Ben ambled in to the section meeting five minutes later than his students and flung a trim laptop case onto the spindly-legged table. He folded his overcoat, rolled up the shirtsleeves of his disheveled oxford, and pulled out his laptop. After opening it up and glancing at the screen, he spread his hands on the table and swept exacting eyes around the circle of students. “Hi, everyone. My name’s Ben Bolger and I’m your TA for the semester. Please, call me Ben.”

His voice was charismatic, a medium, husky pitch with warm timbre, and every time he looked at one of us he seemed to speak directly to us. His light blue eyes were intelligent, and small, worldly wrinkles formed at their corners when he smiled. He did so often. He was a portly man, with a long torso that swelled impressively above his waist. His age was hard to guess; his cultured voice and older body seemed contrary to a boyish face.

The Bolger legend impressed nearly all the students who were in on it. John Gillis, a sophomore at Brown, reflected on Ben’s character. “Ben knows something about himself that the world doesn’t. No matter how silly you think his hair looks, how arrogant you think his demeanor is, or how fruitless you think his education has been so far, he will still approach you with an undying confidence. He’s totally unbelievable but I think he is honest; I think he is opportunistic, but he is still honest about being so, so its okay.” John implied a number of common critiques other students cite—his carefully mussed, Trumpian hair is simply “compensation for something,” his tower of degrees the same, and “his self-assurance is ridiculous, especially for a career TA!” Yet all of the students had the same preoccupation, all were involved in the same speculation and tireless discussion. No one could write Ben off, despite all of the things to hold against him. The tirades against Ben after section were, in a way, worshipful.

“Mr. Bolger received his Bachelor’s degree from the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. His graduate degrees include a M.Des.S. in Real Estate and Urban Planning from Harvard University’s Graduate School of Design, a M.Sc. from Columbia University, a M.A. from Teachers College, an A.M. from Stanford University, a M.Phil in Sociology and Politics of Modern Society from the University of Cambridge (England), and a M.Sc. in Sociology from the University of Oxford, Oriel College (England).”

Source: Northeastern University Lecturer Biography page.

John had a particularly insightful comment in regards to Ben’s obsession with academia. “[He pursues so many degrees] because he’s still in the little kid mindset of collecting. He wants to collect as many as he can—they’re his Pokemon cards.” Perhaps he hasn’t moved beyond this “little kid mindset” in much of his life. It would explain his cockiness and sometimes aloof attitude, as well as a seemingly irrational, almost immature celebrity worship. Imaginations run wild at the thought of Ben “collecting” degrees—a wall covered in degrees hailing from the Academic A-Team, floors paved in parchment, a big photo album so he can demonstrate his learning for his prestigious guests at his elite dinner party. If they are indeed his “Pokemon cards,” the Harvard PhD should be on the first page.

The list of celebs, red-on-black on his personal web-site—www.benbolger.com—trends towards politicians and hip actors: Clinton Gore Greenspan Kennedy Reno Sharpton Affleck Spike Ono MCHammer. Some of the mentions are bizarre; Omarosa from “The Apprentice,” Ice T, Jerry Springer. The list gradually morphs from political heavy-hitters—Clinton, Gore, Kerry—through politically oriented show-biz types—Michael Moore, Al Franken—to pure-bred celebs—Will Ferrell, Bruce Willis—and ends conclusively with Yoko and Yo Yo. On the page, it continues longer than would seem possible—“Did he really meet all of these people?” Yet every link produces the promised picture, so oversized that it’s necessary to scroll around the window to see the whole thing. On any other site it’d be guaranteed airbrushing, but these are authentic.

In every one his corpulent, self-satisfied face crowds and pushes against the more recognizable celebrities standing next to him. The carefully parted hair, the lidded blue eyes; Ben Bolger appears over and over again. Most of his subjects seem slightly put-off by the obsessive gleam in his eyes. A few grasp his shoulder as enthusiastically as he grasps theirs. Some look imploringly past the camera, probably towards a member of their entourage for rescue. Many appear less substantial than their on-screen or on-podium personae: pale, gaunt, or grizzled, without make-up or hair gel, over-worked or over-stimulated.

Ben’s growth can even be charted through the pictures—the gradual fleshing-out of his face, from young, eager grad student to rounder Democratic delegate. In some pictures he appears tan and healthy, in others washed-out with pronounced bags below his eyes. There are no captions, leaving the viewer to wonder what Ben could’ve done to become so fatigued. If the pictures were in chronological order, some kind of plot could be easier to establish. Without such cues, however, the events leading to the pictures must simply be guessed at, inferred—many were probably taken at the DNC, perhaps some at Harvard functions. How he came across M.C. Hammer, however, is beyond even the most imaginative individual.

I wonder how he approaches them. I wonder who takes his pictures, if he has an accomplice. I wonder how his past has led him to this compulsive habit. I wonder about the microcosmic stories present beneath every bitmapped picture, about the first words he said to Denzel, to Janet Reno. How often does he update his galleries and what prompts him—a critical mass of encounters, a backlog of liaisons? Why hasn’t Ben moved past the world of Academia? Why hasn’t he moved into the professional realm—politics, or law, or architecture?

“I think (and this is to his credit) that he honestly thinks those celebs will one day prize those pictures themselves. That, from their point of view, they wont be a ‘picture that Ben took with me’ but ‘a picture that I got to take with Ben.’ That’s what happens when you grow up outside of the public education system and are truly convinced that everything revolves around you.” Is this self-centered, greedy nature a direct effect of Ben’s home-schooling, as John suggests? It would seem that Ben’s background would lead him to feel particularly “special”: according to his auto-biography, he was home-schooled by his attentive, creative mother, whose instruction was so successful that he first attended college at the age of twelve.

Section again, this time the second class I took with Ben, City Politics. He graded all of our papers with the same rubric, and scored them out of five points. On my first paper, I received a 4.55, a solid mark but hard to interpret. Is a “one” paper a complete failure? How does my score compare to the others? Only later did it come out that everyone in the section had received that score, and the same comments. Ben included such clunkers as “Your paper is quite well-written. However, I have a triumvirate of suggestions for your next assignment.” I still wonder how he could have written a word like “triumvirate” on twenty papers and expect it to go unnoticed.

During Commencement week of 2004, I sang a concert with The Jabberwocks, my a cappella group. Halfway through our set, Ben came in the back in conspicuous Academic regalia. He settled into a seat and watched the rest of the concert, then slipped out the back. Later that day, I passed him as I walked up Thayer with my family. He stopped me on the sidewalk and said “I enjoyed your concert tremendously, Sam. I look forward to seeing more of the Jabberwocks next year.” Up until that encounter, I hadn’t thought he even knew my name, despite my membership in two of his sections. I was touched and surprised by our interaction. Narcissistic pride overwhelmed any skepticism I’d harbored, and I smiled back. “Thanks, Ben! I was glad to see you in the audience.” We exchanged a few words about the Wocks and our respective plans for the summer, then parted.

Ben won’t see the Wocks perform this year, however. He hasn’t returned to Brown. Instead, he lectures at Northeastern’s school of Business and is working on his dissertation at Harvard. He’s proven to be an enigmatic subject—even my memories have begun to fray at the edges, growing to encompass the Bolger caricature which has developed in the interim since last year. Is he really as disingenuous as I seem to remember? What would he say to my characterization, my memories? Is the Ben I saw the Ben others see? Did I respect or despise him, or do I even subscribe to either dichotomy, like the majority of my former classmates?

Ben, in fact, has attained somewhat mythical proportions on campus (he has numerous PhD’s, multiple homes, secret government ties, a Ferrari he parked on Charlesfield, etc.). He is now a screen onto which certain Brunonians project their view of academia or celebrity. He’s our foil for all the autograph seekers and learners in society.

This essay just betrays yet another fascinated, envious, voyeuristic student. By writing about Ben, am I buying into his cult, the Bolger worship that we all propagated by speaking about him then and continue to now? Regardless of the satirical aspects of this piece, its true respect and wonder come through. John’s comments bore grudging reverence for Ben and his accomplishments as well. Yet there is still an intangible aspect of his personality, a serious and perturbing question for all of his idiosyncrasies—Why?

“All the while you wonder if all the outward success is just trying to make up for a very inward, very deep insecurity.” -John Gillis

“In the final analysis, creating a better tomorrow requires a bold vision and a recognition of our past experiences.” -Ben Bolger