Before the word “geek” came into common usage, I was a common example of the subspecies.

My sixth grade school photo shows an Alfred E. Neumann look-alike whose hair was cut with the aid of a wooden soup bowl and a jagged pair of scissors. The shirt’s top button was shut to prevent prepubescent females from gazing upon a hairless chest. Around my neck was a loop of rawhide which held my locker key.

Many of us grow out of such sartorial and grooming inelegance and by the time we graduate from high school, most of us are more cool than geekish.

Most of us, anyway. Some of us never put away our mustard-yellow Converse All-Stars.

Although handicapped by a childhood studded with maximum geekness, I have been trying to leave my sordid past behind and fit into the college scene. It’s been a trauma.

I do dress better now and the wooden bowl is used for cereal instead of haircuts. I leave the top button undone (still not much hair) and my Rec Center locker key is safely out of sight on a key ring.

Of more trouble has been the proper way to wear a daypack. Whether by custom, habit or Student Association mandate, everyone wears his pack on one shoulder instead of two. The manufacturer, who provided two straps instead of one, presumed that both were necessary for proper comfort.

Indeed, I have found that to be the case, and for many weeks I ignored the titters, laughter and ridicule that resulted when I violated fashion’s convention by strolling from the library to DuSable with both straps on both shoulders.

Finally, I decided to give up my individuality and become part of the crowd, which is, after all, the very essense of coolness.

The transition has been rough. My shoulders are too round and the books are too heavy, and the pack slides from shoulder to wrist, finally dangling by middle and index finger. My shoulders are not slaves to fashion.

Despite all obstacles, I have become one of the pack and have earned the Order of Coolness.

But being cool does not stop merely with fashion. Attitudes must be reshaped, the old chauvinist habits that die hard must be flailed until completely buried.

If you are male, you must become a Sensitive Man.

I don’t call women “ole‘ ladies”, “broads” or “honey.” After studying Alan Alda films, I can agree that the way to a woman’s heart is through her mind.

In essense, I try to treat a woman as a person.

Occasionaly, I let my gender show, and my efforts to be a Sensitive Man are tested.

I was confessing to my Russian instructor my desire to thoroughly learn the language. What I actually said was: “I want to conquer Russian.”

Whoops. The gender police swooped in. The instructor, being of the female persuasuion, pointed out that his was a very male thing to say. She said a woman would say, “I want to get to know the language.”

Did I defend my honor as male and assert my right to express my desire in terms of war? Did I point out the essential role of war in combating the boredom of feudal society in the Middle Ages? Did I retort that my ancestors beat their chests and dragged people by the hair and I’m sorry, but primitive blood courses through my male genes?

Nyet. Like the Sensitive Male that I have become, I whimpered, cowered and apologized.

Maybe I should give it all up. Maybe I should pull out of the coolness quest and assert my individualy right to wear pen protectors or carry my book back anyway I please.

Maybe I should give up the effort to be a Sensitive Male. I could drink six packs, belch and change my name to Rocko.

Nah. I want to be cool.