It’s odd what I remember: the weather, sunny and brisk, one of those perfect fall days when the light is so bright it’s almost painful; the red-tiled roofs awash with light, shining as if they’d been scrubbed the night before. Around the big, grassy quad the tall oaks swayed and sighed. It was a day when everything, every small detail, seemed significant: the rustling leaves, the slant of light across the path.
Twenty-five years later, I remember the little things, mostly, about that day. I remember the excitement, dark like some forbidden sexual thrill, of breaking the rules, being here on the quad instead of in class. More than seventy percent of us boycotted our classes that day because the college administration had banned a Communist from speaking on campus. We marched. We gave speeches about the hypocrisy, the infuriating paternalism, of banning a speaker at a liberal arts college dedicated to the habits of freedom.
