After viewing the recent student performance of Shakespeare's "Hamlet," I got to thinking about some of the tragedies we face closer to campus. There's a lot of opportunity for heroic downfall around here, especially near construction sites. Just as in the Elizabethan era, we've got a lot of players around here (of sorts), and Shakespeare class is nothing short of a waking nightmare.
But if there's one place on this campus fraught with tragedy, it's the Integrated Learning Center. Now there is an ill-fated country if ever I saw one. Not to compare myself to Willie S., but I think the circumstances are worth writing about.
I admit there's nothing quite as fantastic as ghosts and incestuous queens in the ILC, and though I occasionally talk to inanimate objects, I haven't been hatching any plots against an uncle. Besides, that would be a story for another column.
At any rate, let me set the scene:
It's a typical Sunday morning. Unlike Shakespeare's theater, where the performances were staged in the afternoon to capitalize on the sunlight, the ILC is characterized by artificial lighting.
Within minutes, one notices the shortage of oxygen. Everywhere, the air is polluted by a wide array of appallingly strong body odors. In the ILC, regular and/or thorough bathing and deodorant application appear to be nonexistant, just as in Shakespeare's day.
Hanging all over the tables like slumbering guards are students clad in either pajamas and platform sandals or inexplicably tiny shorts. They're either sleep-deprived, hungover or both. Yet, they do not hesitate to viciously defend their work area from intruders bent on stealing their computers. The difference arises in their approach; "Who goes there? State your purpose" has been replaced with "What the hell do you want?"
Others will have just come from the gym with every intention of immediately returning after checking their e-mail and instant messaging all their friends. They are blessed to have such efficient
communication; otherwise, they would have to wait long stretches of time for correspondence, with nothing to do but dumbly open and close their textbooks. It was likely during such intervals as these that Shakespeare wrote his plays. If he lived today, he'd probably spend his days working out and looking up porn on the network.
Or he'd do what the majority is doing: talking, either with one another or on their cell phones, which seem to ring from one or several directions every five minutes.
Not all students are loud, though; some are coming as close to having sex as the law will allow, though upon being questioned they would vehemently insist they're using their computers for the homework they don't seem to have brought. They've probably left it at home, absorbing a puddle from last night's keg.
Based on snippets of conversation such as "You'll never believe what Kara did last night with Brad" and "Dude, check out that girl. No, not that one. THAT one," one can instantly surmise that the room is (with a few industrious exceptions) filled with individuals who've likely never had an original idea. At least that's one area Shakespeare couldn't really criticize; he'd be in a bit of a predicament himself if today's plagiarism laws applied to him. Nevertheless, students such as these may have toned abs, but they haven't the faintest clue about what they'll need for life after their youth has faded.
Which is ironic, since they're in the midst of more easily accessible knowledge than the world has ever known. Shakespeare would have killed for that much literature and a good map of Italy öö not to mention all the music he could rip off the Web.
And really, that's the tragedy. We can access vast resources in the ILC, but the space is filled with what smells like rotting flesh aided in its decomposition by over-tanning, and populated by students whose college admission is questionable at best. It's of Shakespearean proportions, and the playwright himself might have wept to know this was the sorry excuse for an audience the 21st century had in store for his and others' work.
If only I didn't have so much homework to do, I'd write a play about it. I'd call it "A Mid-Semester Morning's Debacle." I'd canvass Greek Row to find my lead actors and pay them in beer and condoms.
I guess it's just as well, though. I'd hope for incoherent hate mail, so it would be too depressing when opening night was a full house and half the audience hooted, "Yeah! We're in COLLEGE! YEAH!"
Sabrina Noble is a senior majoring in English and creative writing. She can be reached at letters@wildcat.arizona.edu.