Hello, my name is Bernhardt Eichmann Helmut, and today I wish to tell for you my sad life story. I should note that before I start, mine is a story of ignorance, shame and abandonment. My story is not for the weak of heart. I am a downtrodden man with no outlet but a university newspaper.

Perhaps I should begin, as all life stories do, with the sad fact of my birth. It was the winter of 1975, and a diminutive East German boy with few prospects and even fewer lederhosen was conceived from the union of two bicycle mechanics in East Berlin’s lower western east side.

Despite my circumstances, I worked dutifully in my studies and received top marks in East Berlin’s only schoolhouse. In my spare time, I took the job of hall monitor and watched carefully over my school’s only hallway.

I was well received in these years. My friends did not tease me, and I felt as one feels when he is wanted. I remember one particular instance of good will in which a school mate expressed his appreciation of my hall monitoring duties: “Hall Monitor Helmut, the world will be safer with you around.”

My eyes welled with tears at this honest affirmation of my place in this world. And from that moment forward, Hall Monitor Helmut became a dedicated public servant. I took to manning street corners, directing traffic and volunteering with our local fire brigade.

All this time, however, there ached within me a desire to see the world at large. East Berlin’s lower western east side was only so big, and my potential to bring about a safer world was thus curtailed by geographical limits. It is for this reason that I stowed away on an ocean liner bound for America, surviving on the scattered remains of bags of corn and millet in the ship’s storehouse.

When I arrived on the golden shores of America, a glimmer of hope shining in my eager eyes, I was forced to accept a harsh reality. My first memory of this country is of standing in the unending lines of Ellis Island, staring into the unforgiving eyes of an immigration official hell-bent on changing my birth name. Finding “Bernhardt” cumbersome, the official shortened it to the single letter B. And finding Eichmann too German, I became “Ike.”

From then on, I was to be B. Helmut, and for convenience reasons, I was to go by my middle name, now the foreign sounding “Ike”. Why dwell on this name? Why dwell on any name, if not for the memories of one’s roots? It was a reminder of a time when I was respected — loved, even — by a populace who knew I was there to help them.

Not so, as an alien in America. From the outset, I felt awkward and somewhat dorky, as they say. I was far from fashionable, and it was quite obvious that I was what they call uncool.

Neglect, they say. This was one of the first words I learned in America. In America, no one appreciates a dedicated public servant, one looking out for their safety. Since I arrived in America, my earnest attempts to help have been repeatedly turned down, in favor of some abstract notion of personal liberty, or worse, coolness.

And here I stand. After an awkward college experience, I have found myself on the other coast, the American West, working long hard hours as a graduate student at Stanford University and majoring in safety engineering.

And I must say, gone are the days of my near universal social acceptance. Hall Monitor Helmut, in all of his respectable splendor, has become graduate student B. “Ike” Helmut, gauche and unwelcome. On the whole, I am very unpopular at Stanford. My sole friends are those in the graduate school community, and, in general, Stanford professors.

I know I could help them. I know that if they gave me the chance, I could make them safe. But for now, I must be content within my small sphere of influence. Perhaps one day, those wise words from my schoolmate friend will come true. But until then, I live out my days as the lowly B. Ike Helmut of Stanford University.

Nat would like to point out that this column is all about bike helmets. If you didn’t catch it, read again. For more unnecessary abstraction, email him at nat.hillard@stanford.edu.