THE ANTITHESIS OF DEATH
The grass covered last year's grave
sunday morning
4
By HOWARD KOHN
THE CALF died during the night, strangling
at birth on the umbilical cord which had been
its lifeline.
In the morning we found the cow nervously
trying to tear herself out of the stanchion. We
let her loose and she lunged out to sniff mean-
inglessly at her never-born calf.
Our dog stayed away from the barn that
morning. He was part-Husky, but very gentle.
After breakfast, we dragged the dead calf to
a dray and hauled her into the field, where we
spaded out a deep grave in the sandy soil to dis-
courage marauding dogs.
The cow walked between the barn and the
pasture, mooing in low moans. She paused at the
grave only to kick dirt on her back, not under-
standing its significance and too absorbed in her
hurt feelings.
Her milk was not fit for human use for a few
days. But we had to milk her and slop the milk
to the pigs,
A cow has a calf once every 10-11 months.
After giving birth milk fills her udder for 7-9
months, drying up slowly in abeyance to her next
calf.
After her calf died, the cow stubbornly re-
fused to be milked. Finally we borrowed a three-
week-old calf from another cow and tried to de-
lude her into thinking her child had survived.
* * *
WE HAVE ABOUT 20 cows on a small farm
of 120 acres. We also have chickens and some-
times pigs.
One spring we accidentally killed a wild Mal-
lard duck with the blade of the mower while
cutting hay. We found the duck's nest and took
her eggs home to a babysitting hen who hatched
out nine ducklings. All summer long she paraded
them around the yard, cackling and hissing at
our dog who was usually only curious.
In the fall we butchered the ducks.
IN THE WINTER snows drifted over the
grave, hiding the scar. The cow had forgotten
her sorrow and was contentedly growing another
calf in her belly.
One of our neighbors died suddenly and we
worried that it might mean trouble. On the farm
you try to outlive nature. When someone dies
the land and the animals seem to seethe forth
with latent fury, belying a superficial peace, and
you try harder to stay alive.
Our dog, who had always slept calmly under
the front porch, began roaming the neighbors
farm with a small beagle and an aged German
Shepherd.
In March the dogs attacked our late neigh-
bor's pigs, wantonly killing six and slashing the
dead carcasses with bared fangs.
We shot our dog. He whimpered a little but
did not beg for his life. He knew better.
**
IN THE SPRING the cow gave birth in the
field and walked home with the calf following
behind.
Grass covered last year's grave. (And the
meaning of 1i f e remained the antithesis of
death).
4
~iffr Sin4itan Daily
Seventy-eight years of editorial freedom
Edited and managed by students of the University of Michigan
under authority of Board in Control of Student Publications
Daily-Jay L. Cassidy
In which a man becomes
a mute diploid genotype
420 Maynard St., Ann Arbor, Mich.
News Phone: 764-0552
Editorials printed in The Michigan Daily exp ress the individual opinions of staff writers
or the editors. This must be noted in all reprints.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1968
NIGHT EDITOR: MARCIA ABRAMSON
On the seventh day,
they gave up,
Daily-Peter Dreytuas
Talking to the White Rabbit
By MARCIA ABRAMSON
IMET the White Rabbit Friday night.
I had heard about this mysterious
creature because he called The Daily
to explain that he has going to an-'
nounce sometime during the week on
the Diag that there would be no next
President. But no one was surprised
when he never appeared.
I picked him up in front of The
Daily, where he was shooting off his
capguns. "Don't do that," I yelled from
across the street. "Those people in
there are all paranoid. You'll scare
them."
He crossed the street and shot me.
"Hi," he said. "I'm the White Rabbit."
"Hello," I answered. "Weren't you
supposed to announce sometling on
the Diag the other day?"
"Yeah," he said. "But the pigs
wouldn't let me."
"Who said?"
"People."
"So yoi quit?" He told me couldn't
afford angother bust.
In the light in front of the Union,
I could see his red Amzac hat, his
striped bells, his Indian vest. He had
three "I am the Ameri-cong" buttons,
two "It sucks" buttons and one "I am
the enemy of the state." He also had
two cap pistols, a Mattel rifle in jungle
green, and a green rubber knife slung
around his neck in a sheath.
"DO YOU KNOW any crash pads
around here?"
"It isn't like that around here. It
was sort of like that in the summer,
but it isn't any more. We all live off
our parents in semi-respectability."
"Yeah, I know. We were trying to
start a free store up here, but it just
didn't work." He then explained that
he represents the Diggers, New York
YIP, Ann Arbor YIP and the Panthers.
"I'm living at Guild House-some
crash pad. But they let me stay there,
even though some of the Resistance
guys don't like it very much. They
leave the door open and I can come
in two, three o'clock," he added.
But he only said, "You ever been in
Berkeley?"
Yes,# said. Yes San Francisco. Loved
it.
"The Haight?"
The question threw me off. I mean
in San Francisco, you only go to the
Height if you are 15 and have to be
home at midnight or if you're a tourist.
Tub istmrme t-~ / c.n- +h
The worst place I can think of I ran
away back to Berkeley after two years.
I had to."
"Where did you live?" I knew what
was coming.
"Oak Park."
"You don't have to say anything
else. I understand you. I really under-
stand you. I ran away from there my-
self two gears ago."
We looked at each other like long-
lost brothers "Where did you live?" I
asked, in a new context, and we played
who-do-you-know, when-did-you-grad-
uate for a while.
"You know, I went back there like
this and some of the high school kids
called me a fascist commie, because
I think I'm the only one right. We've
got to get to those kids."
OAK PARK is not really an explain-
able phenomenon unless you've been
there. Once a swamp, it now contains
40,000-people worth of identical three-
bedroomredbrickranchhouses. The men
think about making money and their
wivesworry about diets, kids and get-
ting Valley of the Dolls off the rental
waiting list at the library. They all
expect their kids to marry each other
and move into the house next door.
Anyway, he didn't have to say another
word. "What were you going to say
'on the Diag, huh?'
"Oh. I was going to announce the
Yippie plan to destroy the inaugura-
tion and the next President. National
YIP is sending me around the country
to tell all the people. But I gotta leave
here tomorrow; it's getting cold in this
town."
I then explained how I happened to
be allied with The Daily and he re-
sponded by calling a press conference
the next day to make his announce-
ment.
"But who'll come to it?" I asked.
"You will, won't you?"
"Who else?"
"WHO ELSE." It wasn't a question
or an answer. He just said it, like he
wasn't thinking at all. He didn't seem
to like the realization that part of the
reason I was talking to him was pro-
fessional, just as I didn't like the idea
of him coming from around the block.
Finally we got the UGLI, and he
made a last ditch effort at kissing me
passionately-I started laughing, be-
cause he was putting such an unneces-
sary ending on the whole encounter.
T Mils] +.allrb r ith he A White
THE GIRL scampered by with a te
book under her arm. The black co
read "Governing Urban America."
.Of all the quixotic dreams that pre
cupy mankind, few seem m o r e absi
than the idea t h a t we can govern
densely-packed urban centers. One w+
ders how much effort is wasted every s
gle day by both men and machines in
futile struggle to control the actions
other men and machines.
We all must recognize that there I
point - rapidly approaching if not
ready upon us - when events and in.
tutions become so' massive and comp
their ongoing momentum complet
dwarfs any human efforts to alter th-
path.
So it would seem thereapeutic toR
ourselves at least one day a week howc
we pretend to control complex organi
tions -- be they governments, business
or universities - when we can't even1
gin to manage our own lives?
AT TIMES like these we are soi
tempted by the appeals of those v
see a return to the soil as a refuge fri
complexity and our futile struggle to m;
ter it. There is a certain simplicity ab,
a small farm that seems to preserve Y
manistic values ordinarily lost in a w
ter of complexities.
We sympathize with those who hav
vision of a few congenial p e o ple or
small farm in Nova Scotia. We are
She undL
By BILL LAVELY
IF THE INTEREST and reaction of
the passers by was any indicator, I
would guess that it was the first time
that a live model had danced in the
window of a State Street boutique. The
little group of people there were fas-
cinated but embarrassed.
A husband and wife team stood be-
fore the window for a full five minutes,
the wife disgusted and glaring, the
husband leering stupidly and staring.
Nobody, not even the hip, passed the_
window without a second glance. A lit-
tle boy pressed his nose to the glass.
It was an attractive girl in the win-
dow. Standing there under the colored
lights, it was vaguely reminiscent of
certain streets in the city of Amster-
dam.! Yet there was a decidedly dif-
ferent flavor to this affair. Perhaps it
was the music. Perhaps it was the
dance.
The dance was soniewhat inhibited
tracted to their image of an idealized past
although we recognize that a farm means
hard work and long hours,
But at least there is some satisfaction
in knowing that almost all the toil exact-
ed by a farm is productive effort. Milking
cows requires few interoffice memos. Har-
vesting a field of grain does not even de-
mand bureaucratic flow charts. And little'
merchandizing goes into marketing to-
matoes.
Of course, we recognize t h a t we are
fatally trapped by our own fixation with
the tawdry tenticles of our ultra-modern
society. While our televisions go unwatch-
ed and we rarely visit art galleries, none-
theless we are still permanently bound to
the prepackaged frenzy of our irrational
culture.
But wouldn't it be wonderful one morn-
ing to escape it all and head north with
the cry, "What the hell?"
-THE EDITORIAL DIRECTORS
Editorial Staff
MARK LEVIN, Editor
STEPHEN WILDSTROM URBAN LEHNER
Managing Editor Editorial Director,
DAVID KNOKE, Executive Editor
WALLACE IMMEN ..................... News Editor
PAT O'DONOHUE.................. ... .News Editor
CAROLYN MIEGEL ......Associate Managing Editor
DANIEL OKRENT...............Feature Editor
WALTER SHAPIRO . .. Associate Editorial Director
HOWARD KOHN .. .,.Associate Editorial Director
AVIVA KEMPNER ............Personnel Director
By JIM HECK
I HAVE ALWAYS believed that the Uni-
versity was a dehumanizing institution,
but I blamed it mainly on its size.
But I never view the University as a de-
humanizing institution because of the stal-
warts of academic life. It always seemed
relatively easy to lure even a dedicated
chemistry professor into an aesthetic dis-
cussion.
However, several weeks ago I began to.
change my mind. In a course I'm taking
as a prerequisite for my major there is a
lecturer who, due to the nature of t h e
course, must discuss the differences be-
tween'the whites and the blacks.
When he does, his voice becomes fright-
eningly cautious, as though he were un-
veiling truths about differences that really
exist, at a time when the world doesn't
want to know this -kind of thing.
So he makes jokes much of the time. I
get the impression, he quips incessantly be-
cause he wants people to think of him as
a clown rather than a bigot or a scientif-'
ically determined pathological segregation-
ist - which he is.
His jokes follow explicit scientific con-
clusions that he apparently fears jar the
congenial rapport he spends so much time
building.
For example, he will crack 4 joke after
he has just said blacks carry more affinity
for an AB blood-type or that black pigment
is dominant to white. He makes jokes, be-
cause he is hungup - and know his stu-
dents are hung-up - on words that in his
science really mean entirely different
things than when!they are used idiomatic-
ally.
But he couldn't reconcile this during an
hour lecture 'with a philosophical or so-
cio-philosophical argument, and he knew
that many students wouldn't understand.
He was a scientist, not a human being; his
job was to teach anthropology, not; soci-
ology.
So he made jokes, and sometimes we
laughed because they were funny.
When/ he said that we should consider
the whole human world a bunch of diploid
genotypes, I laughed - I thought it was
grotesquely hilarious.'I contemplated walk-
ing out of the auditorium and seeing mas-
sive globs of hemoglobin walking around
displaying their diploid genotype. It was
really funny.
But curiously I was the only one in the
massive lecture hall who laughed. The oth-
ers didn't think it funny. They all thought
it quite natural to consider the whole world
a bunch of diploid genotypes.
He explained how you recognize a per-
son by his diploid genotype and how you
determine exactly what kind of a person he
is.
IS-
I wrote the phrase dowh in my notebook
and put a star by it, hoping to draw atten-
tion to it from those seated next to me.
But no one ever laughed.
Everyone just listened, and then wrote
very academically in their notepads, "If
all the world were a diploid genotype..."
Under that subhead he began to divide
the world into percentages and numbers
and letters. "Let's consider the whole hu-4
man population a collection of diploid gen-
otypes,' he began. Fine.
"Then," he continued, "we have the gene
frequency in' this segment of the popula-
tion equal to p', here, to 'q', and here to
'r'. And that means that the expected dip-
loid genotypes of AB-blood allele would be'
necessarily p-squared to 2 pq to q-squared."
I began to become awfully scared.
"Didn't you think that was funny'" I
nervously asked the mute A-diploid geno-
type next to me. He didn't answer.
It was then that I panicked. It was then
that I realized that size is only one factor
in dehumanization.
The world is KJ-26 recessive. The slums
are a result of an inbreeding of black dom-
inants w i t h recessive mental capacities.
,Death is but an end of metablosim. War is
a sociological outgrowth of adrenalin anxi-
eties. Hitler was a TOD freak. Stalin
wasn't really cruel, it was just his adanine
deficiency.
Hunger is the absence of an impetus for
interphase. Pain is the interruption of mi-
tosis. Hate we don't understand, yet. But
love - ah love - when a sperm and an
egg fuse into a xygote.
War, rebellion, social revolution, blood-
just a simple mixture of casual circum-
stances.
Apparently, I reasoned, that a chem-
istry ptpfessor who is easily lured into
aesthetic discussions must have never at-
tended this University - or any one like it.
There were 750 of us that day. Seven
hundred forty-nine, I heard returned for
the next lecture.
gently ..
3
V
1ated back and forth, bumped
THE EXPRESSION on her face, or
the lack of expression was striking.
Her eyes were fixed forward, making
no contact, focusing on nothing. Her
face was carefully made up, eyes lined
and painted dark and contrasted by
white powdered cheeks which made
her look like a plastic doll.
There was nothing happy or nothing
sullen about her. There was nothing
matter-of-fact or nothing angry about
her performance. She could have been
brushing her teeth or having her hair k .
done or being raped, for that matter.
She was alive but somehow her emo-
tions were suspended.
She undulated back and forth,
bumped gently, but there was nothing
erotic about it. It was a sadistic re-
versal of sex. She was hard and cold,
a, symbol of sterility in' the midst of
the whole artificial scene.
BUT WHEN THE MUSIC was over,
I found out that she really wasn't like
thaIt Tt a aimmir after all.Tt,.