A Stentorian Grumbli

A Stentorian Grumbling
Anthony Harris
Opinions Editor

Three years.

For three years, I’ve been here and I’ve seen quite a few people pass through.  I’ve seen the passing of pointless platitudes.  I’ve looked both to my left and my right and I’ve seen people depart, not through failure (of which I’ve seen many and yet those men remain) but through inefficiency.  I’ve seen men depart through fatigue.  I’ve seen men depart because they just couldn’t stand a school overrun by doubletalk and incompetence.

This school is changing.

We have become diverse, through both races and interests.  We are steadily realizing that the black experience is more than what we originally perceived.  It is more than hip-hop.  It is more than oppression.  It is more than history.  It is more than commonality.  We as blacks are as diverse as the states from which we came.  We have changed because of this realization.

For three years, I have heard a sound of which I could not note.  For three years, I have questioned what it was that I was feeling that has made me speak the way I do.  For three years, I have asked myself why I have felt at home with those with whom I have associated.  For three years, I have taken myself aside and sequestered my interests as they related to my schooling.  And over these three years, I have at last come with some basic answer.

I have heard a rumbling.

I have heard a rumbling that is only brought about by a yearning.  It is the same yearning that John had in the wilderness as he ate locusts and wild honey preaching the gospel.  It is the same yearning that Fredrick Douglass had as he fled for freedom.  It is the same yearning that Miles Davis had to make his music perfect.  It is this yearning that I have noted and that inspires me to move.

It is this rumbling that moves the Dark Tower Project to plan their assorted activities for the semester.  It is this rumbling that I hear in Brawley some afternoons when a few guys practice on their guitars.  It is this rumbling I hear when a good poet shows up at Jazzman’s on Thursdays (and those of you paying attention, I don’t say that too often).  It is this rumbling that is present with certain professors and administrators that are actually good at their jobs.

There is a rumbling here that shows this place is changing.  From the Archer Hall expansion to tossing a Frisbee on the campus green (which is entirely allowed according to page 108 of the student handbook).  There is a rumbling here that clamors at the idea that we should receive our money’s worth.  There is a rumbling here that bellows at the idea that we claim to be the Harvard of the South but never truly aspires to its greatness.  There is a rumbling here that cries out for equality, and we, the Men of Morehouse, are answering to it.

We are complaining when Tigernet is down before registration.  We are legion in Gloster demanding refund checks in timely manners.  We are answering the toll of the bell as it rings in our very souls, standing against inequality between not only whites and blacks, not only between the rich and poor, but also between spoken ideals and gritty realities.  We are steadily expecting what we should for $28,000.  We are steadily making this campus our own.  We are steadily being the Men of Morehouse that are stubborn and hardheaded as we should instead of docile at the steps of Gloster.

We are appeasing the stentorian grumbling at the pit of our stomachs that steadily asks for more.  We are learning in the class and on the yard.  We are learning from Dansby and Chivers.  We are learning from Wheeler and Archer.  We are learning to make this campus what it should be on our own.

Or that could just what I’ve seen here over the past three years.


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