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(03/29/07 9:00am)
In Google, search for "davidson college loan," and you will find various articles having to do with Davidson College in Davidson, N.C., dropping the loan component from its financial aid packages on March 19. This is historic. Although Harvard, Princeton and Yale have already committed to doing away with the onerous loan requirement for needy students, for Davidson College, a small liberal arts college, to do this is remarkable and telling.
(05/22/01 9:00am)
Before I begin this editorial, I must take a break and go to class. My thoughts, in a compressed, stream-of-consciousness sort-of style: My neighbors can see and hear everything I do and they laugh at me (I don't care), butch it up, lock the door, did I brush my teeth? (no, the campus will simply have to pay the penalty), the sun is shining in full force, slow down on these stairs, you're going to hit your head one day, throw open the door, yes world, I'm black, it's 80 degrees, I'm wearing corduroy slacks, people are staring at me, butch it up, Student Loans is pestering me again (something about an "Exit Interview" -- are they offering me a job?), I have to re-file my major card, what is he looking at? (yeah, I'm black, what's your problem?), butch it up, she stopped speaking to me (must be about my despising the Greek system), wow, in procuring educational loans, I'm now over $20,000 in debt, my hair smells even though I just washed it (black hair is sometimes so agonizingly difficult to maintain), I'm late for class, why are there so many people on the Green, what is it to them -- a beach or something?, butch it up, ha, a student driver (I'll retard my movements so as to slow them down -- crush their monumental sense of Land Roving entitlement), onto the sidewalk and then the dirt and gravel of the Green, it's amazing that they've transformed the game of frisbee into a sport: look at them, sweat-drenched, panting, content, look at me, out of shape, skinny, butch it up, people are staring at me, there's another black person (nod hello), two more black people (sometimes they travel together -- for protection), people can smell my hair, they're wrinkling their noses in dissatisfaction (Dartmouth students have such keen olfactory senses, there's no fooling them), lots of naked legs (my twigs, my walking stilts, are covered in protective corduroy cloth), eeeewwww! she doesn't shave her legs or armpits (I recognized her long ago as a social misfit), butch it up, people are walking around me, either my hair smells or I'm not walking fast enough (it's nearly time for class), the Dartmouth bells are ringing that '80s song that everyone knows except me (can it be my socioeconomic/racial background?), I should know that song, I should be wearing shorts, my hair shouldn't smell, I'm representing the whole African American race here, oh, why can't I just go back to Detroit where I don't have to worry about race, it's not them, it's you, you stigmatize yourself and then blame it on the white people, that's not true, oh yes it is, you think about race, you imagine the white people moving silently away from you in the street and in class and in Food Court, that's not true, they really do that, no they don't you imagine it all, no, I want to improve Dartmouth for students of color so that they'll feel like they belong, no that's not true, you want the notoriety and celebrity of being an op-ed columnist, well maybe that's true, keep walking across the Green, butch it up, nod to the black person (why must I say hello to all the black people?), I'm going to make this car stop for me, it better, ha, another student (slowed her down), oh here we go, butch it up, three big white young men (they also travel together -- for protection), I'll have to move onto the grass to accommodate their massive bulk, why must I be afraid of them?, Dartmouth Hall, up the hill, I hate Hanover, mountains, DOC trip, couscous, mountains, inclines, hills, walking up hills, tiring, level out hill, or I will pound you down, finally Dartmouth Hall, into the building, cool, butch it up still, my hair smells, I don't care, let's learn.
(05/08/01 9:00am)
It is the best of times, it is the worst of times.
(04/24/01 9:00am)
The Greek system is classist, homophobic, misogynist and racist; it must be abolished.
(04/10/01 9:00am)
A joke: one day, three campus liberals, one a women's studies major, one a sociology major and the other an education minor, stopped protesting whatever it is they were protesting. No one noticed.
(03/27/01 10:00am)
It is an expression of fear and a declaration of strength. It is an act of aggression and protection. It affirms and effaces, existing in a state of zigzagging contradictions and blameless, backtracking explanations, where language is simultaneously deprived and endowed with meaning and where victims are made the aggressors and aggressors the victims. It has many iterations, most recently, most interestingly and most particularly the infamous "wah hoo wah" affair, which after all this time still echoes faintly and tauntingly around the area behind Collis Center, bastard words bereft of intoners to claim them as their own.
(11/13/00 11:00am)
The following letter is one of many that the United States Postal Service annually marks as undeliverable, because it is ambiguously addressed to a "Santa" at the "North Pole." I now possess the letter, because the Postal Service makes those letters that cannot be returned to the sender available to the public. (The return address information indicates the sender to be a "G.W." who lives in a "Big Ol' House" in a "Big Ol' State.") I reproduce the letter here because I believe it to be eerily evocative of the sentiments of one of the two presidential candidates in this uncertain time. While G.W.'s diction shows him to be somewhat less than an erudite person, I have made no spelling or grammatical changes so as to preserve "the integrity and the consistency and the equality and finality" of G.W.'s letter.
(10/24/00 9:00am)
My days at Dartmouth have been colored by a pseudo-political activism, a desire to engender real change in the Dartmouth "community." (One of these days, I'm going to write an editorial on quotation marks.) Operating on the "Student Assembly Model" of effectuality in change, I've conceived throughout my student career a number of committees that have elicited great hope and excitement yet done nothing. Below, I enumerate and summarize these phantom committees along with tentative meeting times (locations: to be announced).
(10/04/00 9:00am)
It was in 1984 that a new technology -- and a new philosophy -- were born. The advent of the Macintosh on Jan. 24, 1984 betokened the emancipation of the fettered, downtrodden masses from their abysmal text-based existences and into the light of graphical interfaces.
(09/28/00 9:00am)
I am programmed to be proud of a lot of things. Proud to be American, proud to be black, proud to be a black American, proud to be a Dartmouth student, proud to live in a "free" society, proud to be a Christian, proud to walk upright, etc. But what does "to be proud" mean anyway? Pride, loosely defined, is a sense of one's self-worth; it also can mean pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's present circumstances. This latter definition is where I believe the perversion of pride begins and will be the major focus of this article.
(09/20/00 9:00am)
By now, you should be acquainted with the three major campus cafeterias -- Collis, the Hop and Food Court. (The lesser, or more specialized eateries, such as Lone Pine and Homeplate are rendered irrelevant by their limited hours and distinct clientele of destitute connoisseur and herbivorous waif, respectively.) The intention of this pointless spiel is to further familiarize you with the social climate of each establishment and to ultimately assert the culinary supremacy of Food Court.
(05/30/00 9:00am)
Has anyone given thought to the embarrassing nature of death these days, especially in, but not limited to, the young? We -- the denizens of Western society -- have developed something like an instinctual abhorrence of death and its discussion. It (a pronoun will now be used so as to accommodate the delicate), in other words, is no longer the respectable, inevitable part of life it once was but is now a mortifying pronouncement of the weakly constitutioned. It, shockingly, has become in some circles an object of sarcasm and ridicule and in even larger circles is now considered escapable and indeed subduable! In this short piece, I intend to explore the modern-day attitude toward the gaping, life-sucking black hole we call death -- I mean "IT."
(05/24/00 9:00am)
College admissions affirmative action policies are woefully clumsy, laughable not laudable, unfairly preferential, meritoriously demeaning and easily perverted. I am a beneficiary and a proponent of such policies.
(05/16/00 9:00am)
I visited the Scottish Isle of Arran with friends I'd met while on the English FSP at the University of Glasgow. A peculiar incident happened while we were catching the last ship to the mainland after having taken a bus from one of the far corners of the island.
(04/17/00 9:00am)
Elian should be shared. That's right, shared. Every family in America--not just the Florida relatives of little Elian--should have the responsibility of raising him. Each family, for example, would have an "Elian week," at the beginning of which Elian would be received by parcel post (or if you want to get luxurious, Federal Express) and for the next week, the receiving family would be responsible for Elian's care, including room, board and education. At the end of the week, Elian would be packed up and shipped to the next family.
(03/31/00 10:00am)
Why do they call it the "morning after pill"? I realize that the obvious implication is that the event which necessitates such a drug usually occurs in the evening, but don't you think that a so-very-politically-incorrect phrase as "morning after pill" is an insult not only to sperm worldwide but also offensive to those who expel said sperm? I mean really -- does it actually take sperm nearly twelve hours to find the egg? Are they really as misguided as their makers?
(02/22/00 11:00am)
In April of 1996, I finally came to terms with my addiction. What is interesting about addictions, and mine in particular, is that they have the singular distinction among psychological ailments as something that both satiates and destroys its captive. My addiction was one I could satisfy quite easily at any point during an at-home day. In bed, in my chair, while eating, while reading, while writing, while dozing, while THINKING I could indulge my desire -- just as long as I remained undisturbed and was given quietude. (By the bye, for those who maintain a pious frame of mind, I did not abandon myself to unabashed prayer or worship. And for those whose minds rest in a less-than-decent state, I did not participate in the "fleshy form" of self-gratification.)
(03/01/99 11:00am)
It was an overcast day in the fall of 1996 when Ms. Christine Pina, an associate in the College admissions office, visited my high school in Detroit. I had been working in Renaissance High School's guidance office since the second week of the semester when I had dropped art, to date the most difficult course of my academic career.