A non-Apostolic beard story

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The following story was found on the internet and I thought I 
would pass it along.  Pretty interesting.
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Classroom revolt sheds light on facial hair, power dynamics

Roger Madoff

I finally figured out what kept me from shaving last week.
Looking at my patchy scruff in the mirror,
I knew it couldn't be vanity. Something transcendent, beyond the
physical,
had to lie at the root of my Sensor-lessness. Sitting in my Marxism
class,
I realized the vague connection between what happened two Wednesday
afternoons ago in that same class and my (ahem) beard.

That Wednesday our class did something not particularly ingenious,
but nevertheless unique among my experiences at Duke.
A quiz had been scheduled. Much of the class sat, waiting for the TAs to
arrive, grumbling about it. As authority was nowhere in sight, we mused
about skipping out in protest of quiz. For whatever reason, for once at
Duke
words translated into action.

Rather than just complaining to our peers and eventually succumbing
to the whims of our professors, we acted on our angst. We said to ****
with
it, let's leave. And we did (well, most of us did at least).

The class packed their bags and poured out--slowly at first, then en
masse.
A revolution had manifested itself in the classroom. No one could take
official
credit for it. It seemed as if people drew strength from each other's
desire to
leave, creating a critical mass that gave most everyone the
courage to break with authority.

In those brief moments as I walked out the door I basked in decadent
freedom. I was without a care, ignoring the possible negative
consequences.

We left the room as one, but everyone went their separate ways.
As I separated myself from the glory of the triumphant group,
I began to consider the consequences of my act.

United as a group, with an immediate evil--not taking the quiz--bringing
us together, we rose up against our oppressors. I soon realized, however,
that this revolution had begun and ended in that single, spontaneous act.
Now separated, we were powerless. More importantly, I figured out that
continuing the revolution meant investing a lot of time and effort, much
more
than does reading a few chapters and taking quizzes every now and then.

Given the choice between continuing to reject authority or pretending
nothing
ever happened and simply attending the next class, I knew most people,
including myself, would choose the latter. As expected, on the following
Monday the class sat silently, waiting to hear the professor's
pronouncements concerning our insurrection.

Which brings me back to my original point--facial hair. I sat there
scratching
the widely separated whiskers of my mane, and I realized that fateful
Wednesday was also the last time I shaved. My swallowed cries of defiance
had manifested themselves upon my face.

My subconscious wouldn't let me shave until I saw that those moments,
those unexpected outbursts of the will, give us self-awareness. Even if
nothing
significant came from my actions, by deviating from what was intended I
saw
my abilities and shortcomings more clearly. My stubble grew to
remind me that from that moment I was a little different than I was
before.

The teacher rescheduled the quiz for the next Wednesday. Nothing punitive
came of our insolence.  After class someone asked me if we should
continue
our resistance. I thought about it and said, "Nah, what for?" It was fun
the first
time, but after a second mutiny you should probably have a
better reason than, "Because I don't want to."

And the beard? Well, I went home for Passover this past weekend,
shaving before I left. I decided I didn't need the scruff, now that I had
figured out why I grew it.

But more important, explaining to my parents and relatives my commitment
to the revolution was not worth hearing "What's that schmutz on your
face?
Here's a napkin, wipe it off," over and over.

Roger Madoff is a Trinity junior and assistant city/state editor of The
Chronicle. 
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