So ended my last trip up to Dartmouth. Last Friday afternoon, I rolled down West Wheelock as the inverse prodigal son, returning to Dartmouth's open arms to as Luke 15:13 calls it "waste his substance with riotous living." What follows is my entirely non-sarcastic and wholly serious explanation of my religious feelings about senior Spring, in case you were wondering how much legitimacy to give me as an author (I'm reclaiming my schtick, Josh Kornberg '13).
For those who drive up to school, or are the passengers in cars filled to the brim with things students won't need but bring up anyway (hope and condoms), we enjoy the special bond of a shared journey. Mine is not long a three-and-a-half hour trek up from Westchester County the same as everyone else who got rejected from Yale. We let loose on Interstate 91 as our spirits are elevated by the comfort of knowing our destination isn't Hartford or Springfield.
Sometimes, I convince friends to take a pit stop at the Yankee Candle Village Factory on Exit 24 in Massachusetts. It's an incredible olfactory experience. Imagine your nose is a 13-year old Jewish boy from Westchester who talks to cute girls on AIM about their insensitive boyfriends who never ask them how their day was and never appreciate their affection. But the girls never realize how good his nose could have made them feel inside, and they'll never know how much it hurts him to know it every goddamn night. The Yankee Candle Factory could make you forget. But you'll never forget.
And so we arrived to a sunny Green, empty, but pregnant with the imminence of Spring. Looking upon the campus in its naked beauty, I asked myself the important questions that would sum up my college experience.
Do I feel more educated? Absolutely. Do I deserve to hold a bachelor's degree? Perhaps, but of arts alone. Sorry, ladies. Until Senior Week, of course. Then it's Sodom and Gomorrah for the '10s. Many of us will end up in Dick's House. And I don't mean the infirmary. Wink.
But who cares about my uninspired dick jokes? You're only reading this so you won't look lonely at the Hop and have that guy/girl from your class notice you ogling him/her. You'll get a snippet of his/her hair the next time s/he walks by, I just know it. That's why they sell scissors at Topside, right? That counts as a date at Dartmouth, right? Yes, Spring always brings back my two favorite things: puppy love and gender-neutral pronouns.
Unfortunately, my senior Spring will drip with bitter sarcasm and immature humor. To mask the crushing fear of imminent departure. I'm going to bump freshman from Homeplate booths. I'm going to use my cultural capital as a senior to crush the egos of overreaching freshman girls, and reestablish the romantic faith of jaded senior women. (Just kidding. Both are beyond acts of God.) I'm going to make plans to do everything in the world of Dartmouth and do most of it in an increasingly creepy bathrobe, untrimmed moustache and aviators. I will go the way of Howard Hughes. Sometimes, to really know yourself, you have to seal yourself off from the world and save your pee in bottles.
Thus, the ride up to school my last represents much more than a couple of hours of displacement. It symbolizes the last transformative immersion in the Dartmouth world. This world, and this voice, shall fade with graduation. It is my last crossing of the void. As Emilio Zapata said during his senior year, "It is better to die upon my feet than to live upon my knees next year in an entry-level position."
Seniors must now live the opposite of what we say at Passover: "Where we were once slaves, we are now free." Our freedom ends on June 13. First, I lived through the joyous Exodus from high school. Now, years later in Jerusalem, I prophesize a long life in Babylon. I can only find brief solace in how inappropriate the name of the "Pharaoh's Ball" is for a spring dance, which is always right around Passover, and how move-in at Dartmouth always coincides with Jewish holidays. I guess whoever plans these things is too busy playing with their schmekel to notice the coincidence.
The long stretch of I-91 has come and come. I have arrived for the last time. For now, Dartmouth, this brother of yours "was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found" (Luke 15:32). Of course, the only Amazing Grace I'm bringing up to school will be at the pong table. (Satan hits. Jesus saves.)
Sigh. And so soon lost again.
