As a senior, I designed an anthropology thesis research project that included surveying and interviewing senior and first-year women to determine how, why, and to what extent they achieved their educational and personal goals. I was proud of the 40-page paper I produced at the end of the project! The critiques I received from my adviser and thesis committee, however, make me cringe to this day. They provided negative and well-deserved comments about not only the many typos, grammatical mistakes, and page-break errors in the paper, but also about the premise of the project, the methods I chose, and my analysis and conclusions. I’m not sure I read all of the comments in one sitting, as they were so difficult to internalize. Not only was my senior research project a practical learning experience, but so was accepting criticism as valuable feedback for improvement. My Grinnell research project still serves as a humbling reminder to carefully consider my choices of approaches and personal biases in the research I do today.
I was a sociology major, and I found that none of my classes discussed the African diaspora in the Americas outside of the United States. Luckily, Burling had a fairly extensive black history library. There I was able to learn about blacks in Brazil and other Latin American countries. I learned about the difference in the slave trade and how racism and colorism were intertwined with classism. Each Latin American country was a little different. I also learned about blacks living in Canada, who had fled there to escape slavery but still faced racial discrimination. This was never an official research project, but skipping class to read books that I was actually interested in was a highlight of my Grinnell experience as a black student in the 1980s.
In 1960 my classmate (no names, please!) and I became publishers of the notorious Grinnellian Rebellion. We started this underground newsletter as a humorous alternative to the Scarlet & Blah, the official voice of the student corpus. It was written on a manual typewriter and then mimeographed surreptitiously in Goodnow Hall. Paper cost a lot of money for us impoverished juniors. Fortunately, friends would kick in a ream or two of paper.
The mailroom supervisor, who was indifferent, senile, or had a sense of humor, stuffed each issue into students’ mailboxes. Then we’d stand outside to see who snorted and threw our magnum opus in the trash or laughed uproariously at the parody. Happily, none of us were caught and expelled. He went on to be a direct-mail writer and I a corporate communications director.
In the late 1960s, field hockey was a club team with no official coaches and no official budget, but we had the complete support of Ms. Buck and Ms. King, who arranged for transportation to our away games. Those of us from the East Coast, where hockey was highly competitive, recruited our friends so that we could field a complete team. We were lucky because we had one experienced forward, one experienced halfback, and one experienced fullback; so we had the coaching covered!
You can imagine our delight when we won the state championship in 1968, surely fueled by spirit and grit more than talent. On our way home, we stopped for dinner and carried our 3-foot-tall trophy crowned by its hockey player into the restaurant with us to keep it safe. The hostess looked at our prize and said, “I see you girls won a golf tournament!”
I vividly remember auditioning for the musical Stop the World, I Want to Get Off during the 1968–69 season. Merritt Olsen ’68 was cast as the lead, Littlechap, and I was cast as Ginne, an American cabaret singer, one of his conquests. I recall how intense rehearsals were but how easy Merritt made it seem. His acting was so natural and he was so professional that he immediately put all the cast at ease.
In one scene, Littlechap and I had a flirtatious moment onstage after I sang a song and sat in his lap. It was so much fun to trade lines with him and see how the audience appreciated his performance as much as I did. Although this was my first acting role, taking part in the theatre at Grinnell and working with such a talented actor and the rest of the cast was a thrilling experience for me.
Freshman year I was a member of Cleveland Hall’s after-dinner basketball team. I think we were playing Loose Hall, and with 20 seconds left, we were behind by a point. We stole the ball and called a time-out.
I remember saying, “Don’t give me the ball,” as I knew I wasn’t the one to trust! But with seconds left, and me standing in the corner to not be anywhere near the action, Dave Rosenwasser ’73 tossed me the ball.
As I heard the ref count down from five, I threw the ball with all my might towards the basket, and to my shock it swished through; we won by a point.
I even called my parents after the game to let them know of my “heroics” of that evening. I still remember the ecstasy I felt years later!
For spring 1960 track/field intramurals, I entered the softball throw as a Dibble freshman. My principal opponent was a rangy, sophomore, 6-foot-5-inch Iowa farm boy. All his throws were perfect liners, rarely 10 feet off the ground. His best was 293 feet.
We had a big tail wind north of Darby Gym. I remembered high school physics — the best distance is achieved with a 45-degree angle. With that science and the tail wind, 310 feet won.
The next year, we were both back to compete. He threw the same 293 feet with no wind for Rawson. My second-best for West Norris was 290. I always wished I had been able to throw like him when I wanted to.
On a whim (and a compelling green Mac field), I joined Grinnell women’s Ultimate Frisbee team, the Sticky Tongue Frogs. Joining Ultimate — a self-refereeing spirit of the game played by people who occasionally dress in costumes to play a sport — was, in a way, entering the culture of Grinnell. Indeed, my Ultimate community is composed of some of the strangest, most caring, eclectic, athletic people I’ve ever known — including my now spouse, Caleb Leedy ’16.
For four years, we drove across the country for tournaments, played in frostbite-inducing weather and on the beach in warm-to-us March weather. Along the way, I learned to bid, handle, heckle, and cut. We qualified for Division III Nationals three years, and while playing, I dislocated my shoulder an equal number. Today, I’m reminded of the weird goodness of meeting and befriending humans whom I likely would never have otherwise met, but can’t imagine life without.
Prompt: Winters in Iowa can be brutal.
As a native Iowan, nothing really phases me, but there was one night in the winter of 1991–92 that was particularly memorable. That night, the aurora borealis was clearly visible from Mac Field — gorgeous glowing green and white lights dancing across the sky. I ran out to see as soon as someone shouted down the Langan Pit hallway and completely forgot to put on my shoes. Yes, I ran out into the snow of Mac Field barefoot AND stood out there to watch the lights for about 10 minutes before I realized what I’d done. I ended up having to wear double layers of socks for weeks and not being able to feel my feet for the next four days — minor frostbite. Whoops.
– Stephany Schmidt Hall ’9
In the winter of ’82, I lived in a four-room triple on Haines 2nd. When the steam radiator behind our couch was cranked open, the central room became insufferably hot and stifling, so we always opened the windows. Standard protocol when approaching the dorm was to try to lob a snowball through a window. Surprise and laughter were guaranteed for a successful toss, and bonus points were awarded for actually hitting someone.