Editor's
notes
Ivy is to kudzu as tradition
is to…
…the shock of the new.
If you haven’t spent much time in the southeastern
United States, you may not know what kudzu is. On the other hand,
if you own property south of the Mason-Dixon Line, you may know
all too well the staying power of the vine, originally imported
from Japan as landscaping for that country’s pavilion at the
1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition. Around the turn of the
20th century kudzu gained kudos as a good forage plant for cattle
and pigs, especially in times of drought, and as a way to slow soil
erosion.
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Can
one building’s Parthenocissus tricuspidata
be another’s Pueraria lobata? |
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In the South its use spread like a weed. Or
like kudzu. Climbing up and over trees and buildings almost in the
blink of an eye, the creeping plant has long since become entwined
in Southern culture: “You know you’re a redneck,”
the joke goes, “if you’ve ever lost a relative to kudzu.”
Although I haven’t lost a relative to
kudzu (yet), I’ve seen enough Pueraria lobata to
note the family resemblance to its academic cousin, Parthenocissus
tricuspidata. But while ivy is considered a precious heirloom,
a symbol of time-honored tradition, kudzu is an upstart, willy-nilly
taking over all in its path.
Tradition and change are perennial topics on
any college campus. In part it’s because traditions form so
quickly in a population where a generation spans approximately four
years. “We’ve always done it that way,” says the
June graduate, unaware that “always” dates only to the
spring before she matriculated. And in part it reflects the age-old
tension between received wisdom and the shock of the new. In the
academy’s marketplace of ideas, both compete as cash crops.
This spring, as the ivy regained its foothold
on the Gothic limestone, a slightly younger tradition felt the pruning
shears. The College Council voted to change the term used to denote
an undergraduate’s field of specialization from concentration
to major (see “College
Report,”). The reasons are practical (doing away with
confusion both on campus and off), but the result is that the naysayers
(at Chicago naysayers generally abound) find themselves in the common
if incongruous position of advocating a tradition whose own roots
lie in a break with tradition. In this case, concentration
was a 1950s semantic sleight of hand designed to calm proponents
of the Robert Maynard Hutchins school of general education, to whom
major and undergraduate specialization were, as
they say in kudzu country, fightin’ words.
Having laboriously learned the particular peculiarity
of using concentration when we meant major—in
much the same way that an American in Britain goes native, ostentatiously
adding milk to one’s tea and skipping over the w
in Keswick—the Magazine will now reverse
direction and obey the College Council’s edict. But if we
occasionally relapse, give us a break. Remember, it takes a while
to cultivate a tradition.—M.R.Y.
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