“Higher ed is a scam!” So says Katie Miller, prominent MAGA figure and wife of Trump’s deputy chief of staff Stephen Miller, who would surely recognize a scam should she ever closely examine her husband’s spray painted hairline. Mrs. Miller is just one of several in Trump’s orbit who suspect that the accused assassin of right wing activist Charlie Kirk was “radicalized” by a semester he spent at Utah State University in 2021.
It happens that I, too, spent a single semester at Utah State–back in the fall of 1967. I’d been hoping to earn an MFA in creative writing from the University of the Americas in Mexico City; however, due to the fact I had only a couple hundred dollars to my name, I opted instead for Utah State in Logan, where I spent most of my time exploring beautiful Cache Valley astride my beloved Honda 305. At least once a week, I’d motor up Logan Canyon and down the other side of the mountain to the shores of Bear Lake. Was I radicalized? I don’t think so, but I will admit that for someone who doesn’t require anything in the way of a social life, Logan, Utah, is a pretty good fit.
As I recall, there was only one commercial establishment in downtown Logan that stayed open after dark–a billiard parlor named The Owl. I enjoyed handing out there, even though one’s chances of hooking up with a female in a pool hall are slim. Same goes for the student center on campus, which–if it even exists–I never found. The vast majority of coeds at Utah State hail from small farming communities in southeastern Idaho, so I’m guessing they all turn in early–force of habit.
I had a creative writing classmate who lived in the woods and trapped muskrats for a livelihood. My Shakespearean professor mostly rhapsodized about the deer hunt. By and by, it dawned on me that a master’s degree in English from an agricultural college most likely wouldn’t count for much in the academic marketplace.
My roommate was an art major who happened to be taking an introductory class in photography. One night, as he was setting out for a session in the campus darkroom, he asked if I had any film I’d like for him to process.
“No,” I answered. “But while you’re away, do you have any paintings you’d like for me to paint?”
“It’s not the same thing!” he shot back, which just goes to show that he had a lot to learn about photography. And to prove my point, here’s a photo of me that he developed and printed all by himself. He didn’t sign it, but then, he didn’t have to. The multiple fingerprints, scratches and stray pubic hairs all point to the guilty party.
