By Richard Rushfield
Don't persist with Me, i am Lost is an odd and salacious memoir approximately existence on the final New England hippie university on the peak of Reaganomics. starting its doorways in 1970, Hampshire collage was once an test in innovative schooling that went hilariously awry. Self- proclaimed nerd Richard Rushfield enrolled with the freshman category of 1986, hoping to shed his healthy California upbringing during this liberal hideout, the place overachievement and preppy outfits have been banned.
by way of turns hilarious, ironic, and steeped in heritage, Don't keep on with Me, i am Lost takes readers to a campus populated via Deadheads, membership little ones, poets, and insomniac filmmakers, at a time whilst the US observed the increase of punk and grunge along neoconservatism, earnest demands political correctness, and Take again the evening vigils. think Lord of the Flies set on a faculty campus and you have got Richard Rushfield's alma mater experience.
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Additional info for Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost: A Memoir of Hampshire College in the Twilight of the '80s
Our only direct contact with the historic peoples was in the person of our headmaster, who called frequent assemblies to remind us that at our age he and his consciousness-raised buddies had changed the world, while spoiled brats like us couldn’t even be bothered to show up for last Saturday’s Nuclear Freeze Forum Day. In his agonized soliloquies, it was impossible to make out what exactly he had done to change the world (the story involved backpacking in South America, growing his own vegetables, and reading Robert Frost), but our parents assured us constantly that our headmaster was a great man, a visionary.
Like Hampshire, my high school was a liberally oriented school cloistered from reality, with no gymnasium and no required athletic activity. The official selections for my high school PE class included bowling one year and bicycle rides to neighborhood lunch spots the next. Without the presence of jocks, one’s chances of getting beaten up at my high school were slightly less than being electrocuted by a passing zeppelin. My high school had been founded on 1960s-inspired principles of nonviolence and social reform that losers like myself could take advantage of to roam the campus, head held high, and play monstrous pranks on our snooty socialite classmates without any fear of an ass-whooping.
The course catalog I set aside for bathroom reading, but the rest, filled with long lists appended with subsections and graphs, had never grabbed me. I recalled glancing at it and thinking that it was impossible to believe that anyone else going to a liberal arts college of progressive inclinations could read this stuff either. ” She set down her pencil as though letting it rest before it should be called up to do the hard labor of penetrating my eye socket. ” “Nothing,” I said. ” She sighed, shook her head, and pushed the keys to my new home across the table to me.