During spring break, I ran into an old historyteacher with whom I was friends in high school. He was anxious to hear how I had been enjoying the past year-and-a-half of Ivy League enlightenment. We talked for some time before the inevitable question arose: "Now let me ask you... Do you love Dartmouth?"
Without blinking, I answered, "No."
My teacher was taken aback. After all, anyone who returns home knows to answer that question in the affirmative. "Of course I love East Cupcake University, Mr. Jones. There is no place in the world I'd rather be." To answer no somehow seems a blow to your good judgment and self-esteem. Why don't you love your school? You picked it. You spent months stressing the boards, the applications and the pending acceptance letters. You must not have friends, you must not be doing well academically or you must not have found your place.
His eyes searched my face for a clue to what I was thinking. "Really," he replied.
I attempted to qualify my answer. I love my friends at Dartmouth who are among the most amazing human beings I have ever met. I love the New Hampshire mountains, stars and fresh air (although I have to admit I sometimes miss New York City). And finally, after ridding myself of that peculiar form of masochism known as pre-med. courses, I love my classes.
But when asked if I love Dartmouth, all I can think of is a big old dusty library book with the title, "Dartmouth Tradition."
Loving Dartmouth seems to imply embracing the entire Dartmouth tradition which in the past (and sometimes in the present) has been inherently racist, sexist and classist. The only thing to do is to work, in my small and often seemingly insignificant way, toward changing those inauspicious parts of Dartmouth which still exist.
"Interesting," my teacher mused. And we moved to a different topic.
One beautiful afternoon back here in Hanover, my friend and I decided to hike to the Velvet Rocks. In fact, it was such a beautiful day that we jumped feet first into the why-we-came-to-Dartmouth conversation. She observed that she loved Dartmouth and there was no place in the world she'd rather be.
I sighed and relayed my teacher story. She understood but pointed out that these problems exist within the entire American culture, and not only at Dartmouth. But however rampant racism, sexism and classism are in other parts of the country or world, I did not have to love it.
My friend felt badly that I was not happy here. Wait. Did I say I wasn't happy? I am happy here. I miss Dartmouth even during my much needed breaks from campus. Now what was I saying? Do I need to love Dartmouth to be happy here? My head was spinning.
Velvet Rocks was gorgeous. At one point we stopped to look at the mountains and trees and the clear blue sky. Yet another aspect of Dartmouth that I love. By the end of the hike my knees were screaming bloody murder at me with their thick New York accents but I did not care. I felt wonderful. However, I could not prevent my wandering mind from returning to our conversation.
At this point I am wondering if every senior on campus is laughing at my confused sophomore interpretations. Does everyone question the authenticity of his or her love affair with Dartmouth?
But then the answer hit me like a ton of big old dusty library books. I was looking at this all wrong. I was expecting to pour my idealistic passions into a one-dimensional image of a multi-faceted institution.
But in loving the things that constitute my Dartmouth, I do love Dartmouth: each and every amazing relationship, run around Occom Pond, Professor Garrod name-game, Green Key band, road-trip to K-Mart and every stroll across the Green on a quiet starry night stopping in the center just to gaze at the lights. How could I ever think that I do not love this place?
The answer was so clear. Of course I love Dartmouth. I just need to burn some dusty old library books while I have the chance.
