BY ALEX LEADER-SMITH

In print | Published November 18, 2004

Twenty-one words undid my existence. I opened the paper and just like that I was gone. “The Poenis has recently run several columns by ‘Alex Leader-Smith.’ It has come to our attention that no such person exists.”

Read that again. “Alex Leader-Smith does not exist.” For 19 years, I’d lived a lie, fooled into accepting the reality of my existence. This was an identity crisis of the highest magnitude. Cogito, sed non sum? How could that possibly be? I needed to investigate.

Initial results confirmed the pro-existence hypothesis. The phone directory listed me. Credit card bills were sent to me. My school and state IDs were proof not only of my identity, but of my dashing good looks as well. With the evidence so strongly in my favor, there was only one thing to do: confront The Poenis with their blatantly incorrect “correction.” I mean, if there’s one thing I’ve learned at Swarthmore, it’s how to angrily dispute perceived slander.

I fired off an e-mail to editors John Williams ‘06 and Michelle Crouch ’06, asking to share my findings. John’s succinct reply: “You’re welcome to [attend a meeting], but you need to bring some brownies.” Fair enough. I love baked goods, but trading them for a chance to prove my existence seemed like a reasonable exchange.

A quick Genuardi’s run later, I was in the Publications Office, surrounded by Poenis (a.k.a. Spike) staffers. They were a motley crew, ranging from Joe “Champion of the Mustachioed” Kille ‘06 to Lindsey “Layout Dominatrix” Brin ’05 to a cardboard cutout of Han Solo (’08?) that sat next to John and stoically watched over us. I’d soon learn all their quirky personalities — Joe, for instance, was brash and unapologetic, while Han was rather stiff — but right then they formed a chorus of assent: “Brownies?! You really brought brownies?! Do you want to join us? Write for us? Please?” I was taken aback. An invitation to join them already? Wow. If that wasn’t acceptance of my existence, I don’t know what is.

Flattered by their praise, I decided to stay through the meeting. It was like an hour spent trapped in a Dali painting. We began by dissecting Joe’s inability to communicate with his mother. We ended contemplating life-size cardboard cutouts of Joe Alberti ‘06. In between, we pondered Polish accents, “beer spheres,” and the legality of necrophilia in New Jersey. There was a huge debate over Mustache November that seemed to stem entirely from Kille’s mustache fetish. I wanted to inject some comment about bearded ladies and the masculonormatization of facial hair, but I feared losing touch with reality even further. Eventually, we struck an uncertain accord and moved on — to discuss lesbian killer nurses, I believe.

And so it went, a mind-numbing phantasmagoria of genuine absurdity. I had entered uncertain of my own existence. I left uncertain of Spike’s. I’d get caught up in a debate over obscene band names, then step back, confused: “Wait, is this an article? Is this? Is that?” Meanwhile, Joe was shouting, “Don’t try to sully this meeting with your silly magazine!” while Michelle earnestly thanked me for providing motivation. Spike’s confusion over my existence no longer seemed odd to me. I left, just happy they’d figured out who I was.

In all honesty, though, it was a good experience. I had some fun, proved my existence, and got to charge $5 in brownies to The Phoenix expense account. I almost couldn’t ask for more — except one tiny thing.

I could still use a niche.

I might have an existence, but I’m still lacking an identity. Perhaps THAT was the philosophical message The Poenis was trying to send. If a man has no club, is he truly a man? Is he real? Does he exist? Am I but a façade? Should I take more philosophy courses? Next semester I’ll find out for sure. Next semester, come hell or high water, I’m finding myself a home.

Alex is a junior. You can reach him at aleader1@swarthmore.edu.

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