On July 2, 2006, my brother told me that our dad had died. In a rare move for anyone who knows him, my brother held me and told me he loved me. Since that day, almost eight years ago, my mother has been my lone light in the darkness, my anchor in the storm. I was terrified all the time, preoccupied with thoughts of death, but through all that, my mother made me feel safe.
That feeling of safety is difficult to replicate, let alone create. My mother did this for my brothers and me, because when you care about others, you take it on yourself to protect them, to help them grow. And at a time when a huge hole had appeared in our lives and hearts, the most important thing my mother did was help us heal.
A number that I’ve heard people throw around a lot lately is 14, the percentage by which applications fell for admission to Dartmouth’s Class of 2018. The obvious question is why. Well, we’ve had a tumultuous year here in Hanover. Protests, administrative upheavals, scandal: it’s all felt a little too much like a Shonda Rhimes television show. We’re naturally too willing to wait for an Olivia Pope or some other godsend to solve our problems.
Many ignore these issues because they don’t personally affect us all. For instance, I am a heterosexual male fraternity member. Even though I may have a little more melanin in my skin than the prototypical image of societal privilege on this campus, I’m far from being the worst off.
I feel welcome on this campus. I feel safe. But what about the people who don’t?
My first day back at high school after my dad passed away was weird as hell. I was “that” kid. People either handled me with profound delicacy or figured that would be the last thing I needed. The latter group resolved to treat me roughly, so I could rest assured that I was still just another one of the boys. It was all pretty funny — until the first joke. After a brawl in a rugby game, a senior told me that I would be better off running to tell my dead dad than complaining to the referee. My sense of place and sense of safety evaporated in an instant. I went home to my mother and cried. She told me that I must always remember how I felt in that moment. She urged me to remember that feeling of fear and make sure that I never let anyone or anything I care about feel the same way. After the conversation finished, she held me as I wept.
Dartmouth is sold to a lot of students on the basis of its community. This is our small college on the hill, and we are the ones who love it. Yet among us are people who are victimized, othered and attacked for reasons ranging from where they were born to the box they tick under “gender” (if any).
The administration has done what it genuinely believes are possible solutions, creating programs and centers to address student concerns. You could never ask a Dartmouth student whether or not they care about these issues and hear a flat “no” — on or off the record, that just won’t happen.
We just don’t really know what else to do.
The protests groups have formed. We’ve invited Cornel West to speak to us. Hell, there even was a community gathering in front of a throne made of ice. We clearly care, and we’re clearly trying. After all, when you care about something, you protect it and help it grow. Dartmouth is nothing without us: we are the SAT scores, the diversity percentages and the financial aid numbers. If we care about this school, we must care about its people.
It’s time we started protecting them, healing them and helping them grow. All of them.
It’s time we changed how we see who is a part of our community. To paraphrase Tupac Shakur, we need to start making changes: let’s change the way we live and the way we treat each other. For the sake of our school.
