I really enjoy autumns in Hanover. The bright orange pumpkins, the warm apple cider, the majestic and kaleidoscopic foliage, the crisp autumnal air, the 30-below wind chill factor, the deadly hail of acorns, the bracing shock of being able to see your own breath while brushing your teeth, the frozen tundra where once stood the Green. Fall truly is a lovely season here in New Hampshire. I'd rank it in my top five any day.
Distinctions, at least at Dartmouth, are made clearer in the fall. With an influx of eager new students, the campus comes alive with a vibrancy it hasn't seen in months. These pea-green freshmen, oftentimes lost in their youthful abandon, are easy to detect. They are the ones who still hum along with the bell tower's six o'clock alma mater. They are the ones who still go to Dartmouth football games. They are the ones who still travel in herds. They are the ones who still keep their dorm keys on that stupid Residential Life pouch key-chain. They are the ones who still use their dorm keys. They are the ones who have yet to have their dreams dashed and their spirit crushed and broken like so much tinder-wood.
Seniors are just as easy to spot. Seniors have a certain swagger, a certain je ne sais quoi. Seniors exude wisdom and confidence. And by wisdom and confidence, I mean bitterness and cynicism. If you come across a purported senior who is neither bitter nor cynical, he or she is either lying or drunk.
There is, however, at least one thing in common between the beanie-wearing freshman and the wizened old senior: they both have a lot on their mind. The freshman worries about what he will major in; whether she'll be able to tell apart Thornton and Wentworth. The freshman wonders if he'll be allowed into the big frat party this weekend or will he have to climb a three-story fire escape and break through a window, risking life and limb for the privilege of waiting 40 minutes in a sweltering, overcrowded basement just for one or two cups of tepid, watered-down beer. The freshman worries if, when she goes home for Thanksgiving, her old high school pals will notice the 15 pounds she's gained, attributable almost exclusively to the Fro-Yo machine in Food Court.
Well, the senior has a lot to worry about, too (this is where I make fun of myself, so before you get all up in arms about the fro-yo joke, please read on no, seriously, please read on. You've made it this far, don't quit on me now. Besides, what are you other options? Put down the newspaper and actually start paying attention to your econ prof? But I digress). The senior contemplates life in the Real World. The senior stresses about corporate recruiting. The senior loses hours of sleep, tossing and turning in anguish, trying to decide on which stock of paper he should sign away his immortal soul. Will 24 lb. cotton fiber do the trick? And what color? White, off-white, off-off-white, or ecru? The senior is perpetually in a haze of confusion. Take me, for instance. I'm about as employable as a pet rock. I have no desire to become a consultant or banker, yet I'm too insecure in my own abilities to not go through recruiting. I'm a creative writing major who happens to be neither creative nor good at writing. And interviews, they terrify me. I can barely say hello to people I like, and now I'm expected to carry on a professional-sounding conversation with a total stranger (with a grown-up, no less and while sober!)?
I stand zero chance of landing a job through corporate recruiting. This is not a self-fulfilling prophecy or a strategic example of self-effacement (an attempt on the author's part to gain the reader's empathy, thereby causing the reader to forget all about the fro-yo comment). This is a fait accompli. Yet, knowing this, I still spend hours in front of my mirror, mastering the Half-Windsor knot. Most of my weekend nights are spent locked alone in my room, practicing my handshake grip, making sure it's firm and assertive.
As our world gets turned upside down, as we carpet bomb the hell out of an arid little country, as Americans risk their lives to defend the ideals this country holds so dear, I sit in a library and debate whether or not I should include "IM Softball Captain" on my resume. I'm not sure how that makes me feel. I'm not sure how that's supposed to make me feel. It's just one example of the many reasons why I both love and hate this school.
