I try to avoid leaving my Athens home, except for the ridiculously long break, the occasional parent's birthday and, of course, the inevitable road trip to another school to see friends.
This past weekend, I loaded my car to visit my friend Dave at Purdue. I told him I planned to write an article about the trip and he immediately launched into a defense of the school and its social prowess. I laughed it off and hoped that the pressure might make the three days a little more fun than usual.
For a little background, Purdue University was founded in 1869 - a staggering 64 years after Ohio University - with a mission to provide agriculture and mechanic arts education, according to the school's Web site, www.purdue.edu. Their mascot, the Boilermaker, was originally an insult aimed at the school's curriculum, like if the teams today were called the Purdue Pocket Protectors or the Purdue Systems Engineers. In other words, this school is more likely to be ranked on the places Justin Thompson is most afraid of dying alone list than on a party school registry.
The campus feels like a hospital stretched over a few acres of flat, Indiana land. The architecture can be best described as sterile, emotionless, cold and barren with the sporadic sprinkling of fountains and cobblestone echo circles to delight the otherwise morose student body.
Rob, one of the regulars, seemed to have the responsibility of finding parties and places to go for everyone else. My relative ignorance of the place was overshadowed by the social unawareness of the actual Purdue students.
I waded through my probably 20th viewing of Boondock Saints in my friend Travis' room and tried to introduce some customary OU games to add some razzle to their feeble dazzle. It worked - for a while, until an unfortunate accident at the end of a game of Flip Cup really killed the mood. The trick is to swallow the beer before yelling.
Awaking in a strange room Saturday morning to the sound of footsteps and chatter is nothing new; in fact, it reassured me that I must be doing something right - or something terribly, terribly wrong. The rest of Saturday was different though. The nerd herd was not leafing through massive textbooks or staring wide-eyed at computer screens and not a single person mentioned anything about schematics.
Rob had pulled through for everyone. Our names were on the list of a frat party, a frat whose name is being held for two reasons: first, it recently was under pressure for playing host to underage drinking and second, I have no idea what it was called.
My anticipation was grossly misplaced, however. Immediately after showing ID, we were funneled into a shabby basement where, under the dark lights, pop-collared and sparkling gangs roamed back and forth, mixing sporadically for a quick dance to some bland rap song.
It was like an eighth grade social with bartenders, only when no contact with the opposite sex occurred, our parents would not take us to Blockbuster.
I tried to lighten the mood by constantly interjecting better stories about frat parties at OU and explaining how this place just needed, well, less of the people who were already there.
It's easy for me to end this by creating some clever line about the abundance of party spirit here and the intense need for a fleet of Jambulances there.
I could ignore things such as the language-barrier limitations on a social life at a school more internationally diverse, the inherent difference in goals and expectations of students who pay almost three times the amount of OU tuition, or the simplest reason, that these people are as much my friends as the girl across the hall, and my constant jibes were meant more to remind myself who I was and where I'm from than to belittle them.
- Justin Thompson is a sophomore journalism major and staff writer for The Post who enjoys spreading a message of hope to schools less fortunate. Send him an e-mail at jt315004@ohiou.edu.
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Justin Thompson
