Fraternity row was walking the gauntlet of men screaming at you, telling you what they would like to do with your body, suggesting you come into the frat house to party, something to be avoided if possible. Belonging to a fraternity at Rutgers marked you, at least as far as this hippie was concerned, as an asshole to be avoided at all costs. My scene partner in my acting class belonged to a fraternity. Despite this, he seemed okay, modest and prepared for our scene together, almost apologetic about his living with the bros, not your typical drunken idiot. So when he asked me to a party at his fraternity, I agreed to go, briefly was the plan, but I did not count on being drugged and apparently, since all was a blackout, raped.

Teaching is a privilege like aging but, like aging, it is not for the faint of heart. Last week, at the start of a new adult writing class I was waiting for my students to arrive when the door opened and a young man and an older woman entered, the young man clearly agitated, hitting himself, and making noises that were, honestly, very like a wounded animal. In short order I discovered his companion was his aide and she was extremely reluctant to provide me with any information about her charge except to state he was a genius and a writer. I had yet to meet any of my students and wondered how I was going to manage to help/teach/contain this person while providing attention and information to the rest. Somehow, with the help of my kind students, this person calming down, and my own experience with crazy situations, we managed.

"When we finished with our laps, we hoist ourselves up out of the pool, dripping and refreshed, our equilibrium restored, ready to face another day on land." ―Julie Otsuka, The Swimmers