It was large and round. It was bound in an almost casually drawn peace sign. It was bronze, in varying hues, and on days when the sun broke over the Cummings courtyard, it shone a stubborn gold. And while it bore the grim shadow of the curse to never graduate if rung, it was not uncommon to find the campus gong used for unexpectedly commonplace purposes: a parking spot for that artsy kid’s bike, an exotic Frisbee golf hole, a hurdle on a Saturday night. The view from Greer has always served as a quiet reminder that our school is certainly eccentric.
As of April 15, it looks as if we will be welcoming admitted freshmen to a Conn without a gong. That morning, the student body was rocked by Higdon’s tragic e-mail: the Lippincott Collection would be reclaiming their sculpture. Having been on loan to the college since 1995, our gong had finally been recalled by its owners, who claimed to have found it a permanent home. The Lippincott Collection’s “available works” section of its web page now displays a picture of our beloved gong. It looks pristine, polished and ready for sale. The graduating class of 2012 may very well have been the last class of seniors to ring it at their leisure.
What with our gong’s new asking price of $225,000, the College elected not to purchase it. But as Conn’s frugality in the hands of administration has proved itself merciless in the face of tradition recently, that decision could have been easily predicted. Also, that kind of investment would be taking money away from tightly spread school resources, a delicate balance currently showcased in discussions concerning the size of the Department of Literatures in English. Logically, it doesn’t really follow to now splurge on a gong doubling as sculpture.
And while the administration’s decision does signal a prioritization of efficiency over identity, our campus is not necessarily destined to be gong-less. The administration has left us with Conn’s first official “Gong Committee,” as well as the earnest promise to amend this atrocity. Composed of faculty, students and professors, the committee has been meeting frequently in recent weeks in order to find a substitute for the old tradition. ”We are looking into other options of acquiring an actual gong, as opposed to a sculpture,” explained Committee member Benedikt Gottwald ’15. Purchasing a musical instrument rather than a massive work of contemporary art is much more viable, and likely won’t make a difference to us as far as traditions go. Some might not even notice the subtle change from art to instrument. It’s arguable that one doesn’t exist, as long as it rings, and as long as it makes the Cummings courtyard Oriental-ish.
But the inevitable passing of our gong brings a certain nostalgia. Like Fishbowl, the Earth House walls and Tent Dance, many traditions have been relegated to the shadowy sidelines of our college experience, a trophy room of memories only alumni can inhabit with laughter, tears and a healthy amount of shame. With events like Fishbowl and Tent Dance in the past, we can’t help but be critical of Canopy Dance for unforgivably leaving the lights on. With time, the ebb and flow of circumstance can’t help but cause change, which never comes unanimously welcomed. There is little more to contextualize our time than the gains and losses caused throughout our four years here.
Yet, it can’t help but be noticed that the incoming substitutes are becoming a little more kosher each time, each change pointing towards a more regulated campus and a less adventurous student body. The root of our dislike for these changes stems from their being glaring intruders to this thing called tradition, a concept which seems impossible to abandon easily. Today, they look like patchy bandages on the wounds of a year’s worth of miscommunication in our system of shared governance. But, like the gong, their passing is by now inevitable, if not un-fixable, by what seem like external happenstance.
Within the next few months, we are bound to find out how Conn plans to replace our loud and artistic campus taboo. Looking behind, we can make at least an educated guess at what to expect: a practical and inexpensive replacement, one that will at least gesture to the gongs of the past. On an optimistic note, this is really a vacuum that we could fill with something greater. I have faith that the Gong Committee could pull out something huge, like mounted didgeridoos, bagpipes or, if things really turn up, that giant horn Gimli blew at Helms Deep, when invading orcs were about to ruin my favorite movie.
