TTLG: Overcommit to Yourself
(08/31/22 7:35am)
This article is featured in the 2022 Freshman special issue.
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This article is featured in the 2022 Freshman special issue.
This article is featured in the 2022 Commencement & Reunions special issue.
This article is featured in the 2022 Commencement & Reunions special issue.
This article is featured in the 2022 Commencement & Reunions special issue.
Over the past four years, I’ve had to come up with a lot of fun facts; everything from the first day of classes to icebreakers at meetings seems to require one. I used to gauge how “fun” the facts were of the people who went before me, before I offered up my own to match their level of perceived effort. Now, I land on the safe middle ground of “I was born at DHMC.”
During my sophomore fall, I listened to the song “Happy Accidents” by Saint Motel on repeat. It seemed to sum up college as I was experiencing it: unpredictable, marvelous and full of serendipitous moments. (As a side note, I was so happy when Saint Motel performed at Green Key this year.)
About midway through my senior spring term, I took a trip to the PetSmart in West Lebanon to pick up a pet snail. I had deemed snails, due to their low-maintenance nature, the perfect animal companion for whatever transition from college to actual adulthood awaited me, and my sights settled quickly upon a yellow, nickel-sized, relatively active specimen. I named him Snoople — Snoople the Snail.
I am the former Production Executive Editor of The Dartmouth. I served in that role from March 2020 through to my retirement this March. My tenure coincided with one of the darkest moments in this College’s history.
I wake up to pitch darkness with a slight headache. My fingers gingerly feel around the bedside table until they land on that oh-so-familiar silicone phone case. 12 p.m. Looks like I’ve missed my Zoom class, but I’ll be able to watch the recording later, so who cares? I scroll through Instagram, nap a little, eat a little, say hi to a friend or two — and then the day is gone. And somehow I’m surprised every time the sunlight slips through my hands.
On a morning in early February of this year, I walked into Baker Library at 9:17 a.m. I entered from the west, and I paused to take in the scene. Checkered tiles receded hypnotically into space; low winter sun slanted in from the windows. Blobby was quiet, serene. I hadn’t been inside any of Dartmouth’s libraries since sophomore summer, and suddenly, I had my favorite study spot all to myself. I experienced such intense joy, coupled with such poignant grief, at returning to a place I had loved throughout my first two years at Dartmouth, that I immediately stored the memory of that moment as a quasi-religious experience.
My life as a college student was dead, to begin with, to paraphrase one of my favorite opening lines from Charles Dickens. While the time of death of the last time I felt like a college student is a little more vague than Marley’s in “A Christmas Carol,” the fact is just as certain.
Over the course of my four years at Dartmouth, I’ve met many extraordinary people, taken fantastic classes, studied abroad twice, met then-presidential candidate Joe Biden here in Hanover and grown enormously as a scholar and human being. Most of my experiences have been tremendously positive. But my most notable negative experience ultimately made me into a much more resilient individual, even though I would not wish it on anyone else.
When people learn that I grew up in Norwich, they usually have a couple of questions. For my sake, and for the sake of everyone who’s curious, I thought I would start by answering those.
This article is featured in the 2020 Freshman special issue.
When I first came to Dartmouth, I was aware of several aspects of my identity. I was a lover of books. I wanted to study English and creative writing so that I could write stories that helped other people the way the stories I had read had helped me. I was white. I was a woman. I was middle-class. I was from Colorado, and I loved the mountains.
Over the last two weeks, as I’ve logged on to Zoom to watch some of my closest friends wrap up their Dartmouth careers with thesis presentations (and one sweet radio play), my brain has had ample opportunity to play evil comparison games. I often feel like I didn’t get the things out of my Dartmouth career that I wanted going into it, and it’s hard for me to remind myself to treasure what I did get out of the past four years. But when I truly take the time to give myself credit where credit is due, I’m able to notice that for each bullet point I missed, I gained my own experience of friendship, care and perseverance.
Sometime around my Webkinz and Limited Too phase of the early 2000s, I developed a strong belief in the power of fortune cookies. I swore by them. Every time my family would dine at our favorite Chinese restaurant, I’d scarf down my food and count down the minutes until the check — and with it a bundle of fortune cookies — would arrive. As my family went around sharing their fortunes, I clung tightly to mine in the hopes that it would provide a glimpse into my future.
The insanity of writing a reflection piece about being a tour guide is not lost on me. I truthfully cannot believe that, of all things eligible for reflection and thought, being a tour guide is what I chose. Maybe it is because being a tour guide trainer the past two years has dominated so much of my time that a part of my brain has been conditioned to think about guide-related things at all times. Or maybe it’s because, as a senior, it’s time for me to admit that being a tour guide has become an integral part of my Dartmouth identity.
Professional kitchen environments heighten many not-so-sought experiences and make a whole lot of mess, but nonetheless turn orchestrated chaos into something beautiful that nourishes you and those you care about. Before and during my time at Dartmouth, I cut my teeth (and my fingers) in professional kitchens in London, Portland, ME and Wellesley, MA. I was 17 when I worked my first shifts as a line cook. When I reminisce on my time in these spaces, my heart rate quickens, and I grow tense as if to brace myself standing in the path of a cresting wave. In the throngs of the professional kitchen environments where I worked, I could not help but feel small. I could not help but feel a bit out of place. And I could not survive unless I believed in myself, asked for assistance when I needed it, learned from my failures and celebrated my successes.