The Shadwell Wake is so named because the UST English department used to be housed in Shadwell Hall. Named for Thomas Shadwell, a poet laureate of England who seems to be remembered more for being a bad writer than anything else (other poets mocked him in their writings. Hee).
Every year the English Honors Society hosts the wake -- there is music, dancing, booze (god bless my Catholic school), the parading of a large fake coffin all over the school with accompanying wailing and moaning, and of course, a bad poetry contest. Due to low attendance two years ago, it was not held last year. But this time there were a good number of people there, lots of noise, lots of fun. Dr. Lowery expressed joy and a bit of surprise that no one called the cops on us for making a racket (apparently this has happened before).
The editor of Laurels was giving me crap about not entering the bad poetry contest, so when he called for last-minute entries before the final poem was read, I went up to the microphone. Go go gadget public speaking skills -- I don't think my voice was even very shaky, which is a vast improvement on the past few years. This is the sin against literature that I made up moments before:
I have to come up and say this or Joseph will beat me
A haiku is five
syllables, then seven, and
then five again.
I did not win anything (the aforementioned Joseph actually won first prize with his awesomely horrific poem. I think I love him, now. It was that good/bad) but people laughed, so that's something. The acting department chair (I think that was him. I could be horribly wrong) actually had me recite it again for an older gentleman who wasn't there for the contest... I wasn't sure who the guy was, but later the conversation drifted to how he named Shadwell Hall in the first place. So now I've said the "shit" word* in front of the higher-ups in the St. Thomas English department. My mother is so proud.
*Seriously, y'all. Cats don't say "poop".