MIZZOU NEWS

Most Embarrassing Moments

@Mizzou readers share stories about embarrassing moments in college …

In spring 1950, I attended a reception honoring students who had been initiated into honor societies at the Francis Quadrangle home of President Frederick Middlebush (irreverently referred to by students as “President Centershrub”). As I sat drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette (considered way cool at that time), President Middlebush took a chair beside me and began a conversation. Suddenly, between the smoke and the coffee, I choked, coughed and splattered Dr. Middlebush’s face and shirt with a mouthful of hot coffee! I jumped up, ran out and didn’t stop running until I got home. I never dared to attend another reception at Dr. Middlebush’s home.

— Patsy A. Tanner (Patsy Tanner Lile), BJ ’51

Although I am a graduate of Mizzou, this embarrassing moment happened before I got there. I was a student at William Woods College, but was dating a boy at Mizzou who was a member of ROTC. We attended a formal military ball in Brewer Fieldhouse, and I was all decked out in my formal gown, complete with hoop petticoat. In the course of the evening, I felt something “give” around my waist and realized my hoop skirt was heading south. I simply stepped out of the petticoat, and we continued to dance. I never did retrieve that hoop skirt!

— Barbara Humphreys Burlison, BJ ’56

I was the first person in my family to attend college. Therefore, the unspoken “rules” about college were unbeknownst to me. I read the flyer telling freshmen to leave their books at home (not in the backpack) for the first day of class after I had lugged a cram-packed and very heavy backpack the first day of school. It was easy to pick me out as a new freshman.

I also started off my freshman year in 1988 with a horrendous bowl haircut. Brady Commons had just been remodeled (again) with a beauty shop in the basement. What better way to start off the year than with a new haircut. Yeah right! I had to wear the ’80s “wet look” for months as my hair grew out. Combine that with my book faux pas, and you can see that, yes, I was a freshman disaster.

— Suzanne Till, BA ’94

In my sophomore year at Mizzou, I got my nerve up to tackle what I perceived as the most difficult required course — a foreign language, Spanish, i.e. Espanol. Now, I had trouble getting up in front of a class to talk in English, let along Spanish, but that is what my Castilian Spanish professor had us all do on the last day of class.

Throughout the semester course I had struggled with reading, writing and speaking Spanish, so this was an especially scary task for me. I had mastered “Como esta usted?”, i.e. How are you?; and “Que hora es?”, i.e. “What time is it?”, but that was about it.

Now the professor asked us to verbally translate a long English paragraph before the class. I stood and pondered my embarrassment in safe silence, looking at the ceiling and rolling my eyes, before I begin to utter just a few stammering words. The class began to snicker, and the girl in the front row began to chuckle at my nervous, guarded effort.

After further attempts to speak more words, the whole class began to laugh at my apparent Spanish illiteracy. But, to me, I could not conceive how the best Spanish that I knew could be so humorous — there had to be some other reason that I was unaware of. Out of habit, I glanced down to see if my fly was unzipped, but it wasn’t. That elicited the most raucous laughter, and the girl in the front row became hysterical. I turned red and returned to my seat, suffering in silence the academic indignity I had been through. Well, the professor was not amused, but he gave me a passing grade, evidently mostly for perfect attendance I surmised.

That was 54 years ago. All was not lost. At least I can pronounce many of the Spanish place names and street signs here in the desert southwest where I have lived for the past 39 years. Now, I try to amorously captivate the old girls I know with my favorite Spanish phase, “Eres una mujer muy baya!” i.e. “You are one beautiful woman!” But, while they are swooning, I quickly glance down to see that my fly is zipped.

— Charles E. Hill, BS PA ’56, MS ’62

An @Mizzou reader shares memories of her best friend from Mizzou …

This isn't about meeting at Mizzou and becoming friends; but about a continuing friendship at Mizzou for two young girls from rural Missouri. Betsy Reid Sisson and I met when we entered high school in the 9th grade in Elsberry, Mo. I came from the teeny town of Foley to the south, and she from a farm west of Elsberry. I knew very few people, and she knew everyone. We both lived nine miles from Elsberry High, but in different directions. Our backgrounds and families were different, but that made our bond complete by filling in the “learning” gaps in our lives. We spent our four years in high school becoming best friends and doing almost everything together.

Betsy decided that MU was her choice for college. By the end of May 1953, I had decided to go with her (this was when you could make decisions just months before school started). We chose bedspreads and curtains and coordinated our things so there wouldn't be duplications. Can you imagine? We roomed together for four years; first at the very new Johnston Hall and then three years at Gentry Hall. What a wonderful time that was for us.

We were the first ones in our families to complete a college education and both graduated in June 1957 with degrees in commercial/business education. In the fall I went to teach business at the high school in Montgomery City, Mo., and Betsy to teach in Bowling Green, Mo.

By the summer of 1958 we were both engaged to local guys and both decided to marry in November. Betsy married Donald Ray Sisson from Bowling Green five days before Thanksgiving, and I was her bridesmaid. I married Donald Ray Bishop from Montgomery City on Thanksgiving day, and Betsy was my matron of honor. We have been good friends since 1949. Sometimes not as close as we would have liked, but we knew we could count on each other no matter what. I live in Liberty, Mo., and Betsy lives in Columbia. We attended our 50th Mizzou reunion this past spring and are planning to get together in 2008 for our big 50th wedding anniversaries.

– Joyce Sehl Bishop, BS Ed '57

An @Mizzou reader shares memories of an ugly man contest …

During my first two years at the University of Missouri, I was housed in an army barracks— the second temporary building [TD-4] east of Crowder Hall. The buildings were two stories tall and shaped like the letter H with the latrine, etc., at the cross bar. Although referred to as temporary, I believe these buildings remained on campus for many years following my graduation.

My roommate was a Greek, a real Greek — I can’t remember his name, but I believe it ended in “opolis”— it was much easier to refer to him as just the “Greek.” In November 1957 the Greek fraternities initiated a campuswide Maneater Ugly Man Contest. Soon after this announcement our dormitory came alive with the idea that our Greek should enter. Anyone not belonging to a fraternity was of course an “Independent,” and so we entered the Greek into the contest under the name “The Independent Greek.”

At first he took great pride in the fact that he had been chosen by his peers, but at the last minute he decided to remove himself from the competition. The dormitory was still obligated to enter a contestant and so the search was on. Exactly how I ended up with the final vote, I’m not sure, but I think the rationalization was something like this, “Since I was the Greek’s roommate…” You got the idea.

Without a doubt, being a participant in the Maneater Ugly Man Contest was one of my most unforgettable experiences while attending the University. It was too late to change the name “The Independent Greek,” so I reluctantly carried it with pride. The winner would be selected by a campuswide vote. So I not only had to be the ugliest person on campus, but also very well-known within that same week.

Two of the guys in the dormitory were drama majors and were bursting with ideas and anxious to apply their trade. It was a fun group of guys who couldn’t wait to get the show on the road. I was scantily dressed in a slit burlap sack with a well-concealed, but prominent, hunchback. I remained in a stooped position like Quasimoto while dragging my right foot. There were a number of grotesque features, my altered right eye being the most obvious. It was covered with half of a Ping-Pong ball that had been painted with prominent blood vessels, then globbed with vaseline so as to make the eye appear that it was oozing its contents. My legs were chained together, so as I dragged my right foot I would also drag the chain. The chain around my neck was controlled at the other end by one of my “keepers.” As an added affect, the same keeper, for any minor provocation, would beat me with a rubber hose across my well-padded hunched back. Two other keepers controlled me by holding chains attached to each arm. I was constantly straining against the chains giving the image of wanting to escape, but being unable. The forth member of this team reminded me of a carnival hawker. He had prepared a number of clever sayings which he would shout out to the gathering crowds. You know the kind, “Ladies and gentlemen, come see the ugliest man on campus, the other 10 are on the football team.”

I would gain the confidence of the crowd by moving slowly but deliberately, dragging my chains, growling with a repressed guttural sound, while continually being
restrained. The keepers learned to anticipate my sudden lunge for someone in the crowd by the intensity of the moment and my growing focus on an individual or group. My favorite target was a female, since it usually evoked a scream and invariably her
girlfriends would attempt to assist in a rescue. It’s hard to describe the response when you grab someone and hang on— except that they were terrified. They were totally consumed by the moment, seemingly unable to distinguish the skit from reality. Of course, this total immersion is what we had hoped for and so delighted in their response.

MONDAY EVENING — I was placed in a cage with steel bars in the basement cafeteria of Crowder Hall during the evening meal. I don’t remember what my carnival hawker said during my introduction to the students, but I clearly remember what followed. Little did I know that a penned up ugly man could elicit such a response. A near riot ensued, as food was thrown at me from what seemed to be in every direction. Meat, potatoes, dessert, you name it — if it was on the tray it came through the bars. For those on the outside of the cage it was party time, people screaming, food flying, and me hunched over, low to the floor and in total astonishment. My keepers, of course, stayed at a comfortable distance. I was told later that they had encouraged participants to go back for seconds. I ducked what I could, but it was impossible to hide from the onslaught, so I cupped my hands over my eyes and assumed a fetal position. Cautiously peeking out from under my hands only encouraged another barrage, which was quickly followed by comments on their degree of accuracy. I laid there bewildered, shuddering to think that this might be a harbinger of things to come. The keepers, on the contrary, slapped each other on the back praising each other for their genius. They thought my performance was superb — while I tried to emphasize the near death experience.

When not at a pre-assigned location, I would roam the campus, jumping out from behind bushes or simply hiding and growling. The Student Union around closing time was a favorite haunt. When the campus quieted down, I redirected my attention to the first floor windows in the girls' dormitories. This was very effective, but frowned upon by the campus police who had received a number of panic stricken calls. After a gentle tap on a window, the girls would invariably raise the shade peeking out in curiosity. I then threw my face and body up against the window; this was usually followed by a scream(s), the slamming of the door and of course my quick disappearance. My calling card was the smeared vaseline remaining from the ugly eye.

Although I didn’t have many opportunities to observe my competitors, what I typically saw was an ugly man lying quietly in a coffin and occasionally sitting up. They were ugly, but not really frightening. I suppose the real difference was the unpredictability of my behavior. So unpredictable, in fact, that women were discernibly uneasy as they moved about campus during the evening hours. It sounds a little macab, but I was actually beginning to enjoy my new character — and after all, it was all in good fun.

TUESDAY NIGHT — We were assigned to visit the Memorial Student Union. By this time my role and I were becoming one. I slowly dragged the keepers out onto the dance floor. The lights were dim so the affect was perfect. The leg chain now sliding across the floor created an ominou, heart-stopping event. With no sense of
urgency, I would occasionally pause, lean against my chains and search for prey.

I didn’t choose just anyone — some people show immediate discomfort — even at a
distance. I chose a booth containing four young women who appeared anxious and were nervously talking amongst themselves. Moving slowly, straining against my keepers, I inched my grotesque body toward them. Their fear could be measured in multiples of 10. The whole room was tense, like a Bengal tiger ready to pounce on a Sambur. Johnny Mathis was singing quietly in the background, but the crowd was totally focused on who had become the selected prey. My reputation was now preceding me. Lunging forward resulted in a response even I wasn’t prepared for. Like Springbok the four women, side by side, bolted over the booth landing on the table and students who were seated in the opposite booth. Standing terrified, but well-buffered from any further attack they stood there speechless and trembling. The carnival man immediately broke in, hawking his little sayings as he attempted to release the tension.

The student union manager, not at all amused by this event, screamed at us to leave the building. Being faithful to my role and unaware that the union manager was behind me holding the exterior door open, I wildly swung my right arm striking him across the chest — he dropped to his knees gasping for air. Quickly we exited the building knowing full well that Hell was going to pay for this one. A hasty retreat ensued — I attempted to keep up with my keepers hopping, skipping and tripping down the student union steps with chains in tow. I'm not sure what we were thinking at that moment, because when we came to our senses we all knew the escape could only be temporary. The next morning I was informed by my carnival man that we were in deep dodo and that I was expected to apologize to the student union manager — which I most humbly did. He in turn responded, “I can’t wait until this damn week is over.” Having a similar feeling, I tried to commiserate — but I pledged to finish.

WEDNESDAY NIGHT — was women’s dormitory night. Women were invited to come down to their lounge to get a measure of the true ugliness of the “ Independent Greek.” By this time the whole campus was becoming aware of our reputation and each lounge contained a sizable gathering. If my memory serves me correctly, the last stop that evening was at TD-5. As we entered the room, it became obvious that the women there planned to prove to themselves and to others that they were fearless. Again I searched for my prey. The women sat defiant, looking more like the stones of a fortress. Experience told me that such a fortress couldn’t be penetrated. So I redirected my attention to two young ladies who were unable to conceal themselves amongst these stones. They sat slightly to the left holding each other’s hands in a white knuckled grip. Intensely, they studied my facial expressions and the chain that secured my straining neck. Their faces now began to mimic my own gruesome expressions. Their anxiety was noticeably relieved as I again redirected my attention back towards the fortress. Suddenly, I lunged at the two women who had mistakenly slipped into a false sense of security. Screaming in unison, they flipped over their couch then sprinted for the swinging glass doors leading into the hallway. They hit the doors with such force that several panes were broken. Again we had to apologize, this time to the house mother and of course pay for the replacement of the windows.

THURSDAY NIGHT — I continued to roam the campus, sometimes free of my keepers, but never out of their sight, or maybe it was the reverse. The goal was to terrify as many students as possible without being trashed or abducted.

FRIDAY MORNING — The vote for the Ugliest Man on campus was to occur following the 9:15 am football rally. Saturday’s big game was against Oklahoma. The excitement and anticipation was palatable. All ugly men, cheerleaders and what
appeared to be thousands of students had gathered on the lawn between Jesse Hall and the Columns. The Columns as you know are huge, but their height is enhanced by being constructed upon an elevated site. My keepers, keenly aware of the moment, encouraged me to crawl onto one of the bases where I assumed a prostrate posture. Feeling a bit like Quasimoto, I stared over the gathering crowd. Not certain how to respond, but knowing I was expected to, I began to scowl disdainfully at the crowd while clawing at the air and snarling wildly. Again, the students simultaneously reacted by hissing, booing and raising their fists. My immediate thought was, OH NO! As the painful one sided cafeteria food fight flashed through my memory. Although there were no visible pitch forks or torches, it was Transylvania, and I was Frankenstein.

As fate would have it, a cheerleader, unaware I was immediately behind her, thoughtlessly backed up and was now within reach. I grabbed her, she let out a series of terrified screams while dragging me off the base of the column. The crowd, understanding the spirit of the encounter, cheered wildly--Frankenstein had been given a reprieve and the title of Ugliest Man on Campus was now firmly established.
The fraternities, having lost the contest, refused to give an independent that handsome trophy which they surely thought one of them was going to win. So after much prodding, I finally ended up with a less than impressive plaque which I proudly display on a bookshelf in the living room. The size of the plaque, of course, is not in direct proportion to the dissemination of terror — but it does have some wonderful memories attached to it. It reads, “1957 MANEATER UGLY MAN — ERIC ENBERG.”

I’m retired now and having an opportunity to share these memories has been a real hoot. Sadly, names and faces that should have been included have been lost over time, but now you know the complete story at least as much as I can recall. They say the spirit of the Ugliest Man still roams the dark places on campus. Please be mindful of that as you exit the library around closing time or hear a gentle tap on the window.
I would like to give a special heart felt thanks to the late Dr. Joseph Wood (Paleobotany) who taught me the love of teaching and who stayed in touch all those years freely sharing his love, knowledge, patience and understanding. My friend, I truly miss you.

– Eric C. Enberg Sr., BS Ed ’61, MST ’63

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Last Update: July 2, 2009