THE RAMBLING MAN Reflections on Leaving

Author: Raam Wong

My upcoming graduation still does not seem real to me. It feels like just yesterday that I was a naïve student getting lost in Proctor, not emerging until six hours later when the firemen found me shivering and weeping behind the salad bar in the arms of Dr. Proctor. Actually, that's a bad example given that it was just yesterday. I would like to mark the occasion of this, my last Rambling Man column, by commenting on how much the column has meant to me, but I realize doing so would probably be self-serving and boring. I am reluctant to make my readers anymore hostile and/or suicidal than they already are from reading my column. So I offer this compromise: anytime I mention the word "column," feel free to substitute it with a more stimulating subject, such as, "my sex life." Because, like my column, "my sex life" is short, boring and typically elicits snickering.

When my friend Julie first suggested that I write a humor column, I reluctantly agreed. I thought it'd probably be another one of my half-assed schemes that I don't complete, like scuba diving certification or the sixth grade. While I had proven myself to be witty with such pranks as walking into my Western religion class totally naked except for a "Jesus Loves Me" hat, I wasn't sure if such sophisticated humor would translate well into a newspaper column. I also had doubts about my writing ability. You see there are several idiosyncrasies of the English language that I never learned such as use of apostrophes or the letters of the alphabet. My first column went into the Opinions section. Alongside articles about the Middle East crisis and violent WTO protests, I described the equally weighty issue of my inability to hook-up at McCullough dance parties, despite my attempts to standout from the crowd in khaki pants and my posh new cologne, Febreeze for Men. On the day the paper came out, my economics professor commended me in front of the class for being an "activist" for horny single guys everywhere. I sunk down in my seat as he proceeded to explain the theory of supply and demand using my sex life as an analogy.

As the weeks went by, I had to stretch to come up with material to write about. On my computer, I have an entire folder of useless columns that I had begun to write, usually while drunk, but never finished. Their titles range from, "Fart Jokes," "Things that are Smaller than the Beer Can I'm Holding" and "The Impact of Globalization in the 20th Century." I've gotten into the habit of either deleting these humorless articles or selling them to Bob Wainwright for his column.

Writing my column could also be difficult because my computer, the Atari 250, is pretty antiquated. To keep it running, I've had to shovel coal directly into the DVD player. What's worse, often the screen saver will come on and the computer will freeze, forcing me to read motivational screen saver message, "Raam, you are a beautiful, vivacious woman" until figuring out how to reboot the computer.

Still, the positive feedback I've received from readers has pushed me to reach a level of quality in which readers will think to themselves after reading a column, "Well, that was certainly something."

I can count the number of fan letters I've received on one finger. I'll never forget receiving a fan letter in my box. Originally I thought it was my PIN Bill — which explains why I first urinated on it — but then I picked it up off the floor, opened it, and realized two important things: that someone enjoyed my column, and that my hands were covered in urine. To this day, I still have the yellow-stained letter in my scrapbook.

I met another fan at the Vermont Liquor Outlet. (Of course I was there buying a keg of O'Doul's for my substance-free party in which I was planning on playing such rowdy drinking games as Milk Die and Seven, Eleven, Doughnuts.) Upon reading my name off of my I.D. the owner complimented me on my column. At first I wondered why he hadn't mentioned it before, but then I realized that until recently, the owner only knew me as the person on my fake ID: 40-year-old Yolanda Silverman. The owner was so nice that he gave me a six-pack of what he called an "imported" beer. I'm not sure of the correct spelling, but I think it's called "Naty Ice."

The one downside of my column is that I'm afraid I've occasionally offended certain groups of people. I don't have much to base this on, unless you want to consider the half-dozen libel suits against me or the animal feces currently smeared across my windshield. But targeting certain people was never my intention.

The truth is, there are two kinds of people I hate: those who dislike a group of people for no discernable reason, and first-years. Therefore I would like to apologize to the following people whom I may have offended: my parents, President McCardell, social house members, the Republican Party, anyone disliking "Your momma" jokes, my seven illegitimate children and the People's Republic of China.

Admittedly, I have had made a number of snafus for which I am slightly embarrassed about. (Including being the first person to use the word "snafu" in the paper.)

But I have been proud of my association with this newspaper. However, there remain a couple of issues that I never got to write about. For instance, I never got around to discussing my solution to missing jackets on campus: The Yellow Jacket Program. And I never mentioned the need for the College to eliminate erroneous all-student e-mails, such as those from Coach Bob Smith announcing an Intramural Underwater Quilt- Making tournament.

The truth is that Middlebury has meant a tremendous deal to me. Transferring to the College my sophomore year was a daunting experience. And having spent my freshman year at an impersonal, urban university, I was already pretty skeptical of collegiate life.

Yet the College on the Hill embraced and encouraged me in a fundamental way that I never could have imagined. And now, in my final days as a Midd-Kid, I lounge in the sun on Battel Beach and browse through the scrapbook of my mind and fondly recall every friend, dean or professor who in some way contributed to my personal growth as both scholar and human being.

I think about my family whose total love and support allowed me to prosper at such a fine institution. And I think about you, my readers, who have contributed to my Middlebury experience more than you will ever know.

As for my future, I do not know. Thoughts of backpacking through Europe or attending graduate school excite me, but I move reluctantly into the future, always with the same question floating in my head: can it possibly get any better than this?

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