Seconds of Rice

When it comes to college-bound kids, there are varying degrees of parental pride. But nothing matches having 100 percent of your offspring decide to attend your alma mater.

Willy Prank 1988

When my older son was admitted to Rice University and chose to accept, I beamed a lot (and, okay, I boasted a little); when his brother followed suit a year later, I felt like donning a sandwich board and parking myself on the I-35 overpass in Austin. Rice is a great school, and I’m delighted that they picked it, because it means not just that they’ll get one heck of an education but also that my rambling tales of Dark Ages college days didn’t put them off. It’s a vote of confidence in me as well as in Rice.

Since they were old enough to eat rice cereal, both my sons have heard tales of Rice U. They know that’s where I met most of my closest friends, whom they deem cool, regardless of their opinion of Mom, and Philip, a sophomore, notes, “You hear horror stories—or pleasure stories—about how your friends at Rice will be your friends for the rest of your life.” Most important, both he and Parker learned from our anecdotes that higher education is a high all by itself.

Then again, part of the school’s appeal is its storybook campus, about 285 acres of sweeping green lawns and imposing, neo-Byzantine buildings in the middle of frenetic Houston. Students sally through the Sallyport, the elaborate archway carved through the administration building, and read books as they ply the shortcuts cooled by spreading oaks. My sons snicker lovingly at my surprise seeing “new”—i.e., post-1975—edifices on campus, such as the James A. Baker III Institute for Public Policy, a Wal-Mart-size pile of red brick named for former secretary of state James Baker, grandson of Captain James Addison Baker, the first chair of Rice’s board, and they howl at my use of outdated Rice slang, such as “weenies” for hopelessly grade-minded classmates.

As for the actual courses my sons take, I will have far more to contribute about Philip’s. He is an “academ,” in Rice-speak—a student majoring in humanities, social sciences, or fine arts instead of “SE,” or science and engineering. In fact, one of his favorite classes was with an enduringly popular sociology professor who also taught me. (Thanks, Dr. Martin!) And whereas I timidly assayed the likes of French I, Philip boldly elected to take courses such as Worlds of Work in the Age of Globalization—in which he was, amazingly, the only student. Parker, on the other hand, is a math nerd—although all Rice students are some kind of nerd—and thus will be signing up for “the Big Three”: calculus, chemistry, and physics. Knowing Parker, I can guarantee he will be contributing to Rice’s tradition of elaborately engineered pranks, particularly those aimed at Willy, the nickname fondly given the statue of the university founder, William Marsh Rice. In 1988 students figured out how to turn the one-ton bronze artwork 180 degrees. Notes Parker: “Let me just say that if anything untoward happens to Willy this year, I was nowhere near there.”

Pranks are a small part of Rice’s overall social scene, the pursuit of which is, as at many Texas colleges, almost as enlightening as its curriculum. (Parents: I recommend acquiring a well-made pair of blinders and practicing selective-memory techniques.) Rice students enjoy blowouts such as the Casino Party at rowdy Lovett College, a 30-year-old tradition organized in part by a junior who ended up marrying my little sister. And last spring, Philip participated in another venerable Rice event, Beer Bike, a series of cycling-and-swigging races in which—because of the current drinking age—water is now substituted for the brews. Other forms of fun are less structured. For example, when I learned that Rice’ incoming president, David Leebron, will be moving into new quarters adjacent to the main campus, I told Philip, “You know, I guess this no longer applies to you, but it used to be tradition at Rice to sneak into the president’s yard at night and go swimming in his pool.”

Philip grinned and said, “Don’t worry, Mom—it’s been swum.”
That’s my boy.

—Anne Dingus