Oh wait. I might be thinking of the Jocks Table. Or the Cheerleaders Table. Or the Good Looking Kids Table. Whatever the case, I’m sure smart kids have their own table. A table in a dark corner of the cafeteria known for geeky glasses and slide rules and wedgies. 

At Huntington University, the smart kids had their own club, with its attendant secret handshake, code words, and yearbook photo. It was called Alpha Chi, which in Latin means “Someday you will work for me, you insufferably dim-witted peon.” I never knew the entrance requirements, only that I fell short, most likely by multiple lightyears. Cursed with middling intelligence, I was condemned to wander life amidst the lower castes, shopping at Wal-Mart and flying coach. 

I have, over the years, in my tireless fight against injustice and inequality, publicly bemoaned my exclusion from Alpha Chi, with its arbitrary GPA litmus test. Deep down, I admit, my motives actually surround an enduring quest for acceptance. I desire the recognition, thus far withheld, of my peers. Not my peers in the sense of intelligence, because I can find them in any trailer court. But my fellow HU alums, with whom I endured four years in the academic crucible–eating HUB food, attending classes in steam-heated Ad Building rooms, meeting the bare-minimum chapel requirements, and living with the constant fear of an impromptu thrust. I yearn to sit and sup at the Smart Kids Table and bask in the reflected glow of their otherworldly cerebral brilliance.

And now, 30 years since my classmates and I trod the platform erected on the front campus that sunny day in 1979, ultimately grasping the congratulatory hand of Dr. Dewitt Baker, my unquenched thirst finds respite. And along with it, I discovered that benevolent grace lurks within the HU History Department. Who knew?

A couple weeks ago, I received a soft package from Huntington University. Inside was a green T-shirt. Some might call it pukey green, but never mind about that. This, for me, was a magical shirt. A shirt that transported me to that mythical Popular Kids Table, which I never stopped believing in. And the T-shirt said:

On the back was the Alpha Chi logo, along with two tacky sponsor ads. Literacy 500, I learned–for I crave all Alpha Chi-related knowledge–is a drive to collect 2000 children’s books. If these are destined for the children of Alpha Chi members, then they are no doubt textbooks. 

Holding back the tears, I tried on the shirt, instantly feeling as if I could go out and square a root or name every member of the Romanian legislature, or Politburo, or whatever they call it nowadays. 

The shirt came from Dr. Paul Michelson, the Imperial Wizard of the Huntington University chapter of Alpha Chi. His Holiness Dr. Michelson, among the original recipients of the Alpha Chi Distinguished Service Award and a 12-year member (elected member honoris causa, because they adore Latin) of the Alpha Chi National Council, took pity on this member of the yearning masses. In his incalculable wisdom, he knew that this T-shirt, a meager symbol without substance, would satisfy my thirst without compromising Alpha Chi’s integrity. Like throwing an old bone to a dog and saying, “Shew!” Or maybe “Shoo!” If I were truly deserving, I would know the correct spelling.

That is okay. While the shirt may not, after all, give me a seat at the Popular Kids Table, it at least gives me the privilege of hovering nearby and observing, with envy, what the Upper Echelons eat. Unfortunately, Dr. Michelson neglected to include directions to the Popluar Kids Table. I think they moved it.