May 9, 2024 | OPINION | By Zeke Lloyd
On a sunny day in mid-April, I lounged on the porch of the Publishing House. Inside, students worked to put together that week’s edition of The Catalyst. I sat on a couch, talking over article revisions with two editors.
Without warning, a man on the sidewalk interrupted us, stopping his slow trek southward along the campus-side of North Weber St. He did not seem interested in leaving of his own accord. I saw little choice in the matter. I strolled over to him.
“Let’s walk together,” I said. He admitted to me, immediately, that he was drunk. It didn’t need saying — his breath smelled like hard liquor. What he didn’t explain, though, was the blood around his nose. It looked as though he had fallen badly or run hard into a wall. But he said nothing about it. The blood around his face had dried and didn’t seem to be irritating him whatsoever. His expression was mischievous, like a child who knew they’d done wrong but thought they’d gotten away with it.
Beyond his injured nose and pungent odor, he seemed to be as regular a pedestrian as any. He wore a red button-down underneath a sleek leather jacket. A nice belt held up faded blue jeans. His umber shoes looked either new or polished.
Without being prompted, he gave me some background on himself. He told me what he did, where he lived and how he felt about Colorado College. The latter part took up most of our time. He said he hated the school. He said we were disconnected from everything — the city, the real-world and the challenges of life. His voice rose sometimes, and sometimes it was quiet rage.
His tone was agitated and a little intimidating, but underneath was a subtle note of relief. If he had expressed these thoughts before, it wasn’t to a member of our community. He could tell I was affiliated — after all, he’d found me sitting on the porch of a campus building. But to erase any doubt, I also happened to be wearing a black sweater with “Colorado College” printed across the front in gold letters. That sweater had a big impact on him.
When he spoke about the campus, the school or the people, he addressed me directly. I was uncomfortable, not only because he seemed quite irate to begin with, but because the ire he felt towards CC seemed funneled towards me. I was a walking representation of everything he described. Then he said he was sorry, not just for taking me from my work on the porch, but for saying such horrible things about me. He tried to tell me it wasn’t too bad after all. I couldn’t tell if he meant it. And then he got sad. Tears formed in his eyes. At this point we were almost to Cache la Poudre St. The walk sign flicked on. I decided to cross the road with him. He said he felt horrible about himself. He wasn’t fixing anything, he said. He was just another part of the problem, an angry neighbor yelling up a storm. We spent a total of seven minutes together. I had spoken only twice while he had stumbled most of the way down the sidewalk, spewing disparate thoughts.
At the end of it, he seemed only mildly amused. Before we parted, he surveyed me with a curious levity. His mouth twitched into a sloppy smile as he said goodbye. Right before turning away, he thanked me — for what exactly, I don’t know. After a few steps, his face went blank again. I wondered if he remembered any of the things he’d said.
I’ve spent four years at CC, wondering all the while how I feel about this place. I wonder what I’d say if CC, an institution in human form, stood before me in silence. Would I yell? Would I apologize? Would I forgive? I do hate this place. I do love it. I both pity it and resent it. And ultimately, I feel as though I didn’t do enough to change it or do enough to allow myself to change through it.
Despite these inherent contradictions, I subscribe to each simultaneously and do not feel any strain of cognitive dissonance. The ideas we attach ourselves to, abstract or institutional, always draw a range of emotions that should erase one another.
I feel the same spread of sentiments about our country, our species and our planet. The world is made of contradictions, and a glance anywhere, along with the right perspective, might reveal a host of beautiful and hitherto unappreciated batch of life’s paradoxical mysteries. But as elegant as they are, they make poor companions on the cold nights when our doubts and fears consume us.
In those moments, I look elsewhere. I have called my parents once a week for the past 208 weeks. I talk to my brother and sister less consistently and, admittedly, less often. But it feels the same.
Day to day, moment to moment, they’ve seen my pieces dissembling and disassembled. They have asked the right questions and have been patient with every wrong answer I give. They have read everything I’ve written, seen every performance I’ve been a part of. They stand in contrast to the pattern of the universe. I don’t need our relationship to be beautiful and complicated. I just need it to be simple and pure.
I’ve spent four years at Colorado College – four years hating the contradictions and trying to find something that made sense. By the end, I have come to love the opportunity to listen to a drunk man’s nearly incoherent ramblings. And I realize the most uncomplicated relationships aren’t something to look for – they’re something to notice you already had.