Therese Trinko, Contributing Writer
In light of the history of false accusations — including such tragedies as the life sentences of innocent people, and the trials of Sirius Black — my story is not terribly important. However, as a young college student who has always longed for the honor of receiving a superlative — and who, finally receiving two in Rome, found them both to be false accusations — I can say my story is moderately tragic.
It all started in London at the British Museum. I was excitedly walking among the ancient artifacts from all over the world with my dear friend Selena Puente.
We were delighted to finally see the Rosetta Stone and the ruins of the Acropolis.
After returning to the campus in Due Santi, a small group of us lunched at the Mensa on a beautiful, Roman spring afternoon, discussing our long weekend adventures. Our table included Caroline Jenkins, Zachary Kraus and Matthew Wise, two of whom proved lesser friends than the other.
One person at the table inquired about our adventures in London and asked whether we had seen the Elgin Marbles. I said no, forgetting who Elgin was. Their reaction was overpoweringly indignant, and Kraus and Wise proved themselves dastardly cads for their mockery of an innocent compatriot.
Finally, out of a charity not deemed valuable by my other two classmates, Ms. Jenkins told me that the Elgin Marbles were the ruins of the Acropolis, which we had seen in the British Museum.
Of course, I then clarified and said that I had seen them. However, some people, such as Kraus and Wise, were not as understanding as they should be, and a great rumor spread across campus — the false accusation that I had gone to the British Museum and missed the Elgin Marbles.
This traumatic incident was swiftly followed by another. I, being a sane human being who knows that coffee is the devil’s drink, abstain from it; however, my roommates, who are not as virtuous, have an obscene addiction to the beverage. While in Rome, they consumed it regularly and carried their mugs back to our shared suite, leaving them there to accumulate. By the end of the semester, they had filled an entire Top bag of cups.
Jump forward to our last night in Rome, when superlatives were awarded. The usual ones were announced: best hair, best dancer, most likely to never leave the U.S. again and most likely to steal the Mensa cups. I looked excitedly at my roommates, wondering which one would win, and then my name was announced. Through the cries of African Swag that rent the air, I announced with a wail of righteous indignation that I had never stolen a single Mensa cup, to the disbelief of my classmates and the ecstatic delight of my roommates.
And then, to add insult to injury, the write-ins were announced, and lo and behold, I won the superlative for “most likely to miss the Elgin Marbles.” Dr. Lisot, the art history professor, turned to me in outrage.
“Why?” she cried. Struggling to be heard over the laughter of my classmates, I pitifully tried to explain from across the room that I had, indeed, seen them. Alas, no one believed me. The ones who had started the disgraceful rumor had nothing to say for themselves.
Such is the story of the dreadful slander perpetrated by those whom I thought I could trust. May God have mercy on their souls.