Although Farmville can hardly be described as a place that “breeds lilacs out of the dead land” as Eliot imagined the postmodern world in “The Wasteland,” it is not exactly idyllic either in the month of April. Yes – the darkest patch of winter sludge has expired in the thickened heat, the hard ground has softened to welcome the dandelion and the fountains have been defrosted so they can flow and sprout for racing children (and, of course, lounging Lancers).
Yet, something is not right even with graduation just around the corner. I, for one, do not feel like breaking into blossom. If I should step out of my body as in James Wright’s poem “A Blessing,” I’d hope for clones—in light of everything that goes on every April in our community.
Somehow, after spring break every March—which is really winter break part deux—the first signs occur. Printing services is backed up with poster and publicity flier orders.
Student leaders, our friends in too many organizations (including myself), begin spamming in ever increasing volume our inbox and Facebook, and now our Twitter too: invitations to fundraisers, Greek socials, motivational speakers, readings, social justice panels, recitals, athletic competitions and every other “citizen leader” event.
This list, noticeably, does not account for 10+ pages of research papers (with annotated bibliography), group projects, senior galleries and exhibitions, thesis meetings and defense, the last great piece of 20th century literature on the syllabi to read before the final exam—and, yes, the actual final exam(s).
Did I mention that professors and staff as well, have committee reports and budgets to turn in before grading hundreds of the aforementioned assignments? That they still make the effort to coordinate for the best speakers to come enlighten our students, to provide one-on-one consultations to the freshman-who’s-about-to-fail or the senior-soon-to-not-graduate-again?
April is not only the cruelest month in its relentless programming, commitments and responsibilities, it makes everyone crabby. In these three years I’ve been proud to call myself a Lancer and to strive to be the amorphous (but brimming with possibilities) citizen leader at the heart of our program. I can’t help but point out: everyone is crabby in April despite the festivities of the end of an academic year and, for some, the end of their time as a professional student.
As I sit here now by the Chi fountain and watch our Ambassadors lead the leagues of bright-eyed students and hopeful parents across the freshly cut lawns, I can’t help but wonder if the next class, our administration, our staff— our community—would endeavor to make the next April one in which we can actually stop to smell the daffodils the groundskeepers have planted.
