On: Bonfire

by: Lilly McAlister

Bonfire is one of A&Ms most distinctive traditions, not only for the now student-lead burning that takes place in the fall semester, but also for the way in which we commemorate the tragic event which lead to the end of the official on-campus one. I think one of the most remarkable things about this service is how little formal organization it seems to require. Unlike Muster which takes place in the spring there is no army of dedicated students passing out fliers at every major building on campus weeks in advance, there is no table set up with pens, buttons, bags and other assorted swag to remind us of the date. There are no sandwich boards placed around campus or signs on the doors as we see for our monthly Silver Taps. There was no university-wide email reminding us to go. The service itself is not even clearly marked as an event on the university calendar or on the memorial's own website.

I discovered the 2:42am service quite by accident my freshman year, having finished another late night working in the commons food court around 1am. Deciding that I was feeling too tired to walk straight home, I went down to Studio 12 for a nap. At 2am when the studio closed and I moved upstairs, I saw that there were large groups of students gathering in the commons, all apparently headed to the same place. I followed them out and was lead to the bonfire memorial where a member of the Traditions Council handed me a candle and waved me on down the line. In spite of the lack of direct advertising, every year since then, on November 18th at 2:42am, I have found myself standing on the grass at that memorial. I am never alone. There are no programs, no written instructions, no PA system, and we don’t need them. The gathered stand together in the quite darkness until our collective silence is broken by a single “Howdy” from the center of the crowd. A few words are spoken, the roll call is made – twelve names, each followed but a dutiful “here” from the crowd.

This is followed by Amazing Grace and perhaps the most subtle and reverent version of the Aggie War Hymn that you will ever witness. After some closing remarks the families make their way through the crowd, people make their way to the center to pay their respects, and -- each in their own good time -- those gathered disperse as silently and spontaneously as they arrived.

There is something powerful about our annual service that I cannot quite put my finger on. As I watched groups and individuals proceed to the center and kneel down with flowers or pennies, I asked myself why we all had come there that night, thirteen years after the accident, for a service that barely lasted twenty minutes. For a while, I debated whether I should approach the center with the others, whether I had enough of a connection to justify that sort of personal gesture. When I was the only one left, I looked up at the family members of those who had died as they disappeared over the hill heading back toward their cars, and I moved to the center to kneel and lay down a penny I had located in my pocket.

I may not know exactly why I originally felt the need to go, but if it is worth it to the families to return each year and stand with us, then it is worth it to me to meet them there.