Features

Mark Russell

Russell confronts prejudice in effort to rid stereotypes

M

ark Russell can tell his share of horror stories. "What's a horror story? Let's call it facing the word `nigger' in a decade when it's supposed to be unfashionable."

After he was elected as a Briscoe Quad senator during his freshman year, he found "Mark Russell, Elected Nigger of The Year" scratched in both dorm elevators. "There's my tribute," he said.

Or he can tell about the time women from a black sorority went to a store in the College Mall to pick up an order of lettered shirts. They saw a note that was attached: "These are the shirts for the nigger girls."

But he brings out the horror stories only as a sideshow, because they don't happen too often. The main event — the real concerns he sees facing blacks — is as far away as South Africa and as nearby as a black freshman all too aware that he is part of a 4-percent minority on campus.

Russell said that the School of Education studied black dropouts from IU in 1978 and found that the primary reason given for dropping out was not financial trouble or academic failure — it was feeling alienated on a mostly white campus. "The first three days I was down here (as a freshman) I was looking for a black person to wave at," he said. "Then you find yourself in a 500-person lecture class with maybe two blacks in it, and the professor may be uncouth enough to say, 'Mark, what do black people think about this?' You go from being a nervous student to being a nervous representative of your race."

Even when it comes to having a good time, blacks are often separate and not always equal. "The weekend billed as 'The World's Greatest College Weekend' — the Little 500 — has virtually no meaning for the black student body. Up until a year ago, there were no blacks competing consistently," he said. "Generally, it's an excuse for a lot of people to get rowdy and get drunk. Sometimes the more racist elements of the student body come out at that time," he said. "The Black Student Union picnic (held at the same time) is an attempt to compensate for that feeling of alienation."

Changing the social atmosphere for blacks on campus is slow work, measured in small losses and small gains, he said. About 250 blacks find niches in sororities and fraternities on campus, Russell said, and through the work of Dean of Students Michael Gordon, Ili-Bloomington Vice President Kenneth Gros Louis, Richard McKaig, associate dean of students for activities and programs, and others, IU is taking steps forward.

But some issues can't be tackled in small steps. Either the city agrees to investigate the Denver Smith shooting further, or it doesn't. Either the IU Board of Trustees agree to divest

South African-related investments, or it doesn't. Russell's efforts in both causes failed.

In September 1983, former IU football player Denver Smith was shot and killed by Bloomington police officers. An investigation by the city's Board of Safety exonerated them.

Russell was a sophomore and president of the University's BSU that year, and he fought for a broader investigation of the shooting after he and his staff examined the testimony of police officers before the board. "We found at least seven contradictions in the testimony," he said. "But (Monroe County Prosecutor) Ron Waicukauski refused to even consider convening a grand jury."

Then, in the spring of 1985, Russell began marching with protesters who sought to convince the trustees to divest IU's stocks in companies that do business in South Africa. The trustees declined to do so, despite the urgings of Nobel Prize-winner Bishop Desmond Tutu during a $15,000 forum on divestment. The next spring, the board divested $42,000 in two companies — less than 1 percent of its South Africa-connected portfolio — because the companies didn't comply with revised guidelines the trustees passed in November. "How in the hell can a University committed to academic freedom support a country which spends 10 times as much to educate a white child as (it spends on) a black child?" Russell said. "Money comes before morality: That's the message IU sent, and it's going to haunt it in history. (The trustees) had the opportunity to side with justice, and they passed it by."

Russell is aware that campus activism has given him a reputation, but he disavows it. "I feel really misunderstood at times. I'm really not radical. I believe in the dignity of human beings, and I believe in their right to reach their fullest potential. I believe in the Constitution.

"I'm an independent. I don't like Republicans because they've got Jerry Falwell and the Moral Majority and a bunch of fundamentalist Christian ministers wielding significant power at the national level. "I don't like Democrats because of the southern wing of the party. I look at Southern Democrats, and it doesn't make me go running and saying, 'Oh party of freedom, party of joy!"

Russell wants to remain politically active, but he's not counting on finding that in a job after graduation. "What job could you do where you would try to promote understanding and not have to answer to bosses who worry about their image and how their stocks and bonds will fall? They don't have openings for community activists. Maybe I should be a minister, but I like to party too much to be upstanding."

— By Bob Caylor

Renee Hasten

Activist carries love for Jews to her new home in Israel

D

escribing senior Renee Hasten without mentioning Israel would be like describing a route without its destination.

Hasten planned to aliya — emigrate to Israel — within a couple of months after graduation. "Aliya means 'rising,' rising to Israel," Hasten said.

During her last semester at IU, she said she changed the focus of her activism on campus from the Israel Public Action Committee to the Tagar Zionist Student Activist Movement.

IPAC, which she founded almost four years ago with former student Seth Eisenberg, aims to involve pro-Israel students in American politics. IPAC dedicates itself to pragmatic goals, such as gathering signatures for petitions and running telegram banks to lobby Indiana's congressional delegation before critical votes.

Although most members of IPAC are Jews and Zionists, Hasten said other students ranging from a South African to a Lebanese Christian have worked in the group.

It's fitting that as she moves closer to Israel, she has moved closer to Tagar. Where IPAC's mission is pragmatic, Tagar's is idealistic and idealogical; its members strive to promote Zionism and to strengthen the sense of Jewish identity in Jewish students.

So why did Hasten move from policy and politics to proselytizing? "American Jewry is literally dying out," she said. "It's a spirtitual death. Jews are assimilating . . . My Jewish friends are marrying or going out with people who are not Jewish. What happens come holiday time? What happens come ceremony time? What happens at the wedding? What happens to the children?"

The path that leads her to Israel has not been a straight line, yet near its end, it seems inevitable.

The 22-year old's move to Israel began at least 40 years ago. Her mother and a few relatives escaped from Hungary. Her father, uncle and paternal grandparents likewise stole away from a small Polish village, in what is now the Soviet Union, and went from country to country in eastern Europe. Many other relatives perished in the Holocaust.

After the war, when her father's family moved to Palestine from a camp for displaced persons, her uncle joined the Irgun, a Zionist guerilla group led by Menachem Begin, who later became prime minister of Israel. "My father was too young to be one of Begin's group of kids," Hasten said.

When Hasten was in second grade, her father founded the Indianapolis Hebrew Academy, where she was educated half in Hebrew and half in English until sixth grade.

Her family has gone to Israel every year since 1974, and she has met many Israeli leaders through her father's political connections. Some Israeli political groups have sister organizations in the United States, and

her father is president of one of these — Herut, U.S.A., part of the right-wing Likud coalition.

As she talks about it, Israel sounds like her promised land made concrete. "Tel Aviv — it's a city like New York. There are streets with cafes and shopping and beautiful women walking around and beaches and the Mediterranean sun. Then you go south and you're in the desert and you're snorkling in the Red Sea. "The people are very tough. Every male and almost every female serves in the army. They're so close that way. They fight for each other, and every single person there, every family, knows someone who's been murdered or who's been killed at war. There's something so binding because of that, so binding because of your history and your people and war and what you've endured. "I know my Jewish history, and I know what Jews have endured through the years: the persecutions, the trials, the tribulations, the murders, the pogroms, the Holocaust. I feel so attached to (Israel) — not for religious reasons, but for the Jewish identity. I would like to have children there. I would like my children to speak Hebrew."

There's a touch of the convert and the zealot in the way she speaks about Israel.

She tells a story about a student from Maryland she met at a conference for Zionist activities.

After she returned from the conference, she got a phone call from the man. "He said, 'I cried for four hours. Nothing looked the same to me. I feel so empty,– Hasten says. "I said. 'No, it's not that you're empty. It's that your whole life to this point has been a time of exploration. But now you've caught what's missing. You understand why you're Jewish.' He's a completely different person now," she says. "He always had something in him, but he didn't have

photo/Tom Hirschfeld

any way of expressing it. He knew his identity, but he never had a forum to express it. Now he can be proud, and he can be free."

One of Hasten's last projects as a Zionist activist at IU was founding the Jewish Student Union. She and other Jewish student leaders created the group — a coalition of several Jewish groups on campus — after B'nai B'rith Hillel Foundation severed its ties to IPAC last fall.

Rabbi Mark Shrager, of Hillel, says only that IPAC did not follow the rules of the organization.

Hasten says that the conflict between IPAC and Hillel was "activism versus passivism. I don't think Hillel was providing enough things for the Jewish community. I don't think they were reaching out to Jewish students. I think it became a very enclosed, seclusive group of people in that building."

n the 1950s it was simple. The woman went to college, studied a little, met a man, married after graduation and followed the man to wherever his job offer or graduate school took him. If the woman wanted to work instead, she had to make a choice — a job and a dose of societal guilt, or romance and marriage.

In the 1980s it's not that simple. Women and men want careers and relationships. No problem, right?

Wrong. Trying to get two people to find jobs or graduate school placement, to their liking — and in the same city — can turn into a nightmare that forces couples to balance their goals against their relationship.

Each year, hundreds of Indiana University graduating couples experience the agony of the dual career dilemma. The symptoms of the job search crisis resemble those of final exam time. "I felt anxious and stressed when my boyfriend had interviews through the IU Business Placement Office," Laurie Boone, a 22-year-old senior Spanish major, said. "It was hard for me to sleep and I couldn't wait for it to be over with." Her boyfriend moved to Chicago after graduation and Boone followed. "My girlfriend had six job offers in different cities. I felt really restless unitl she finally accepted a job in Chicago," Jay Shrock, a 25-year-old IU computer science graduate, said. "It was like the big test was through." The couple later married.

If a couple isn't faced with the dual career dilemna during college, it will inevitably haunt them later on. "Most graduating couples prefer to believe that the tension and frustration surrounding the interview process will not interfere with their happiness and plans for the future," an IU marriage and family professor and counselor, Dale Womble said. "However, because there is such a high percentage rate of failures in long-distance relationships, students should prepare for the potential outcomes in advance."

A 22-year-old senior Spanish major, Judy Hill, said that she believed too much in wonderful endings. "Instead, I should have been anticipating a more realistic conclusion to our relationship." Several months after her boyfriend moved to another city, their relationship dissolved. "I got a job with a Houston oil company and my girlfriend was still an undergraduate at IU," Scott Babcock, a 26-year-old IU business graduate, said. "For the first few months, I tried visiting her on several weekends. Then, it got to be too much on the pocketbook. Eventually, we ended our relationship."

Some students place the selection of their career before the importance of their partner. Today, more students return to individualism after graduation. Their primary goal is to achieve personal goals. "I had always wanted to be a fashion designer and when a position opened for me in the New York City garment district, I grabbed it," Laura Bachman, a 24-year-old IU fine arts graduate, said. "I had to follow the opportunity, regardless of my boyfriend's wishes." Her partner supported her decision and he waited for her to return to the Midwest. She came back after three years and they are still seeing each other.

During the job search, individuals may be categorized according to different personality types. Carol Wagner, of the career placement center, said each group possesses different types of conflict. "Accomodators fit the traditional image of the work and family relationship," Wagner said, "One partner, most typically the male is high in career involvement and the other partner is high in home improvement." The couples who are involved in their respective roles and value both work and family, decrease the probability of conflicts.

Partners who are actively involved in their careers and minimally involved in their home can be described as adversaries. "This structure creates the most stress within a relationship," Wagner said. "Both partners want successful careers and are more likely to make job sacrifices for their family or for each other's career."

The allies partners devote the majority of their time to either their careers or their families. For allies who are highly involved in their careers, they ofen choose not to have children. Parental and partner roles are more important to allies involved with domesticity.

Couples characterized as acrobats give equal time to both work and family. They pursue successful careers, keep a well-ordered home, and provide emotional support for their spouse. "This relationship is hard to maintain for a long period of time," Wagner said. "The partners eventually lose their energy to continue the fast pace and the high performance level."

Graduating couples can avoid some of the pain involved in job searching if they plan ahead. "Students should target specific geographic areas which offer both partners equal job opportunities," Womble said.

Wagner agreed that dual career couples must take more responsibility in the job search process. "Graduating students must take advantage of campus job search services and not just rely on the placement offices," she said. Her office has job search workshops and dual career seminars throughout the year. "It's very dangerous to follow partners, so people should take the initiative to look on their own for the right jobs."

The dual career couple has to make many choices concerning their careers and commitment. Although attitudes about combining work and family have changed in the last five to ten years, people are often too unrealistic and want to have it all. Wagner feels that young couples just graduated from college are not as willing to make compromises in their careers as older couples. "Between the ages of 16 to 25 years, individuals go through a lot of turmoil and self-questioning," Womble said. "After 25 years of age, a person has established a firm set of values and will most likely be more content with their career and relationship choices." He added that younger dual career couples will find it more difficult to make sacrifices in their job and in their family.

However, the dual career couple that desires both satisfying jobs and a future together can coordinate "me" and "we" oriented attitudes into a fulfilling relationship. "Communication is the key to happiness for the dual career couple," Wagner said. Graduating couples have to learn how to work together on their job searches and to make compromises in their relationship."

— By Nancy Holwick

INSET: Ruthie and current owner Dick Barnes. Ruthie began waitressing at Nick's when the "real" Nick (Nick Hrisomalos) was around more than 30 years ago.

A mug of tradition with every 'pound'

A ll the Nick's English Hut regulars know Ruthie

Stewart. They know her as the waitress who has been working there for a long time — 36 years to be exact.

Ruthie, a native of Smithville, Ind., began working at restaurants as a dishwasher at the Cotton Steak House on Route 37. Later she became a waitress at Kashuba's, a restaurant across from Nick's, where the First National Bank is now located.

Eventually, she moved across the street. "One day I saw an ad in the newspaper that Nick's needed waitresses and so I applied for the job." That was in November of 1949. She was hired and has been working there ever since.

Her longest vacation in all these years, Ruthie says, was "six weeks one time when I went to Florida." Other than that, she works her usual 25 hours a week and takes a two-week vacation each year.

Jim Mathias, general manager of Nick's, says it is rare in the bar and restaurant business to stay at the same job for so many years. "I think a great deal of it has to do with her loyalty. She worked for the original Nick (Nick Hrisomalos) before he passed away about 30 years ago," he said. "Nick's is like home to her."

Ruthie is not as sure why she has stayed for so long. "I can't explain it," she said. "I like talking to the customers . . . And you know, at home it gets lonely." This is not to say, however, that waitressing is all fun and tips. "Some days go all wrong, but then I just come back the next day and, you know, everything is OK again."

After 36 years of waitressing, she has a few tales to tell. Perhaps one of her most cherished memories at Nick's is her wedding, which took place upstairs in the restaurant last December. "It was a lot of fun. All of my friends were there," she said.

Her favorite stories are those about seeing former customers after many years have passed. "I'll never forget the time I had a middle-aged man sit at one of my tables and he said, authie, remember me?' And I did. Then he said, `I'd like to you to meet my son.' His son was 21 years old and I had served his father when he was 21 years old."

She recalls another customer who returned to Nick's after 12 years. "He never knew my name and then on this day he said, 'I remember you. What is your name?"'

Though Ruthie is still with Nick's, her days serving up the bar's 'pounds' of draft beer are coming to an end. "I'll be here three more years . . . until I'm 62. Then I'll retire. But I will be around any time they call and need me."

Bat-Fender witnesses years of IU history

H

enry Hammond has watched the IU community change for nearly half a century. But his perspective has more to do with the wine glasses and swizzle sticks than with desks and blackboards.

The 90-year-old has been tending bar at the University's swankiest parties for about 40 years.

From the time he started as a bartender for IU Chancellor Herman B Wells in the mid-1940s to his current work at alumni post-football game receptions, Hammond has practiced his craft in one of Bloomington's most historic sites, Woodburn House on College Avenue.

But his tenure at Woodburn might be coming to a close. Hammond said he's thinking about giving up tending bar for the University.

In fact, Woodburn House director Rich Perry had to persuade Hammond to tend bar at post-game receptions through the end of the 1985 season.

Woodburn House, a brick, two-story dwelling, was built between 1829 and 1831 and has housed some of IU's most distinguished officials, including Wells, Perry said. IU uses the house for receptions and parties.

The art of tending bar for IU has changed quite a bit through the years. Nobody knows this better than Hammond. "When Wells was here we never had all this kind of fancy stuff," he said, pointing to the array of assorted liquors on the bar. Bourbon and soda water were favorites back then, he said. There were few wines and beer was "too much trouble."

Over the years, Hammond has developed a rapport with many of the guests who flow from party to party, Perry said.

Hammond also has earned the respect of those newer to Woodburn House.

Senior Brenda Stone, vice president for University relations of the Student Alumni Council, volunteers as a hostess at the alumni parties. "He's a stitch," she said. "He keeps to himself, but you know he's seen a lot of things go on. He in himself is a tradition."

Hammond was born in Louisville, Ky., and came to Bloomington about 60 years ago.

The biggest difference between the IU of 60 years ago and the IU of today is size, Hammond said. "The first time they had 100 to finish school, it was headlines. Now they have what, 6,000?"

In addition to his bartending duties, Hammond worked as a waiter at IU's Sigma Pi fraternity for 40 years and Sigma Chi fraternity for 10 years. "All the time I was working, I never drank, never smoked. I preached to them. Some listened, some didn't. If they use it within reason, it's all right I think," he said.

photo/Chris Usher

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ighty thousand. Not dollars, but tickets. Not concert or baseball tickets, but parking tickets. According to IU parking manager Doug Porter, that is the approximate number of parking tickets issued on campus during the academic year.

As for how many of those go unpaid, Porter said he doesn't keep track.

But Porter believes most of those 80,000 will be paid because of the ever-present threat of the IU Police Department. "We have a fairly simple tracking system. If your car is registered at IU, then finding the owner is no problem. An unregistered car can be fairly easily traced in all states through the license plates, which will eventually lead us to the the owners' names," he said.

To park on campus, students must register their cars with IUPD and obtain a D or E sticker. The D sticker, which costs $10.50, allows students to park in their dormitory parking lots. The E sticker is for off-campus students and costs $8.40.

The available parking for these sticker categories is limited, since priority parking is given to A, B, and C stickers, which go to University employees, and cost more. "We feel that a person with a $94 A sticker should have better parking choices that an $8.40 E sticker," Porter said.

Many students complain about lack of available parking and park wherever they want. Junior Cathy Chamness is one such student. "I keep my car at Read (Center), and the only sticker I can get is a D. That means there are only about four spaces for however many students there are with D stickers at Read, so I just park wherever there's a space. And now I have about $50 worth of parking tickets," she said.

Many students who accumulate several tickets believe they won't get caught. But Porter said they should think again. "We track you down, even if it takes a whole year," he said. A recent switch to a computerized system has helped IUPD find unpaid violators. "We get better reports, and

can catch people quicker. You ask the computer for a list of unpaid tickets and it prints out a list of names as far back as 1984," Porter said.

Those who don't pay their tickets during the semester find an additional charge on their tuition bill. If they don't pay their tuition bill, their classes will be cancelled.

Porter insists seniors who don't pay their tickets won't get away with it either. "We usually spend the summer catching up on the semester's tickets, and when we find graduated seniors with unpaid tickets, we just don't send them their diplomas until they pay," he said.

One student who has learned a lesson from the tuition charge is junior Alicia Accardo. "When I was a freshman I had no place to park my car, so wherever I went I got a ticket," she said. "I had so many tickets it got to be a big joke — until my tuition bill came with an extra $300 tacked on it. Then it wasn't funny anymore, especially when my parents saw it."

To help alleviate some of the availability problems, the University added a deck to the lot across from the School of Business on Fee Lane. The project fell several months behind schedule, but now has 650 spaces, 50 more than the Atwater Avenue garage.

Those who continue to park illegally sometimes try to talk their way out of tickets. Porter said the most-common excuse is "I was late and had to park there," but they often are more creative. "We hear just about everything possible, but people don't realize that we probably heard the exact same excuse the day before," he said. "We've heard so many things that nothing stuns us. People have actually come in and protested their tickets, saying that someone must have picked up their car and moved to to the spot because they are sure they parked legally," Porter said. "To us, the only funny thing about these stories is that the students telling us them actually think that we believe what they are saying."

Weighty matters anchor Jinks

W

ith every hair in place and eyelids brushed with eight shades of pink, Julie Jinks grasps hold of two 20-pound barbells and lifts them . . . 15 times.

No sweat.

Men stop to observe her actions in the weight room of Exercise Inc., but Jinks ignores them. She's got work to do — or, shall we say, lifting to do — two 30-pound barbells, this time raised 20 times.

No heavy breathing.

Rays of white light bounce off the silver barbells — this time loaded with 35 pounds of iron apiece — as Jinks pushes them upward in quick, rhythmic motion.

No moaning. No groaning.

Clearly, the woman is a machine. "No, no," the 22-year-old senior says in a throaty, Lauren Bacall rumble. "Just dedicated."

Say the term "female weightlifter," and many would think of huge, Amazonian females. Don't rattle off that description to Jinks, though — she strongly dislikes it. And, as she prepared to compete in the annual "Ms. IU Competition,", she was aiming to break that sterotype down. With a vengeance. "I hate it when people say all female weightlifters look like men," she said. "We don't. It's a very feminine thing. I, for instance, don't add bulk or beef, I add definition. By the time competition rolls around, I want to look sculpted."

To Jinks, "By the time the competition rolls around" means shedding 10 of her 120 pounds. It also means countless days of late-night studying because of her daytime fitness commitment, juggling her Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority obligations and maybe cutting down on her IU Fit aerobic instruction, which keeps her busy three times a week.

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photo/Gary L. Bogdon

photo.' I odd Anderson

Is the competition, with only a trophy at stake, worth the sacrifice — three hours of lifting a day — and the stress? "If it wasn't, would I be doing it?"

Jinks said as a giggle rumbled forth. "Along with being busy and really working hard, I can't eat that much . . . I can only have around 9 percent body fat, while the normal woman has 25 percent. Getting there is not fun at all."

Along with being dedicated to the competition, finks works hard at being the best in her field — fitness and health instruction. Since she was a cheerleader in Indianapolis, Jinks has known what she wants to do with her life — she wants to help others feel better about themselves. "Anyone who goes through the type of physical workout she does every day is going to show some stress, but she handles it real fine," said Steve Pagani, Jinks' instructor at Exercise Inc. "Fitness is not an easy business . . . but Julie has a good attitude. It's a seven-day-a-week ordeal, but she never stops. She's always dedicated."

Just because Jinks has been gladly chained to the lifting life for six months and is self-proclaimed "good health, good life" addict, she has not totally abandoned her social life or career goals.

When she graduates in May, she hopes to hop aboard IBM as a corporation physical consultant.

But finding out about her social life is not as easy. "Let's just say that in my off hours, I have fun," she said, as she picked up yet another gleaming weight bar, breathing in as she lifted, exhaling as it slowly curled towards the floor.

— By Ryan P. Murphy

photo/Mic Smith

Preacher Max

Maximizing the salvation of souls

H e was born as Max W. Lynch.

But to those who see him preaching to students in front of Ballantine Hall by the Jordan River, he is known as Brother Max, Mad Max or simply Max.

The part of Max seen by students is the mad, accusing, pointed finger that is so often waved at the "sinners" of the campus. Usually surrounded by a large crowd, Max tells students everything that is wrong with them and why.

In one common sermon, Max tells students that homosexuals are violating the function of their bodies. In turn, heterosexuals who have sexual intercourse before they are married are violating the function of their soles. This leads to guilt, and guilt leads to neurosis. In any case it is fornication and "no fornicators shall inherit the kingdom," Max says.

Max never leaves the crowd with any doubt. "I get all the sexual intercourse I want," he tells them. He also says that he is not like Mick Jagger, because "I do get satisfaction."

Having to deal with continuous questions during his sermons, Max tries to have an answer for everything. When someone argues that sexual intercourse is OK before marriage as long as two people are in love, Max replies: "99 times out of 100, she don't love you. She just lusts after your body."

Max delivers all of his sermons with powerful and relentless umpire-like motions. He delivers what he calls "Bible-grams," wearing a brown polyester suit with a blue stocking cap in cold weather and an orange baseball cap when it's warmer.

When Max isn't preaching the word he's at home — a brick ranch in a rural area near Terre Haute. The house bears credence to what Max says is his mission in life — to spread the word of God. A seven-foot high white cross graces the brick exterior. He lives there with his wife. The couple have five children. "If somebody wants help, 1 certainly believe I have the word of God to help

him," Max said in an interview.

Max was born in neighboring Greene County in September 1929 and graduated from Indiana State University with a degree in physics in 1950. That same year he was married, and then went into the U.S. Air Force for four years.

After leaving the Air Force, Max spent two years teaching math and physics at a high school in Columbus, Ind.

Max got his master's degree in math at ISU in 1960 and began as a math instructor there the next year.

Then, in 1963, Max began preaching the gospel. He says he .spent the next 11 years pastoring churches in the Terre Haute area. Meanwhile, in the spring of 1968, he took some time off from teaching and enrolled at IU to complete a doctoral program. But Max says he did not finish because

Photos by Mic Smith

BOTTOM AND LEFT: Max at home in Terre Haute.

he became so involved in preaching the word of God.

Max said that his dream in life had always been to have three college degrees, but that God wanted him to quit and start preaching more. "God has a way of totally changing your life around," Max said. He said that despite his devotion to God, he continued teaching at ISU.

But trouble came for Max in 1973. "One day God told me to start reading the Bible to my math classes out loud," Max said. A week later, he was suspended with pay, and four months later he was dismissed from the ISU faculty. Max filed suit against the school, asking for reinstatement and back pay, plus interest. The case went through many courts. Finally, in April 1979, it reached the U.S. Supreme Court, which declined to hear it. Max lost.

Since April 1975, Max has been a full-time campus missonary. Although he preaches all across the United States, he is not sponsored by any organization.

Max says he knows he cannot help everybody. "They get what they come for," he explained. If they come to be entertained, Max said that he will entertain them. If they come to heckle, they can certainly do enough of that.

If they come to get help, Max says he will try to help them. "I don't worry about why they come, I'm just glad they stop," Max said, "And while they're there, I'm going to preach the word to them."

— By Karen Hand

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R emember your first college party?

You spent the evening sucking on Everclear and Koolaid mixed in a garbage bucket lined with Glad bags. Then maybe you tried frat parties: the mixed drinks were almost as strong as the cologne and perfume on some of the participants. But it sure beat the dorms. Then you tried off-campus living. Instead of Dean Gordon confiscating your keg, the neighbors were on the phone to the Bloomington police to get the noise down.

At some point along the way you turned 21 and flashed that smiling driver's licence picture all over Bloomington — much to the amusement of the bouncers' who remembered you from last week when you had a different name.

Here was the big time; pounds of beer at Nick's, blue brew mugs at The Bluebird, Jake's cups and happy hours. Well, erase the last one. Just when the majority of the class of '86 was mastering two-fisted drinking the state legislature shut down the tap on two-for-ones and other drink specials.

If the class of '86 saw anything in the four or five years they were on campus it was a change in public attitudes about public intoxication. There is no more easy rides for drunk drivers and less laughs for the falling-down drunk clown.

Whether alcohol and partying are as synonymous at IU as they once were is open for debate. But some things don't change. The clubs are still packed, a quiet niche at a local bar is a commodity on the day of a basketball game and the dorms and fraternities are as rowdy as ever. Call it socialization, or a part of coming-of-age, or whatever, partying is an inherent part of the IU experience.