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My Cardinal Sin By Virginia Matzek ’92, M.S. ’99 “Hello,” I said to the Palo Alto police dispatcher. “I want to report a crime in progress.” It was 1 a.m.; I was downstairs in my bathrobe in my Stanford campus apartment. “What kind of crime?” she asked. “The Stanford band is playing outside,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that’s a crime. You know, disturbing the peace, butchering pop music, that sort of thing. I recommend you shoot to kill.” “I’m sorry, ma’am, but they have a permit. It’s a special event.” “They have a permit to disturb the peace?” “Tonight they do, yes, ma’am.” I hung up and went back up to bed. “*&$#@ Stanford band!” I said to my husband. “I’m dropping out of school tomorrow.” Come the next morning, though, Stanford didn’t look so bad. In fact, it looks better and better the more I stay here. In fact...I actually like it here. If you only knew what it costs me to say that in print. I am—I used to be—the quintessential diehard irrational Stanford hater. Crazed by the sight of red, like an angry bull. Reflexive hisser at any mention of Stanford’s name. Moved to tears by the finish of every Big Game since 1988 (current record is tears of rage 11, tears of joy 2). And though I had occasionally met nice people who had gone to Stanford, I just couldn’t let myself get close to them—because, you know, Stanford. So when I was applying to Ph.D. programs in biology, I could never really imagine attending Stanford, though it has a fine program. In my mind’s eye I saw myself accepting the Berkeley offer and writing a withering refusal to Stanford, disdaining their fat tuition credit and juicy stipend in favor of Berkeley, public education, and all things good and true. And then Berkeley turned me down. When our friends heard we were moving to Stanford, they were apoplectic. “You’re going to hate it,” they said, not even trying to sugercoat it. “I can’t believe you’re willing to expose your child to that,” said one friend, a new mother like myself. Another was so upset by the prospect of my treachery that I finally had to take him aside and whisper, “Sometimes you have to subvert the system from within.” After we moved, the early omens were not good. On my first trip to the Menlo Park Safeway, the cashier noticed my Oakland address and made a racist comment. We couldn’t find any good restaurants. All the coffee shops were Starbucks. There was only one good bookstore. At night, the sounds of the Stanford Band wafted in while my baby slept, probably undoing all that Mozart we’d played in utero. And no matter how often I looked at the Hoover Tower, it still didn’t have a clock on it. I felt a surge of relief and nostalgia when I saw my first protesters, holding up signs and inviting motorists to honk for their cause. It was November, amid the bizarre Florida election crisis. Then I saw what the signs said: “Gore concede!” By God, they were Republicans. In Berkeley, Republicans usually don’t show themselves out of doors, let alone advertise it on signs. Toto, I thought, where are those damned ruby slippers? But Stanford started to win me over. Initially, I had planned to hold out hating Stanford all the way up until my graduation, five years hence, but in actual fact I couldn’t keep it up past Christmas. It started slowly, with me standing in the quad one day and suddenly thinking, “My, that’s a lovely building.” I made friends with the other grad students, a diverse and talented group. The undergraduates in my classes turned out to be pleasant, intelligent young people, if a little sheltered (I was the only student in my Spanish class who knew who César Chavez was). The faculty, of course, is mind-bogglingly accomplished and interesting. And, compared to Berkeley, Stanford’s bureaucracy is nonexistent. The day I realized I could organize a seminar course without filling out any forms was the day I started to like Stanford. Since then I’ve been continually redrawing the Line I Will Not Cross. Once “I Will Not Like Stanford” went by the wayside, I tried “I Will Not Like Stanford Students” (failed miserably), then “I Will Not Like Stanford Athletes” (but the soccer players in my class were so nice! so cleancut and earnest!), and most recently “I Will Not Buy Anything With Stanford Insignia on It” (this lasted until I really needed a notebook, but to my credit I bought a blue one and covered the Stanford name with a “Go Bears” sticker). At this point I’m down to “I Will Not Stop Hating the Stanford Band,” but I recognize this is pretty pitiful. Even Stanford people hate the band. Hmmm… so does all this make me a Stanford person? I’m not sure yet. All I can say is that I was recently passing by an athletic field where a Cal–Stanford women’s rugby game had just ended, and I stopped to ask the score. Anyone could have told me, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone in a Stanford sweater. Red was still the enemy. I threaded through the knot of spectators until I found a Cal cap, a Golden Bear, a friend.  Return to Top |
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