Power and Grace

Years after having quit high school to join a rock 'n roll band, I enrolled in college--mainly to put off taking up the responsibilities of adulthood. It was a period of outrageous self-indulgence. That I learned anything at all is a testament to a few incredible teachers and the enthusiasm they inspired in their classes.

Through a process I have never unraveled, I found myself keeping company with a clique of drama students. I reeked of patchouli, ranted like Elridge Cleaver, and looked like Rasputin. They were mainly a pampered bunch, upscale kids whose common experience was along the lines of spending Christmas holidays skiing in Switzerland. Their neuroticism was palpable, though not quite as disturbing as that of the "social work" crowd. Mine was rampant; that was the link. One of the mothers once tracked me down in my basement lair and demanded to know why I was wasting my time with this bunch. She made it clear she thought them shallow and stupid (including her own daughter) and accused me of burrowing into their midst solely for the purpose of mockery. In retrospect, I can see where the prospect of having an anarchist from the East End sitting in the parlour drinking their single-malt while wiping metaphoric feet on the Aubusson would be threatening.

I found her utterly enchanting, and wish I could tell her today what I did not know to tell her then: A raving rebel is hard-pressed to find social acceptance. It's very lonely in circumpolar orbit, no matter how absorbing the view. I thought these scions generous, and lovely company when they weren't waxing sentimental about St. Moritz.