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The warm hues of the falling leaves and the tolling bells of gleaming Baker tower make me feel like I’m in a blessed enclave of academic inquisitiveness. I’ve just arrived at Dartmouth, and already find myself settling in to a cozy chair in Sanborn, content. But all is not well.
This fall marks the 10th time I’ve moved during my Dartmouth career. It’s the 10th time I’ve loaded my life into neat, portable containers and the 10th time I’ve carted those containers up stairwells, through unfamiliar hallways, into new rooms.
We sat down with government professor Sonu Bedi, who has studied the intersection between sex, gender and the law, to discuss women’s colleges in the 21st century.
’17 on a Thursday morning: “I need sleep, water and an IV.”
’12: “Okay, here’s the Homecoming plan.
You are probably asking yourself, “What does Marian think the federal government should do to prevent Ebola from spreading through the U.S. population?”
“Sarah!” I’d cry, “Bradford! How would you like to join me out on the fire escape? We can smoke clove cigarettes and read Camus to one another!”
This article has been revised to reflect the following correction:
Correction appended (Oct.
What's in and what's out (the freshmen after dark — egad) this week.
This fall has been one of the most confusing and tumultuous terms of my time at Dartmouth.
Student athletes must selectively choose how to spend their limited amounts of free time, and a number of these athletes choose faith and religion. So why don’t we hear more about it?
We must find something or someone meaningful enough to help shepherd us through our descent into an environment more conducive to all sorts of life. For me, Beverly Daigle, an 81-year-old blind woman from Lebanon, New Hampshire, was that someone.
’18: “Why do I keep getting these blitzes about Casual Thursday on Wednesday?”
’18: “He had the audacity to complain about the art in McLaughlin — that’s like a Dartmouth first-world problem.”
’17: “I do have standards.
Did you ever play the ’90s computer game “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?” I really loved it. As we speak, the world — myself included — is dying to know the whereabouts of North Korean dictator Kim Jong Un.
My rental bike was stolen last week from the knoll between Fahey-McLane and frat row. Let me say, if you’re the mongrel who stole it and you’re reading this, I wish you no bodily harm. I would rather you grow up to perfectly resemble a parent you despise, or a person whose presence will remain addicting to you for the rest of your life breaks your heart, or you realize on an early deathbed that you never had a proud moment that came from within.
During the first weeks of this term, my social relevance somehow increased. With fraternity rush impending, I, alongside many other men in my class, was starting to be taken seriously as a potential new member by fraternities. This was a strange reversal from our invisibility to the frat brothers when we hung around in their basements as freshmen — it was almost a throwback to orientation. “What are you taking this term?” and “Where are you from?” were questions I heard far too frequently.
What's cool (and we mean frigid) this week.
As the air gets colder and the sky starts to merge darker shades of blue and purple, I often find myself, whether suffocating in the stacks on Sunday night, hanging in my room or lounging on the Green, absentmindedly wondering why the bells of Baker Library haven’t yet tolled the “Alma Mater.” It is not long after I pause my work and mull over this thought that the bells unfailingly begin, and it is then that I resume my work with a habitual nod of satisfaction.
As I enter my senior year, I’m reminded of our collective dream to lead happy and successful lives. It’s difficult to avoid the contagious excitement that pervades our campus — we’re all here to figure out how to build and live a great life, while frequently having a bit too much college-rated fun.
This week, The Mirror is getting personal. I’m not really sure how it happened, but all of our writers this week added a little tinge of personal history to their stories.
When this article is published, the Class of 2018 will have been on campus for 25 days. To put that in broader historical perspective, if Dartmouth College’s span of existence was one day, the ’18s have been here not much more than 20 minutes.