As mere college students we're not supposed to know "who we are" yet. But upon arrival to the Green, our journeys to self-discovery become only more complicated, saddled with the often contradictory and confusing stereotypes about our dear old College. Jean Ellen Cowgill ponders the baggage that comes with the Dartmouth-branded bumper stickers, sweatshirts and diplomas.
"Now, a dart mouth bass -- is that the same thing as a small mouth bass?"
This is the question my father received in line at the outdoor goods store while sporting his Dartmouth baseball cap. And this, my friends, is what makes our college experience unique. I'm reasonably positive the Harvard and Yale kids never get their alma mater mistaken for a type of fish. My father promptly made me swear never to relate this incident to anyone outside of Kentucky, our home state, by the way. Oops. Sorry, Dad. But even those outsiders who can distinguish between the institution and the bass hold very different perceptions of our little haven in New Hampshire.
Every Ivy must occasionally rein in reputations gone amuck, of course. After former President Summers' ill-fated statements about women and science, one could easily read Harvard's most recent appointment as damage control (Hi, President Faust). Brown must perennially convince parents that their child prodigy will not devolve into Berger from Hair just because classes don't require grades; meanwhile, Penn stresses in vain how safe West Philly really is.
But at those other prestigious New England universities, the (albeit unfortunate) rumors at least seem consistent. Dartmouth's rap is just all over the place. Sure, there's the pretty regular call regarding our Animal House tendencies. But beyond that the stereotypes just start getting sloppy.
Going by film and TV portrayals, we are either the out-of-control frat brothers of Animal House or the nerdy awk randos of Superbad. We are the successors of conservative media titan Stephen Colbert and mafia heir Michael Corleone. We're brainy-with-baggage Meredith Grey and handsome-heist-millionaire Thomas Crown. And the confusion only increases off-camera.
We are grouped with those "crazy liberal Ivies" and then decried as the "conservative bastion of the Ivy League." We are the kids who were too pretentious for Middlebury and the slackers who couldn't get into Yale. Too normal for Harvard. Too nerdy for state school. We are the pinnacle of preppy Greekdom and the apex of hardcore outdoorsy crunchdom. And then, of course, we are just plain insane for going to school in a state that gets so damn cold.
Somewhere in these portrayals, we turn into Barack-voting, Weekly Standard"reading, popped collar, Birkenstock-wearing, corporate whore through-hikers who just want to save the world. Welcome to Dartmouth: the problematic Ivy.
Seriously, guys. Our image is out of control.
I started pondering the Dartmouth identity crisis after a prospie from my high school visited last week. Apparently her friends, who had toured the day before, declared we were "just another Greek party school." As I began to explain we were a tad more unique than that, a girl walked into Food Court in tiny cheerleading shorts and a crop top and began singing and hopping around like a bunny as groups of guys nearby hooped and hollered.
"Is that normal?" the prospie asked. "No," I asserted. "Usually instead of a crop top, she'd be in a giant, ridiculous hot pink rabbit costume." Lily Macartney '08 concurred. "Yeah, now that would be the Dartmouth way."
(Point of note: When I visited a friend at Vanderbilt, she was shocked to learn I was more likely to wear neon-green fishnets, a tutu and crushed velvet top on a Saturday night than designer heels with a matching purse. I explained that people were more likely to stare if I wore the latter -- and really nice heels on ice? Cute purse on a frat floor? Puh-lease. Such a freshman girl move.)
There's the rub. Even in our default stereotype, we don't quite stay within the Greek guidelines. Some may label Dartmouth the "frat-tastic Ivy," but even that doesn't hold the same connotations here that it would at way Greek-ier Southern schools. Copious drinking? Sure, that's universal frat. Playing pong in a large rabbit costume? That's Dartmouth frat.
And this is the image I want to hold onto next year when I morph into a grey suit wearing real-world person. At Dartmouth, we know how to be silly. Living amidst our shifting stereotypes, we learn to view our various labels lightheartedly. After all, at a school where the Career Services bulletin posts "career management course" right after "ranch hand/fishing guide," every identity begins to seem legit.
This probably explains the profuse amounts of flare one sees daily on this campus. How do you spot a freshman in the fall? They take themselves -- and everything else -- too seriously. That's where H-Croo comes in. Welcome to Dartmouth. Now, relax. Join the crazy upperclassmen with the colorful hair in a Salty Dog Rag.
On that note, I remember my own overnight at Dartmouth the summer before my senior year of high school. My host was a down-to-Earth, pearl-wearing Kentuckian who looked, well, a lot like me. She introduced me to one of her best friends -- a gregarious, tie-dye skirted Californian munching away at her candy necklace. Then someone with pink hair ran by dressed as Tinkerbell. And suddenly, I knew where I wanted to go to college.
We Dartmouth kids may be one strange kettle of fish, bass or otherwise. But we know to laugh at ourselves, and at whatever new reputations the world may grant us.
Jean Ellen is a staff writer for The Mirror, and now her dad can't trust her with anything.
