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Swarthmore Hatches a Big Red Bird

By Jeffrey Lott

The mascot team (clockwise from beneath the bird): Joel Tolliver ’10, Juliana Macri ’09, Melissa Grigsby ’09, Dan Hodson ’09, and Scott Storm ’08. The identity of the person in the furry suit will always be a secret. It’s a big, red bird. Very big and very red. Note that the wing feathers also look a little like flames. Note the ever-so-slightly aggressive beak—it’s a raptor, and it can be tough. Note the oversize shoes with the garnet S. Then allow yourself a laugh at the highly shakable tail and the overstuffed appearance of the whole silly thing. What more can you say about it—except that it’s Swarthmore’s new mascot, the Phoenix!

Independent Streak

By Paul Wachter ’97

At Swarthmore, David Bradley says, “no one would say, ‘Oh, how odd he’s a Christian Scientist. But they would definitely say, ‘How odd he’s a Republican. And I was worse than a Republican—I was an insufferable Republican.” He is now registered as an Independent. One morning in November 1993, David Bradley boarded an airplane at Dulles Airport, bound for Vietnam. He was accompanied by his Swarthmore classmate and close friend Jim Snipes ’75, who had purchased first-class tickets on the occasion of Bradley’s 40th birthday. It was to be one last “boys trip,” Bradley says, and as they prepared for takeoff, Snipes advised his friend to stay awake for the first 13-hour leg to help him adjust to the time difference. Within 20 minutes, however, Snipes himself had nodded off, leaving Bradley alone with his thoughts.

Voices that Matter

By Sonia Scherr ’01

A hand-drawn map on the newsroom wall (above) competes for space with the foodstuffs needed to sustain the staff as it produces a weekly radio show about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. (Photo by Eleftherios Kostans) One winter morning last year, Hansi Lo Wang ’09 was conducting a phone interview in Lodge 6, just behind Bond Hall, when he heard something on the other end of the line that shocked him: the tattoo of gunfire, frighteningly close.
Related Article

Head in the Clouds

By Carol Brévart-Demm

 “Anyone who has ever had an interest in flying should stop thinking about it and just go and try it,” Max Trescott says. (Photo courtesy of Max Trescott) When Max Trescott was a boy, the irresistible sound of aircraft flying overhead invariably turned his eyes skyward. The buzz of small planes intrigued him. When he was 10 or 11, he took his first flight, awakening an innate passion that has lasted for 30 years. “Looking down on the world, everything looks so different. I just loved the view from way up there,” Trescott says. “I still do.”
Additional Profiles
Faculty Expert

Means and Ends

By Robin Wagner-Pacifici

“There Were Three Interogators” (gouache on paper) is one panel in a 34-foot–long folding book by Daniel Heyman, who teaches printmaking part time at the College. Heyman’s installation The Abu Ghraib Detainee Interview Project was exhibited at The Print Center in Philadelphia in 2007. (Illustration by Daniel Heyman) When E.M. Forster famously wrote his “Only connect … ” epigraph to Howard’s End, he was exhorting his readers to connect the prose and the passion of life, to live life fully with others. Sociologists might also be said to live under the “Only connect…” dictum, but they derive a different meaning from it.
Books + Arts

Blowing the Whistle on the Mob

Bob Delaney and Dave Scheiber ’76, Covert: My Years Infiltrating the Mob (Union Square Press, 2008) In the New Jersey suburbs where I grew up, guessing which of your neighbors might be a mafioso was something of a parlor game. But it wasn’t a game to Bob Delaney, whose just-published book Covert, written with Dave Scheiber ’76, recounts his tension-filled years as an undercover cop infiltrating the seedy New Jersey waterfront, where he exposed the Mob’s reach of corruption and coercion.
In My Life

A Writer’s Voice

By Dana Calvo ’92

Dana Calvo is a screenwriter who lives in Los Angeles with her husband, their 4-year-old daughter Annabel, and a gigantic pound dog named Gumbo. (Photo by Scott Gold) It took a 100-day strike by the Writers Guild of America (WGA) to convince me that I was, indeed, a writer. I don’t necessarily mean I’m a good one. Just that I am one. It’s what I do. It’s all I’ve ever really been trained to do.