The “Proper” Authorities

“YOU HAVE NOT FULFILLED YOUR AREA 6 REQUIREMENT: PHILOSOPHY/RELIGION,” read the angry sheet of paper.

Surely this must be a simple mistake, I thought. I was told by both my professor and the then-current, legitimate General Education Requirement documents that my “REL 209/PHI 214: Daoist Traditions” course would do the trick.

Upon asking the appropriate authorities at the Office of Records and Registration about this obvious misunderstanding, they informed me that “REL 209/PHI 214: Daoist Traditions” was a history course that could not fulfill area six.

Unfortunately, I discovered I was not the only one to come across this problem. An esteemed colleague of mine was told she hadn’t fulfilled her writing intensive requirement. She tried making the case that she was an English major, and that several of her courses by definition were writing intensive. It was cute of her to try.

Another respected friend was told that he hadn’t completed his religion and philosophy requirement, despite being a philosophy major. Apparently, he got the strange notion that taking thirteen philosophy courses over eight semesters would fulfill the necessary objectives, but he was sorely mistaken.

As a firm believer in the concepts of logic and reality as taught to me by my father, and I would assume generations of happy successful men, I was determined to get this matter sorted out. I asked my professor if she would please explain to the proper authorities that the course discussed the religion and philosophy of Daoist texts rather than history, much like “REL 207: Buddhist Traditions,” an officially sanctioned option.

She responded the next day, informing me that she had spoken with those in charge, and they had said it was a history course. She continued by scolding me for not referring to one of superior rank by their title, and not following proper protocol.

Bewildered and left with no other options, I decided to take on the council myself.

Upon entering, I was led to a windowless room with a single wooden chair. In random intervals, an anonymous representative would slide forms under the door asking me why I was here. After filling out the appropriate forms three times, two men in suits sat quietly next to me and would not respond. I repeated this for four and a half hours.

Suddenly, the two men began fighting in front of me until two campus safety officers came in and escorted the men out. Immediately after, I was arrested for assault and battery. Before I had the chance to proclaim my innocence, a rag was placed over my nose.

Everything went black.

Drifting out of my chloroform haze, I found myself locked in the Nichols House Treasure Room where I wrote most of this article. After three days of feeding me nothing but ham with fruit topping and yellow cake, the officers opened the door without saying a word.

Relieved, I walked back to Katherine Blunt House, to find my camel card would not let me in any residence halls, and all of my I.D. cards were now blank. Confused, I returned to the office, but upon inquiry no one could produce the proper paperwork to prove that I had ever attended Connecticut College. I was fairly sure I had spent the last three years of my life going to classes here, but the paperwork said otherwise.