You may judge me for saying this, but my spirit animal is a fly. Yes, that's exactly what I said. A fly. For all of you scoffing at my choice, condescendingly shaking your heads for my failure to align myself with a more noble and majestic creature, you must understand the power of a fly on a wall.
I am certainly not alone in appreciating the thrill of discovering a secret. Parkhurst thrives on punishing violators, endeavoring to pluck out those who breach established codes of conduct at Dartmouth to uphold the integrity of this institution. In this regard, our administration has only been moderately successful there is much that they have been missing. Were Parkhurst to spy on us a la NSA, be the flies on the walls through which we walk and talk, they would become privy to what occurs behind closed doors, in dark rooms and through hushed voices and subtle gestures here at the College. The administration might in fact realize just how many transgressions are tucked under each of our belts.
While we are all (presumably) academics and intellectuals, fueled by a thirst for knowledge and on endless quests to learn, the reality of many students' academic experience may be far less pure. Coming to Dartmouth, we all knew we were joining a school on the smaller end of the spectrum, embedded in a charming and cozy town that beckoned us with open arms. We knew, of course, that the intimate environment would be just what we needed to feel at home, to have the power to shape our school and to familiarize ourselves with fellow students and teachers. With elaborate surveillance techniques, would Parkhurst discover that this process of familiarization has gone too far?
I'll begin with our cherished office hours. To the flirtatious and mischievous student, these are channels through which flirtation and seduction can bloom. A casual hand graze as you point to a confusing line in the text, a giddy laugh about that strange student in the fourth row or a playful blitz thanking your professor for their time can be used to fuel an amorous fire. As time passes at Dartmouth, the pickings seem squashed, flattened and deprecated, and efforts to find love feel increasingly futile. Whether the cause of such a situation is rooted in a desperate need for a good grade, sexual frustration or academic stimulation, behind the closed door of a dimly lit office, who is to say that inappropriate romance is not brewing?
Or let us consider twins. Humor me for this temporary aside, but seven-year-old-me was convinced that having an incessant and loyal partner in crime, a walking and living mirror, would be the greatest blessing of all. I believed twins had an extraordinary and inimitable power to fool, confuse and deceive. At college, this power could be exploited, especially through academic trickeries. We all have those moments in which we wished we could be in two places at once, or have an understudy take control for us. In this sense, twins have it made. So while Dartmouth is so eager to accept twins and oddly similar-looking siblings, maybe the College should consider the academic credibility of two identical individuals on the same campus. No offense, all you identical twins out there, but I've seen it done before.
In acceptance letters and welcoming packets and informational tours for prospies, Dartmouth never fails to inform us that we are brilliant, unique, interesting and special. What the administration is certainly not aware of, however, is the sheer oddity that governs many of our more common interactions, and the degree to which many of its students relish in their impropriety. For one, the amount of naked parties that take place here is somewhat obscene. Don't get me wrong, I love my birthday suit, and anyone who knows me well will understand, so I'll pause for a moment of recognition and brief chuckles. Okay. But the prevalence of topless dance parties, bra soirees, classroom streakings, casual blue mooning conventions and skinny dipping is striking. I won't point fingers, but let it be known that there are sports teams that regularly sit naked in the sauna, each with a beer or two in hand, just to kick back and have a grand old time.
Additionally, does Parkhurst realize that the Dartmouth Seven isn't a myth, and that students are actually and constantly having lewd public relations all over our sacred campus? Is it aware of our beloved shot fairies, whose Malibu-filled water guns and ragey attitudes corrupt a place of knowledge and wisdom? The likely answer to these questions is no, for despite student awareness of these little peculiarities, the secret nature of these traditions ultimately makes Dartmouth feel as if it belongs to us.
For now, we can assume that there is much that Parkhurst does not know about its students. No whistle blower has stepped forward to expose invasive tracking mechanisms on our Dartmouth ID's or nifty cameras in our dorms. Wherever you stand on your right to privacy and on the administration's supposed right to do its job, we can probably all agree that sometimes, what Parkhurst doesn't know won't hurt it.
