The first page of my revised personal statement.
In my imagination the dry-erase board in the front of class burns white-hot and the reflection of the fluorescent lights bouncing off of it swelters like the sun. My mind wanders to the desert, back to about a year ago when I was part of an archaeological study abroad team atop Huaca de Cao Viejo on the coast of Peru, or what National Geographic has since called The Peruvian Temple of Doom, where we were the first outsiders ever let onto the scared Moche temple. Despite this I remember that after only a few days in the desert the at-first-amazing temples in El Brujo began to appear to me only like piles of sand. I considered this up there as I toiled in my 4ft by 4ft square. Then a rare cloud passed overhead blocking the sun for a moment.
Professor Nygren walks across the white-board and flicks off the lights to punctuate the end of his opening lecture. From the back of the class I reorient my focus to the TV cart in the corner of room 235 in Turlington Hall, Intro to Film Criticism and Theory. We are studying scenes from this week’s film, Alphaville (dir. Godard, 1965). On the TV sentient super computer Alpha 60 interrogates detective Lemmy Caution in a gravely half-human voice. Alpha 60 asks a series of questions to Mr. Caution. The scene reminds me of Blade Runner (dir. Scott, 1982), but I fail to come up with a reason as to why that’s important. Professor Nygren pauses the disc, waits in silence for just the perfect few seconds, and then asks the class, “Now what do you all think is happening in this scene?” It seems like everyone’s hand but a few including mine shoots right up. Also with nothing to say but wanting to contribute, a student near the switch flicks the lights back on. I envy his quick thinking and resourcefulness. The fluorescents begin to flicker.
Flashes of the desert sun dappled my face as I passed in and out of the tents that lined the temple while we made our way down to another long lecture in a room with no A/C or windows. I thought of ways to get out of it: heat stroke, sand in my eye, sand spider bite, or an ancient mummy curse. Then I heard a voice from behind and shuffled to a stop with the rest of the crew. Regalo, the dig director, spoke to us in Spanish. We turned to face him, and though he was much shorter than any of us, he towered over us atop the sloping sand ramp that went down from the temple. Kenny, our translator and a Vietnam veteran who limped through the desert on a war-injured knee, summarized for us, “He is saying that today while you were on the temple learning how to setup and perform an excavation, they found something very special that he would like to show you now.” We turned around and squinted through the sun to where Kenny pointed.
The TV projects the still image of Lemmy Caution’s interrogation, before Professor Nygren clicks off it and it shrinks to blackness. The class begins to get up. He reminds us, “Remember to get working on your mid-term essays. You have two weeks left.” I grudgingly saunter into Library West to re-watch Pickup on South Street (dir. Fuller, 1953) so I can take notes for my chosen prompt on Semiotics. I toss my backpack down hard in one of the semi-circle viewing carousels on the second floor of the library then awkwardly scoot into the center of the booth. I pop the disc into the flimsy black plastic tray of the DVD player, then scribble down a quick heading on a piece of note paper. Suddenly, I remember the weight in my right pocket, that I got a text during class. I pull out my phone to read it. It must have been while I was daydreaming that Brian sent, “Wanna bowl at the Reitz?” Instantly that seems better than this so I pack up my things, tearing out the page I headed from my notebook that I crumple up and shoot into the waste bin at the front desk where I walk to return the DVD. I make quick eye contact with the cute girl behind the front desk and hold out the DVD to give to her, then my gaze slips down into the dark waste bin.
Light flooded into the shallow hole. Men brushed away sand from the bleach-white bone. The body was posed arms across the chest and there were pieces of fine drinking vessels broken around it as offerings to the brutal Moche Gods. This was the first and only burial we would see in situ, a secret hidden for over a thousand years in darkness finally uncovered in front of our eyes. A strong ocean breeze blew across the desert, and I realized my renewed amazement.
An impulse comes over me. I stop short of the front desk and the girl there with her hand out to take the DVD, and bend over to grab the crumpled paper from the bin. I give the girl an apologetic look then turn around back to the A/V booth. There I pop the DVD in, smooth out the crumpled sheet of paper, and study the film with an enthusiasm I hadn’t felt in months.
