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Memories of an Aggie Bonfire boy | page 1, 2

I did my time. But my time wasn't up yet. Our sophomore year, my roommate (ol' lady in Aggie parlance), began spending most of his free nights in the chilled air out on the bonfire field. Eventually, he worked his way to the third tier or "stack," wiring hundred-pound logs with baling wire to the centerpole, an unusual distinction for a young sophomore, earned by slogging through the slower early morning hours. He spoke ceaselessly of the glory and edgy abandon in the rarefied air up on stack. You could say anything you wanted and be whoever you wanted as long as it involved copious amounts of Copenhagen snuff, Carhart overalls and colorful rural analogies, with only gravity and time to answer to. Extended time up on stack produced a euphoric state, an exalted tunnel vision wherein this was the only possible existence and these boys your only possible friends. However, those moments were always fleeting: Dawn always came, the monastic Corps of Cadets lifestyle always got you down and finals inevitably followed three weeks after bonfire burned.

As individual waves are sometimes difficult for surfers to recount, so specific moments of Bonfire wash out in waves of liquid flame. Although its ultimate destruction was our aim, the corporate effort required to conjure it was what made it so magical. It was a wooden tower infused with the dreams, sweat and desires of a thousand vagabond males, set ablaze with surreal fire like a titanic burning bush. In recent weeks, many people, including university president Ray Bowen, have wisely asked if Bonfire's season has passed. Bowen swiftly cancelled this year's festivities and said a permanent cancellation of Bonfire is a viable option. Others have rallied for the tradition to continue, if only as a tribute to the 12 frozen in their youth by the prisons of oak.

At first blush, the bonfire seems like a Neanderthal obsession that serves only the good old boys who build it. As a scandalous tribe in a conservative state, A&M and the Cadet Corps have long been subjects for public crucifixion. In 1993, the corps withered under intense media scrutiny after several female cadets came forward with charges of rape and rampant sexual harassment. Evidently, the corps and Bonfire have changed somewhat, as there were numerous women Aggies working on stack during its nightmarish disintegration, including one who perished. Yet for many the beauty of Bonfire lay in its rejection of mom and smothering femininity and its glorification of shared hardship and manly ritual. Like any grand and imposing architecture, it is designed to convey power and imperious achievement. This point was further reinforced by the empathetic and heartfelt attendance at the memorial service by Gov. George W. Bush and his father, both former members of Yale's secret society Skull and Bones.

As I watched A&M narrowly defeat Texas in a game that seniors dedicated to the fallen 12, Bonfire struck me as much more than a strange college ritual. Like the fraternal bond among small infantry units in combat, with their late-night secret sharing and hidden vulnerabilities, Bonfire construction was a chance to push the limits, to hang in a rope swing 40 feet in the air, hurling profanities at your best friends and shivering in unison as a blue norther cold front kicked down from Canada. Like the Apollo missions to the moon and the teams that set out to scale Mount Everest, Bonfire is a Promethean pageant, a monument to man's tragic, hubristic rebellion against gravity and Mother Nature.
salon.com | Dec. 8, 1999

 

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About the writer
Dave Morris is a Texas A&M graduate, a former cadet and a graduate student in literature at San Diego State University.

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