In case you were wondering, Isaac Newton’s Principia, which set the groundwork for Newtonian physics, almost didn’t see publication, since the Royal Society’s finances were depleted after publishing “De Historia Piscium” or “The History of Fish.” Despite being a charming collection of engravings, the text sold poorly. You can find parts of the book on the Royal Society’s website — I’m particularly fond of the entry for the flying fish, which displays in precise detail the spines of its wing-like fins. The flying fish shows its total bewilderment, as if it’s not quite sure how it ended up in the pages of the book that’s most famous for nearly thwarting the publication of Newton’s laws. But luckily for Newton, and for physics in general, Edmund Halley (of Halley’s Comet) stepped forward and agreed to fund the publication of Principia out of his own pocket. The Royal Society, according to an April 2012 article in The Guardian, thanked Halley by paying him in unwanted copies of the fish book.
It’s amazing how small, seemingly insignificant events can derail the most carefully laid-out plans. Everyone has a fish book — an unexpected obstacle that gets in the way. Despite the fact that I am on track to graduate with 39 credits (that’s four more than required, for those at home keeping score), Dartmouth still doesn’t quite believe that I have completed my majors. As a result of this disconnect between what I’ve actually completed and what Dartmouth believes I have completed, I have filed five sets of major cards. I’m not sure if this constitutes some sort of record, but it seems slightly excessive, especially if you consider that I have never changed my major. In a logical, well-managed system, five sets of major cards would only be required if one has indeed changed majors five times.
I have been destined to be an English major ever since I learned to read: my self-published children’s book “A School For Jack-O’-Lanterns” attests to my early literary zeal. By self-published, I mean printed off of our old black and white printer and distributed to an audience of my dad, mom, brother and pet turtle. But even though I’ve always been an English major at heart, the first major card I filed was for biology, because a biology professor was the first one I considered advisor material.
These first sets of cards were signed in a last-minute fit of desperation before the Dartmouth Coach departed at the end of 12W. My major card needed to be filed before I could register for summer classes, and I was going to be out of the country that spring. Sets two and three were filed a year later, when I found an English professor willing to sign my cards. You can’t file a second major without re-filing the first, so I was back to the Life Sciences Center.
This winter, I received an ominous email from the biology department, telling me that I had not taken a class that I had said would take nine months ago. The fact that they knew I hadn’t taken the class, and knew which class I had taken instead, yet still asked me to write out three copies of those terrible, terrible cards, strikes me as an example of bureaucracy at its finest. Signing those cards took place in a stealthy hand-off between classes in the Life Sciences Center.
About a week ago, the registrar sent out the important reminder that “all major cards must be filed by March 28.” Those poor fools, I thought, leaving their major cards to the last minute. Too bad they’re not as organized as me. And then, of course, on March 27, I received an email from the English department saying my cards didn’t match. Impossible! How could this be! There must be some mistake! But because I am not in the habit of sending out emails accusing the English department of gross negligence without actual proof, I dug through my files (and by files I mean a pile of paper that I have been carrying around since freshman year that resides in my bottom desk drawer) and retrieved my old major cards. And it was wrong. By exactly one class. This tragic discovery led me on another mad dash to fill out cards and locate my advisor, which culminated in a standoff in Sanborn Library. I wouldn’t let him leave his office until he signed those cards. You do what you got to do.
No one actually likes major cards. I appreciate the idea of requiring an actual professor to review them before you file a major, but having to repeat this stupid process every time you change course (and you will change your plans, because Dartmouth has no idea what’s going to happen a year from now) seems like a huge waste of time. But major cards, like the Class of 2014, will soon be irrelevant. The College started a new online system for those lucky members of the Class of 2016.
Yet I consider it to be an example of the resilience of the human spirit that I have persevered and filed five sets of major cards. Just as Newton and Halley faced the dilemma of the poor-selling fish book, I refused to be thwarted. If Dartmouth can actually agree that I have completed the requirements necessary to graduate, and I do get a job and an apartment, I’m going to decorate it with prints from the “History of Fish.”
