George Corporon – 50th Reunion Essay

George Corporon

1403 Tranquilla Dr

Dallas, Texas 75218

corporongw@aol.com

Spouse(s): Kathy (1969)

Child(ren): Ethan (1972), Hadley (1977)

National Service: Russian translator, U.S. Army, 69-72

Career: Journalism and corporate communications, Kansas City, Mo. and Washington, D.C. for five years; 25 years as executive speechwriter, senior editor with Exxon Mobil Corporation, Houston and Irving, Texas

Avocations: Naps

College: Pierson

My moment of clarity occurred while standing in a line of naked Yale freshmen waiting to have our “posture” pictures taken. I was perplexed and disturbed by this practice, but everyone else seemed to take it in stride. I assumed this was something you did if you went to an Ivy League school.

Taking part in this ritual caused my accumulated doubts and fears to coalesce into the obvious: I’d made a terrible mistake in coming to Yale.

As a public-school kid from the Midwest, I was already dealing with extreme culture shock and a crushing case of homesickness. The worst part was being separated from my girlfriend, who attended the University of Kansas.

The agony of that separation reached its lowest point early in first semester. In a black hole of depression, I called her on a Friday evening. When she answered, she seemed distracted. She told me she was in a hurry and had to get off the phone. Then she hung up.

Obviously, she had a date. That was tolerable. The brush-off was devastating.

She was doing something normal on a Friday night. I went to the library with a textbook and sat in a rock-hard chair at a study carrel. I didn’t read a word. I thought about killing the guy she was with.

I had suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder since childhood, and it crippled me in those early months at Yale. I read every paragraph in a textbook over and over. I painted an entire page yellow with my highlighter. When a class ended, I spent several minutes looking around my chair to make sure I hadn’t left something behind.

I considered transferring to KU, but I could not bear the thought of being “the guy who couldn’t make it at Yale.” So I stuck it out. My grades were barely sufficient to release me from freshman hell. Sophomore year was marginally better, but I still felt I didn’t belong.

At the beginning of junior year, something changed. Somehow, I had completed my rite of passage.

I emerged from the darkness. My grades improved. I made road trips. I dated. I got drunk at football games. I had fun. I started feeling good about being a Yalie.

I learned that I could survive, even flourish, if I just kept moving. We’re told that persevering is the key to surviving hard times. But there’s a difference between knowing it and doing it. I did it.

As my life unfolded, I didn’t move on to a career in high finance or politics. I didn’t become wealthy or famous. I didn’t write a best-selling novel. But for the past half century, I have been sustained by the fact that Yale gave me a chance and I didn’t blow it.

As for the girl at KU who stuck an ice pick in my heart that dreadful night… Kathy and I will celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary this year.