By Whitney Hobson
I have a story to tell. It took place my freshman year at Eastern New Mexico University at a fraternity party in autumn of 2001. I was invited to the Halloween party, which took place on the Saturday before, October 27. (I found the old photo from that evening–old school, printed and date-stamped–which was taken in our dorm room before we went out.)
To begin, violence is no joke. Nor is the telling of this story. I suppose that in retelling this account in 2023, enough time has passed to almost unremarkably forget it. Yet writing this on campus story cracked my heart open. The anxiety of that Halloween party and the innocence of my first two months on campus sprinkled out like left behind candy corns from my past, not fully formulating into a full clue-filled bag of candy.
More recently after relocating back to my home town of Roswell, New Mex., my mom brought up the fraternity party, while talking about dating and asked, “Do you think that incident years ago did something to you?” This summer actually brought it all full circle and contextualized the magnitude of life paths crossing: I heard three different accounts of my story through men who are presently connected to my brother.
At my brother’s bachelor weekend in Ruidoso, New Mex., this story, which happened to me so along ago during my freshman year, reappeared in the tapestry of my life. I say ‘happened’ because the magnitude had not fully been processed until this summer and my current Feature Writing class. Three men who lived in Portales in 2001 and who were students at ENMU told different accounts of that night and realized they were connected through that event through my brother and I.
The baseball player.
“The Godfather,” my loving cousin.
The fraternity member.
—–
My roommate and I, both members of the dance department at ENMU, dressed up that fateful Halloween and were invited to a fraternity party. We dressed ironically because we presented ourselves very differently than what we truly were (we were both naive, virgin 19-year-olds), me being 5 feet 8 inches tall and she 5-5. She dressed as a pimp and I dressed as her employee. It was a humorous costume for us: I was taller and wore a short black wig, short skirt, and fishnet tights–as “her employee.” (People often ask that question when women are attacked: What was she wearing?) My roommate wore a giant pink, big rimmed hat, a glistening cane, a necklace borrowed from a male friend, and a shiny silk shirt. This made for a hysterical duo and in the end she helped to protect me.
I remember my wig getting ripped off, thrown on the dance floor, looking down to reach for it–
POW! I was kicked, as if I was the soccer ball. The man wearing a President Nixon mask had just kicked me in the sternum with direct force and contact, similar to a goalie projecting the ball across the field. I remember my roommate swinging her “pimp cane” at President Nixon who had just violently hit me.
She then rushed in front of me as protection. We began our exit out of the fraternity house. She and I were both dating members of the fraternity (I was dating the president, she was another member), but sadly, as we escaped, both seemed concerned, yet protective of the man who kicked me. They did not seem to stop us as we exited the dangerous situation.
—–
The baseball player. That Saturday evening, we arrived at the baseball player’s house. It felt similar to arriving at a safe place, to some extent, because one of the men was a former teammate of my brother at New Mexico Military Institute. I felt support, rage, and protection from that group of men.
That Sunday morning, I saw the unmasked President Nixon while at breakfast in the CUB. We made eye contact and I felt as though I’d seen a ghost. I quickly exited the building. Once I was back in my dorm room, I checked and, sure enough, the pain between my breasts was actually turning into a bruise. There on my sternum, at the center of my chest.
—–
The Godfather, my loving cousin. I stopped by his house later Sunday afternoon. I told him the story and he told me, “We either do this the family way or you go to the police.” I call him The Godfather, because he was referring to the process of claiming what happened in a public way or what he might do in retribution. So I called ENMU campus police, went in for photos and shared my story, but wasn’t sure what to do next.
The fraternity president and I later talked, sitting on a curb near the student union building. He claimed the powerful soccer-esque kicking young man in the fraternity was drunk. Like “blackout drunk.” But I knew in my gut that what he did was not okay, no matter what costume I was wearing. That was also the beginning of the end of my fraternizing with the frat president as a potential romantic relationship. I did not feel supported, safe, or heard.
My dad and I then had a meeting with the president of the university, and there were reports of the kicker being threatened by the baseball team, a revenge for their friend’s sister. I did receive a typed apology letter from the President Nixon masked man, which seemed formal and perhaps suggested by his judge/legislator father.
And then he left. Never did I see him on campus again.
—–
The fraternity member. In 2021, before a Foo Fighters concert in Albuquerque, I met up with my brother, his future wife, and her family. One of her cousins is married to one of the fraternity brothers. It is unclear if he attended the party, yet he was a part of the organization at that time. He brought up that story in an Irish bar sitting across the table from me, eating fish and chips. He hadn’t seen me since 2001. He also explained how that story affected him.
—–
In the Summer of 2023, twenty two years later, three different men–the baseball player, the Godfather, and the fraternity member–all shared my story while in a cabin in Ruidoso for my brother’s bachelor weekend of golf.
The Halloween incident and the impact this quick and violent act had on my life didn’t seem much of anything, until this point. I mostly forgot about it (besides one time when I was working as a legislative assistant during the New Mexico session in 2009–I saw him visiting his representative father and I saw the ghost again, experiencing that haunting feeling). It also wasn’t until I Googled the President Nixon masked man that I read that in 2017 he was accused of stalking a woman while attempting to run for public office (and it is no coincidence that his father is a member of the New Mexico State Legislature).
I share this story as one of vigilance. I share this story as a reflection and unsure what action to take next. However I very much believe–there is foundational evidence–that the young woman who was my roommate at Bernalillo Hall years ago (as my protector and tag-team compadre for our costuming) had my back, as did each of the three men listed, knowing or unknowing. Here is the serious note to take away from my account of what happened to me on all Hallow’s Eve, besides catharsis and a class assignment: Take care of one another! Violence is not “OK.”
I have a story to tell. A friend read this account and asked, “What would your twenty-year-old self do?” considering if I knew what I know now, at that impressionable age. I am not sure yet. As I embody those answers and write them out, I now very much enjoy celebrating and learning about the culture, reverence, and connection to our ancestors within the celebrations of All Saints Day and Dia de Los Muertos. Ideally with no more costumes of pimps and their employees, or President Nixon to haunt me.
