FIGHT SONG

From Part I, “The Great Frontier and the Westward Movement:”

The story of the life of the frontier, the aspirations it inspired, the successes and failures it helped facilitate, the fears for its demise, and the search for substitutes all support the proposition of this narrative, that the western movement, with all its multiple versions and interpretations, forms a central plank in constructing the history of America and the psyche of Americans and has done so since independence . . .

. . . What actually happened as America expanded west is, of course, critical, but for the purposes of our narrative the manner of the movement is less relevant than the importance of the movement—not so much how it happened but that it happened. Westward expansion and its apparent curtailment with the frontier’s notional closing became a central element in the minds and visions of Americans at the time and, to a lesser degree, since then. Even if some perceptions of that movement are rooted in comfortable myth rather than harsh reality and are often incomplete, biased, or selective, the significance remains.

From Part II, “Land Hunger:”

The history of America during its first century was often the history of land. It is a history of the desire for the ownership of land. The power and attraction of land is ancient and came over with the first settlers, but while the chance of landownership in their countries of origin was remote, in America, the possibilities were almost limitless.

. . . After decades of tinkering with its land policy, Congress (and the president) bit the bullet and offered free land in the public domain. The craving might be said to have finally been satisfied. The Homestead Act’s importance cannot only be measured in terms of entries made, acreage claimed, or farms abandoned, or in the abuse and misuse of its provisions. The glory of the Homestead Act was its sheer existence and the principle it espoused . . .

. . . It gave Americans what they or their immigrant ancestors would almost certainly never have achieved in their lands of origin: the chance to own a piece of the nation at virtually no cost . . .

. . . Even for those who never ventured west to stake their claim and try their luck, the very existence of the Homestead Act and its underlying principle provided a significant psychological benefit: it was always, at least through to the end of the nineteenth century, an option: dramatic and life-altering, certainly, but it was there if needed and chosen.

From Part III, “The Morrill Act; Land-Grant College Revolution:”

. . . the Morrill Act would be a watershed measure, marking the beginning of the modern era in American higher education. It challenged the postcolonial religious influence that we saw had pervaded college and university education, with its often-archaic curriculum and its generally male students. It ushered in a secular alternative: a federally initiated and government-funded establishment of public colleges nationwide.

After years of faltering growth, during which they tried to find a place and a mission, [Land Grant Colleges] were about to have their day in the sun as a critical component in the world of American higher education. As we’ll see in the next part of the narrative, this burgeoning stature would be affirmed following the transformational GI Bill of 1944; their day in the sun never really ended.

From Part IV, “College for the Veterans: the GI Bill of 1944:”

This, then, was the time for the state colleges, with land-grants in the vanguard, to have their “moment.” It was what the land-grants had been working toward—unknowingly and not always steadily—since 1862. The land-grants and other large public colleges became the default, solid option for returning veterans: financially stable, big, with a wide range of study options from the practical to the intellectual, and closely identified with their state, these education powerhouses anchored the implementation of the GI Bill . . .

The GI Bill, iconic as it might be, was not an unequivocal success; women’s progress in higher education was temporarily halted in deference to the massive male influx and what that meant. With such an enormous government handout . . . the prospect of some easy money attracted fraudsters, and, to a degree, this tainted the process. But perhaps the biggest criticism came over the inequities suffered by the African American veterans . . .

From Part V, “Fight Song: Pulling the Parts Together:”

Once on the field, the bands play all sorts of tunes and arrangements, but it is their college “fight song,” a typically short and simple melody with often rather mundane lyrics, that strikes a deep emotional chord with the fans, who invariably sing along. The fight song will be frequently reprised: outside the stadium before the game, during the pre- game buildup on the field, and with especial fervor after the team scores any points . . .

For the final ritual before kickoff—and one common to every game, in every division—all the spectators stand, hats are removed, and faces are turned to the Stars and Stripes fluttering at one end. Some—usually veterans—will salute, and many will place a hand on their hearts, a gesture that might attract mild ridicule from Europeans, but for Americans, it is a chance to quietly demonstrate thanks to the country that, at some time, probably provided a literal lifeline to their immigrant ancestors seeking opportunities unavailable at home, or fleeing tyrannical oppression or famine in the land of their birth, or whose family long ago perhaps acquired a farm under the uniquely American Homestead Act, or whose relative, a World War II veteran, was given a free college education under the GI Bill, an education that transformed their lives. And so the band plays “The Star-Spangled Banner”—the fight song of the USA.