling)." Beardsley, who is more pop-knowledgeable and less trashy, chose Stevie Wonder's "Superstitious."
The auction itself was fast, lighthearted and loud, the bidding fueled by the large crowd of college students volunteering over spring break. Josh, Beardsley and I all sold for between $30 and $40; Beardsley was purchased by his brother, Jeff '04, in a dramatic, last-minute phoned-in bid.
Eli went for $50. It remains unclear whether her higher value represented superior worth as a human being or the cold market forces of the gender double standard. (Male porn stars, it is worth noting, earn a fraction of their female colleagues. No one cares about naked boys.) Either way, Eli, you'll always be priceless to us.
Josh's date is notable for its Mormon roster: he was accompanied by eight young women. I don't know what happened, but I imagine piggyback rides were involved (Josh's stockiness is matched only by his playfulness).
Our last days of work together were typically fulfilling. At the elementary school where we tutor, classes of children travel the halls in single-file lines with arms folded across their chests. After the halls emptied, a small, overweight black girl in a red-and-white striped shirt and denim overalls waddled rapidly past me loudly murmuring, "Late, late, late, late."
Hallway walls were bright with decorations: twenty copies of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s face in crayon-colored variations, accidentally Warholian. One poster diagrammed an ant's body: "Head, Thorax, Abdomen," a triplet as redolent of elementary school as cubbies and Trapper Keepers. "If you were as strong as an ant you could lift a grown-up."
A poster celebrating St. Patrick's Day displayed students' leprechaun wish lists.
"In conclusion, if a leprechaun granted me three wishes, I would wish for a car, house and puppy."
"First, I would wish for an electric scooter. My old scooter broke. A scooter is fast. It is fun to ride every where."
"I would wish for a hole pot of money. I would spend it on my family and save some of it to buy me some clothes."
In a second grade classroom, I overheard four children gathering around Eli:
"You're in college!"
"She's in college?!"
"What's it like?"
"What can you do there?"
A boy left the small crowd shaking his head: "Axin' too many questions."
The obvious teacher's pet raised his hand. "I'm osposed to take a spelling test."
In kindergarten, a girl interrupted herself while asking the teacher a question by suddenly spinning in a circle.
Soon the class assembled crosslegged on the carpet to play a number game. Suddenly I felt like I could see their futures, their tiny astonishing personalities: the anxious girl, the aloof popular-athlete-to-be, the class clown -- adults writ adorable.
The teacher held up a flashcard: "16."
"Sixteen. You know, you'll be that age some day! That's ten years for some of you!"
A cascade of shouted ages. "I'm six!" "I'm seven!"
Her class suddenly rowdy, the teacher announced, "Okay! We're going to get the wiggles out!"
The class cheered, scrambling to their feet. The children danced, all bobbing heads and flailing limbs, as the Isley Brothers' "Shout" began playing from a cassette stereo. I chased the Wedding Crashers scene out of my head and marveled.
I could see their futures -- futures secured by the work of volunteers. Beardsley, Josh and Eli have left Mississippi for now, but they will never be absent.
E-mail Alex at howeas@gmail.com
