Morning at the circus

LINDA CHANG/YH

That Saturday morning was filled with frenzy. I joined my residential college, enticed by the thought of the prize money I could help win. But that carrot was merely rationalization for the secret demons at whose altar I worshipped on that Saturday—I didn't really care that much about the money. I wanted to taste glory.

My fellow warriors were biding their time. It was like one of those fateful nights before soldiers march into battle. We milled around the courtyard, making small-talk and thinking soothing thoughts. Some of us sang playful tunes; others prayed. A freshman vomited up his breakfast in the corner. A friend, drenched in a nervous sweat, handed me a letter to his mother, asking me to deliver it if the unspeakable were to happen. A freshman—I thought to myself how young and innocent he was. Would this whole affair be worth such a dreadful cost? I didn't have time to ponder such useless thoughts. We had all crossed the Rubicon that morning, and there was no turning back. The only thing to think of then was a warrior's heaven. I promised him I would take care of the letter and downed my coffee. The morning was still with anxiety.

We stoked our inner fires with donut holes and hot chocolate. We donned our uniforms, ready to wage war. There was a bagpiper's echoing song in the background as the Master mingled with the senior counselors and college fellows. The general was heartening the weary troops. Chewing a half-frozen glazed Munchkin, I reflected on the whole scene. Certain doubts began to creep in. What was going on? This was a Saturday morning, yet much of the college was up and about, clad in uniforms of cheap yellow t-shirts. I was getting worried. How did the currents of history ensnare me so? I didn't have time to entertain these misgivings—the fanfare of trumpets blared, and we shuffled out of the college gates in orderly rows of four. We had a long road to victory ahead of us.

The road to victory was actually about half a block. We marched onto Cross Campus as the trumpets continued their fanfare. We passed the bulldog tent, but all the cages were empty. Had they abandoned us in our time of glory? Was it a portent of our coming doom? It didn't matter anymore—the enemy was near, and there was blood in the air. The banners and placards of competing colleges heightened our bloodlust, and we broke into college cheers. A friend turned to me and remarked, "It all seems very fascist, doesn't it?" I wasn't quite sure enough to agree, so I shrugged off his comment.

We turned the corner and saw the most poignant icon of what was in the air: Woolsey Hall. Five huge banners were strung from columns along the impressive bicentennial monument to Yale heroism in World War I. The huge columns and waving banners made me think of imperial glory and power. Just then Ezra Stiles College marched onto the field, wearing black t-shirts emblazoned with imposing golden crests. The blackshirts of Stiles had arrived. I hissed with playful scorn, and my roommate hollered at the new arrivals, "Il Duce!" I cannot explain what had happened and what animosity had suddenly taken root—there was frenzy, and glory,
in the air. The affairs of that Saturday morning indeed smacked of fascism, but of an innocuous stripe. It was something certainly harmless and possibly enriching; it was ice-cream fascism.

We marched onto Beinecke Plaza, lured by the gravitational pull of a 300-pound heap of decadence. As a cart laden with a quarter of the iced treasure was wheeled passed me, I thought quickly of yelling, "Shut your eyes, Marian! Shut your eyes!" But I couldn't follow through. I, alongside thousands of others, gawked at the monstrosity in shameful awe. Perhaps the cake wasn't the only freak Yale had arranged to be at Saturday's freak show after all. That pastry had plenty of company onstage.

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