Greater expectations
Pursuing potential is frightening, but achieving adequacy is terrifying
MATT PETERSON is a
senior English and news
editorial major and a
Daily Nebraskan colum
nist.
As graduation approaches and
my career as a professional student
draws to a close, I find that I have
more questions now than when my
higher education be£an.
Perhaps this is only natural, as
that motherly conscience in my head
assuages. But I can’t ignore the sus
picion that would seem to refute the
very formula I’d hoped would hold
all the answers when I was a fresh
man.
After five tedious years and sev
eral thousand dollars in student
loans, college seems to have been lit
tle more than a glorified process of
elimination.
Although college may have fallen
somewhat short of the “greatest
years of my life” - at least, I hope it
has -1 can’t chalk the experience up
as a waste of time, either. The friends
I’ve made and the wisdom I’ve
gained outside the classroom have
made these years unforgettable.
But my passions remain as elu
sive as ever, challenges have been
few and far between, and inspiration
has proved a rarity over the past few
years.
I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in
coming to this conclusion. Perhaps
this is a dilemma peculiar to liberal
arts majors - as my grandfather
would likely assert - but, knowing a
few engineering and math majors, I
have a feeling it’s common to more
analytical minds, as well.
Who’s to blame for my quan
quandary? Complaining about acad
emic rigor and faculty quality make
for convenient catharsis, but I can’t
blame my beloved third-tier alma
mater.
Indeed, if college has been good
for anything, its adequacy has alerted
me to my own adequacies.
Many people are convinced that
if they are good at something, it must
follow that they enjoy it and make a
living at it. I have a feeling that path
leads to a cubicle full of disappoint
ment for me.
College has made me well aware
of several vocations that I could
serve acceptably - perhaps even
exceptionally.
But I have yet to discover that
elusive calling that will serve me.
As I walk across the Bob
Devaney Sports Center stage at next
month’s commencement and am
bequeathed the piece of paper that
guarantees my equal footing in the
job market, I’ll have to finally
address that nagging question that’s
been put to me ad nauseam by
friends and relatives:
What now?
I’m starting to suspect that my
process of elimination has only
begun. It will not find a satisfactory
conclusion when I shake my dean’s
hand and stumble into full-time
employment. Rather, the process will
be a lifelong pursuit (or liveslong, if
you’re into that sort of thing).
As I’m coming dangerously
close to writing about the meaning of
life here - far be it from opinion
columnists to write about something
of which they know nothing about -
I’ll back off a bit.
Accepting adequacy at the cost
of potential is a sacrifice that count
less people have accepted as simply
being realistic. Indeed, “paying the
rent” may be the single most com
monly accepted meaning of life the
world over.
On the other hand, ignoring ade
quacy for the pursuit of potential is a
much more frightening prospect
because true potential is never attain
able. Like that proverbial carrot on a
string, it will always be just out of
reach.
This sort of idealism does not
seem to allow for much satisfaction
- and herein lies the reason why the
pursuit of potential is the frightening
road less traveled.
At this point, however, I find the
prospect of taking stock of my life 20
years from now - when I’m balanc
ing a hectic schedule, an unfulfilling
job and an often neglected family -
downright terrifying. There may be a
bit more traffic on this road, but I
suspect the destination.
bo instead 1 11 spend those 2U
years, and likely the next 20, devot
ing my passion to those pursuits that
have eluded my adequacy, and my
process of elimination will inevitably
continue.
And the next time someone con
fronts me with that question that
strikes fear in the hearts of so many
college graduates - “What are you
going to do after gradation?” - I’ll
know what to say:
Everything.
TODD MUNSON is a senior
broadcasting major and a
Daily Nebraskan columnist
I read a book last week.
Actually, I read three. Something
about trying to bust out a credit’s worth
of independent study credit in a week.
Procrastination at its finest.
Of the three one, really stood out.
It’s the first book I’ve ever read for a
class where I didn’t think about skip
ping ahead a few chapters. In fact, this
sounds really bad, it’s probably the first
book I’ve read cover-to-cover in a
prompt manner since my last purchase
of a “Far Side” book.
Told in the pages of the book in
question was the life story of a man
who was arguably one of the greatest
American athletes of the century, per
haps ever.
His name was Marshall Taylor.
Name doesn’t ring a bell, does it?
How about Major Taylor, the name
he competed under?
Still doesn’t ring a bell, does it?
Well, shoot, it’s time to learn some
thing.
From 1895 to his retirement in
1910, “The Major” was one of the
world’s most dominant bicycle racers.
He broke several world records many
times over and was the American sprint
champion of 1899 and 1900. A world
championship in 1899 was the icing on
the cake. From 1901-04, Taylor toured
the world becoming an athlete of inter
national fame.
During this time period, bicycle
racing, both in America and abroad,
was a sport that drew thousands of
spectators every weekend. It was not
uncommon to have 5,000 people
squeeze into Madison Square Garden
to watch racers zing around a tightly
banked oval track. With the automobile
not yet invented, these cyclists were the
fastest humans on earth. \
It should also be noted that Major
Taylor was a black man.
Almost half a century before
Jackie Robinson’s debut with the
Brooklyn Dodgers, Major Taylor had
broken into a sport that to this day is
close to 99 percent white and he didn’t
just participate, he dominated.
Bom in 1878 on a dusty farm out
side of Indianapolis, Marshall was the
A lesson learned in time
Role model athlete wrongly forgotten simply because of race
youngest of eight children. His grand
parents were freed slaves and his father
had fought for the North in a black reg
iment during the Civil War.
Around 1887, his father took a job
in the city as a stable master for a
wealthy family. The family had one
child, who was the exact same age as
Major. It wasn’t too long before he
began to live with the Southards as a
hired friend to their son Daniel. While
“working” for the Southards, he
received the finest education, was
exposed to many things unavailable to
someone of his background and, when
Daniel got a bike, Major was given one
also.
After a couple of years, the
Southards moved to Chicago and
Major moved back to the farm, bicycle
in tow.
To help his family out, Major took
on a paper route in Indianapolis. It was
11 miles each way, and this paper route
was the foundation for the skill that
would make him a champion a few
years later. By age 13, he landed a job
at a local bicycle store performing
tricks and other stunts outside to draw
customers into shop.
While working there, the shop
sponsored a bicycle race in which he
forced Major to participate. Literally
kicking and screaming at the start,
Major rode the race with tears of fear
soaking his face. When he crossed the
finish line the tears of fear were
replaced by tears of joy. Major had
beaten a field of racers twice his age by
six seconds.
The race that was the catalyst for
Major turning professional occurred in
1895 at age 16. It would also be his
first confrontation witfrracial violence.
It was a 75-mile race from Indianapolis
to the town of Matthews. Halfway
through, Major moved up to the front
and was instantly berated with racial
slurs and death threats.
Instead of quitting, he rode faster
than ever. In fact, he was the lone fin
isher after the other 99 white competi
tors thought the pounding rain was to
much to handle.
Not long after this victory, Major
and his mentor, professional racer
Birdie Munger, moved to Worcester,
Mass., to escape the hostile climate
that surrounded him in Indiana and
nearby states.
Still, this didn t help much. The
League of American Wheelmen, the
governing body of racing, tried to
structure its bylaws to exclude Major
from competition. It worked to an
extent - Major could still race in north
ern cities but was chased out of the
South.
In the races in which he could com
pete, Major was literally racing for his
life. It was never eight men racing
against each other, but seven white
men trying to take out Major at over 30
miles per hour.
Instead of quitting, Major kept on
keeping on, and avoided danger by out
riding everyone. The slew of victories
that followed resulted in massive
amounts of money and made Major
one of the most prominent athletes
in the world. Even though news
papers in his home country
referred to him as a “darky,”
reports in Europe labeled
Major a hero.
When he did go abroad,
Major received the attention
and praise he deserved in <
America but was never /
given because of his color. f
He repeatedly went
back to Europe and to 1
Australia to race simply \
because he could do so
without fearing for his life.
When he won abroad, he’d
ride a victory lap with an
American flag, proud to be
a representative of a country
that hated him.
In 1932, the former
champion of the world died
penniless in Chicago after he
lost his fortune in a series of
failed business ventures. His
accomplishments were all but
forgotten with the rise of the
automobile and the decline of
bicycle racing.
Today in Europe, he is still a
household name, but in America
he’s all but forgotten.
Why?
Racism.
As fascinating as it was learning
about his triumphs, the greatest lesson
to be learned from “Major Taylor” by
Andrew Ritchie, whichls available at
the lovely Love Library, is that racism
is the most ignorant idea ever.
As a person, Major was of the
highest morals. He refused thousands
of dollars offered for racing on
Sundays, his time to honor God. He
had a sip of champagne just once. He
almost never indulged in anything
harsher than water.
To the blacks in America, he was
the best role model they could have ask
for. And he probably wouldn’t have
died broke if he hadn’t given so much
of his money to the poor.
He was a better athlete, a better
person and better educated than his
American competitors, but was hated
simply because his skin was a different
color.
And that’s just stupid.
Shawn Ballarin/DN
