Dan Fishback: One word shatters an otherwise beautiful day

I'd get the package myself.

For I had my work cut out for me. I had to pick up a delivery from the package trailer. Then, I would arrive at Kelly Writers House early, to sit on the couch and read. I would meet Michael Cunningham, my favorite living writer. I would introduce him to a crowd of people, our images webcasted into cyberspace. I'd tremble at such a speed that I'd look steady. I wouldn't vomit, nor would I mess my pants, nor gush, nor stutter. I'd make these moments perfect -- I knew, pushing through the revolving doors, that I would. And then, wedging myself against the Superblock winds, the sun washing out half the world and splattering the students walking to and from class, I thought, what a morning!

Since I was 17, I haven't been quite able to smile at the sun, giggle at a gust of wind or stop to stare at anything beautiful without thinking quite consciously of Michael Cunningham and Virginia Woolf. They came upon me as I left high school. And their purpose, simple and childish as it may seem (even to me) was just to open eyes -- and open them to nothing more profound than the ambivalent joy of existing.

And now my joy is stained -- stained like glass, not like carpet -- by the names of these two writers. My reference-point for a beautiful day will never stray far from their books, so whenever I am struck by beauty, my mind instantly swerves into a catalogue of scenes and images -- mini-dramas of revelation and ecstasy.

The archetype drama is a simple walk down the street.

In Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, and Cunningham's Dalloway-homage The Hours, two Clarissas take walks in the city -- walks of excitement and purpose. They look around, and they love. Their thoughts skip in and out of the present, looking here at a dog, thinking there of a past summer vacation. Their walks, so simple and unassuming, often seem like a fairly reasonable platform against suicide, and now there is nothing so life-affirming to me than plunging onto a sidewalk with a purpose.

So, passing Writers House on my way to the package room, I was beside myself with privilege -- how lucky I was! -- to go to a mail room and receive a package.

Crossing Superblock, I enjoyed all I could. I watched and listened. The sounds of people blurred into a kind of skittery bassline -- until one note penetrated through the tune, dissonant. I stopped, not yet realizing what I heard. I held together the lapels of my velvet jacket, and the syllable finally recalled itself: "Fag!"

I spun around, back east, to see the turned, laughing head, yards away, of a white male, looking at me as he moved toward Locust Walk. He faced forward again and resumed his stroll. My Woolfian awareness collapsed on itself, and I noticed nothing -- nothing about his face, nothing past his brown hair; I noticed not his clothes, not his height -- not a thing. My mind stopped short of alertness and crashed against a sort of null set -- the kind of blankness you feel just before beginning things, just before you decide to think.

When I did decide to think, he was long gone.

No one has called me that word since I was 17. I hadn't thought anyone in college would say it to my face. It was an odd, sort of dull surprise. But the moment ended -- I had my package to pick up. I had things to do. I cleared the incident from my mind.

So I finished my day. And it went as planned -- beautiful. And I went to bed so happy, so forgetful. And when, at 3 a.m., I received a phone call from a man who did nothing but breathe loudly, I did not shut down like I did on Superblock. I did not stop noticing. On the contrary, I noticed everything. Lying in bed, every sound distinguished itself from the nightly din. In the darkness, every shadow seemed to wield the potential for movement. It was not Woolf's idea of a blissful awareness at all. It was an addendum. There is more to life than joy. There is also war. Being alive doesn't just mean being aware -- it means being vigilant. And this was vigilance without fear -- it was not a fear of shadows, or noises or voices. It was only a nod in their direction. An acknowledgement. I know they're there. I know what they're up to. I know they'll lose.

Dan Fishback is a junior American Identities major from Olney, Md.

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