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(04/08/02 9:00am)
It wasn't until coming to college that I began to identify, or be identified, as a Jew. Maybe I became identified as a Jew here, though I was never identified as one at home, because of the small population of Jews at Dartmouth, and the large Jewish community in my hometown. You see, my father is Jewish, and my mother is Catholic. This makes me, officially and traditionally, neither Jewish nor Catholic, as Judaism is passed down through one's mother and Catholicism through one's father. My parents never made a decision about which religion they were going to raise me ("we thought you could choose at some point, never expecting you to refuse this, to hold on to both," my mother says), and I spent most of my childhood alternately attending mass with my grandmother and temple services with my father's family. I went to a Jewish elementary school for five years and have many fond memories of getting dressed up as Queen Esther for Purim, wearing my mom's silk nightgown and a crown, or of dipping apples in honey at lunchtime on Rosh Hashanah. These memories, of course, are interspersed with those of fantastic Easter egg hunts in my grandmother's back yard and getting to stay up past my bedtime for midnight Mass. And yes, I receive both Hannukah and Christmas gifts.
(02/26/02 11:00am)
I've apparently taken a sabbatical from writing this winter. The term really did get off to a promising start, one filled with many juicy topics for columns: "My Life as a TA," or "Embarrassing Oneself in Front of 44 Students by Acting Out a 19th Century Romanticist Painting and Ending Up With Rug Burns," "Winter Does the Darndest Things" or "Wow! It is Cold in Hanover in January," "Katie Greenwood, Katie Greenwood, Katie Greenwood" and of course, the ever-popular "Rant Against Ex-Boyfriends Everywhere" or "Being Broken Up Means Get Your Hand Off My Ass." And I did, in fact, write quite a few columns. They just never made it to The Dartmouth. So what did I do with the time I had, since I wasn't publishing columns? Well I sure as hell wasn't "dating the editor," as we say in Miami.
(11/08/01 11:00am)
I never expected to spend 12.5 hours standing outside a polling location on Miami Beach, waving a sign and wearing a t-shirt declaring one mayoral candidate superior to all others. Hell, Miami Beach isn't even in my voting district. Then again, I never expected to be this desperate for "flow," as the hip Miami pre-teen set whom I babysit for refers to it. We will neglect to mention the history my state has with elections and polls and votes. Suffice it to say that one of my co-sign-holders helped an elderly man vote (literally helped him vote -- she punched his chads, if you know what I mean), and upon exiting the booth, he asked who that lovely man he voted for mayor was again. The answer: Elaine. He thought he voted for Elian. I am not making this up.
(10/25/01 9:00am)
I recently found myself up to my elbow in a pumpkin. Scooping out the slimy orange guts from a very large gourd, I was all-but-laughed-at by a sizeable crowd. They took pictures. They offered tips like, "Eeeeeew! That's gross. I'm glad I don't have to do that!" and "Make sure you get all the goop out. Also make the walls nice and thin."
(09/27/01 9:00am)
Life hasn't changed for the lizards. Not for
(08/01/01 9:00am)
Some Dartmouth students say that New Hampshire winters are nothing compared to those in Michigan and Minnesota and Maine. Some Dartmouth students walk around in shorts and flip flops in February. Some Dartmouth students also develop frostbite and hypothermia. Yes, you will find that a good portion of the members of the Class of 2005 were formerly polar bears. (Really intelligent, sensitive polar bears with a "variety of backgrounds, talents, and interests represented," though.)
(07/03/01 9:00am)
We climbed the stairs off of the ferry from Italy on our mid-FSP break. It's gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day wafted from the ship stereo, my stomach knots of this is Corsica, this is where I'm from interspersed with how am I going to get in touch with my family? I've never been here before. Outside the boat we were stunned by the bright Corsican sun and sharp salt air, and soon I was staring into round beetle-eyes I'd seen in pictures of my great-grandmother, a smile crinkling below those eyes, and a booming too-fast French voice: Les trois filles americaines? I am Karl. Who is Jourdan? Ah, you are Jourdan. You resemble exactly your mother. And we were tugged along by his stringbean-thin, eggplant-haired, fabulously-frocked wife with her too-fast metabolism that increased the speed of everything she did: eat, drink, talk, smoke -- Marie-Ange.
(02/16/01 11:00am)
In honor of Valentine's Day's recent coming, and in honor of my friend Evan who gave me flowers and made my year (gave me flowers and said, "this doesn't mean I'm going to hook up with you. Let's go to the Vagina Monologues"), I am basing my column around the theory that men are not the evil, indecipherable creatures I thought they were. In high school I prided myself on being able to talk to them without blushing. With my 3.5 male friends, I considered myself enlightened. Now I find that many of my close friends are, in fact, male. Occasionally they surprise me with insights like "it's too late for me to revert to objectifying women because I have too many female friends."
(01/19/01 11:00am)
I snuck into the '04 Revelation Dinner on Tuesday night. I am, in fact, a sophomore, but I thought I needed some revealing and the dinner sounded cool and we didn't have one when I was a freshman, so I decided that it would be beneficial to all involved parties (and my stomach) for me to attend. I tried to RSVP and was shot down--but allowed to come if I promised to help organize the frosh (i.e.: hand out little slips of paper with table numbers on them). So there I was, the lone sophomore in Alumni Hall, surrounded by old seniors and wee young freshmen who came up to my knee.
(11/07/00 11:00am)
At 2:30 a.m., one of my roommate's last muffled comments before falling asleep was "I know what you can write about! Us! Will you write about us?" And my other roommate, brushing her teeth in the bathroom, said, "Yeah, write (gurgle gurgle) about us."
(10/20/00 9:00am)
I walk into a partially constructed pumpkin patch of green tissue paper and pipe cleaners. The pumpkins have yet to be made. The door reads "Mrs. M's Patch of Fourth Grade Pumpkins!" Mrs. M wears a red linen jumper over a black t-shirt, tights and comfortable shoes. She smiles at me and continues talking: "I've been practicing. You should hear me wail!" She tells me that she takes music lessons with the class.
(10/06/00 9:00am)
It wasn't until last weekend that I considered them real Dartmouth students -- not prospective students and not trippees, but real Dartmouth students just like me. The '04s aren't just pets with inconsequential names who live outside my door. I may climb on them and eat their food, but the '04s have thoughts and beliefs and opinions just like us.
(08/01/00 9:00am)
Some Dartmouth students say that New Hampshire winters are nothing compared to those in Michigan and Minnesota and Maine. Some Dartmouth students walk around in shorts and flip flops in February. Some Dartmouth students also develop frostbite and hypothermia. Yes, you will find that a good portion of the members of the Class of 2004 were formerly polar bears. (Really intelligent, sensitive polar bears with a "variety of backgrounds, talents, and interests represented," though.)
(07/07/00 9:00am)
The summons came over Spring Break: Jury Duty was in store for the first week of my summer vacation. I was actually, secretly, excited. Not that I could share my excitement with anyone, oh, no, I had to sigh and say "can you believe it?" The day had finally come. I woke up at 6:30 and begin the perils of public transportation in a city whose public transportation system, the Metrorail, is habitually referred to as the greatest public works failure in Florida. Harried, I arrive at the courthouse at 8:03, just three minutes late for my scheduled appearance. The baliff is very welcoming and jovial and ushers me into a room that is a cross between a massive lecture hall and a giant airplane interior--there are fixed seats too close together and television screens that pop down periodically.
(05/30/00 9:00am)
I find it not so ironic that not only are you near Cuba in geographic origination, but you are on a strikingly similar level to said country in your desire for the destruction of the democratic principles on which this country was founded -- liberty and justice for all."
(04/28/00 9:00am)
The last time I attempted to play a "ball" sport was sophomore year of high school. I decided to join the soccer team in an attempt to reclaim my French heritage -- clearly I would be a star because my mom shares her maiden name with Didier Deschamps, the crme of French soccer. It quickly became apparent that genetics and ability do not go hand in hand and that I would need to share more than simply a last name with this Didier fellow if I was to accomplish anything resembling a goal or an assist. My coach's favorite advice: "Jourdan, when you see the ball coming in your direction, run away from it. Your job is to protect our goal from as far away from the ball as possible."
(04/14/00 9:00am)
I am officially starting the JACOF (Jourdan Abel Carhartt Ownership Fund). The velvet pants are not going to cut it anymore. So come by 1-- Mid Mass (Colin's palace) and drop a dime or two in the JACOF bowl (not to be confused with the Chugach Powder Fund). Wouldn't it be cool if the DOC was responsible for the introduction of these 'sweet orange pieces of asphalt' (coined by Colin) to the greater Miami area?"
(02/29/00 11:00am)
Sledding is the root of all the world's problems. Forget crime, hunger, and violence. I have determined that sledding is the devil. I had never been sledding before coming to Dartmouth. In fact, I had never been sledding before this weekend. I am now half an inch shorter than I was upon matriculation. Sledding is directly responsible for this. I cannot believe that children are sent shooting down mountains unstrapped to anything, sitting on what amounts to garbage can lids, by their "loving" parents. Who thought of this activity?
(02/18/00 11:00am)
This Monday, I woke up at six a.m. for the first time since arriving at Dartmouth. I did so because my friend, a certain '03 class president who will remain nameless, wanted front-row tickets to Tuesday's Sheryl Crow concert. He conned me into meeting him outside the doors of the Hop at 6:30 -- we had camouflage/undercover break-in plans, but they proved unnecessary. In my customary, always-thinking fashion, I got a ride to The Hop from S&S. (Okay, so they thought they were taking me to Topliff) I arrived at the doors only to discover that the seventeen people standing outside were not mad, crazed fans, but groggy-eyed students like me, and that my friend, Mr. Dan "Psycho-Class-President-Let's-Get-Up-At-the-Butt-Crack-of-Dawn" Chang (there goes that element of anonymity) was not there. The Hop workers had pity on us and opened the doors early. We walked down to the box office in order: there were very threatening S&S officers controlling the hostile crowd. My "friend" Dan finally showed up, and we got our front-row tickets. His excitement was short-lived, however, when he discovered that our seats weren't in the center but off to the right of the stage. After scrubbing the stamp off of his hand and attempting to get a "better" seat, he decided that ours were pretty good and went home happy. I forgot about the concert until Tuesday afternoon.
(02/03/00 11:00am)
I'm sitting here writing my FSP application for next spring and I cannot concentrate. I'm drawn to the can of SPAM on my windowsill and it reminds me of everything that's happened in the past few weeks. Where did this term go? It seems like a few short days ago I was home, and now I'm enmeshed in a battle with four papers and a mid-term. But the SPAM keeps returning to the forefront of my thoughts. A friend from Miami sent it around Halloween in case I should get snowed in. I've never really looked at it before and I discover a little circle on the front of the can, in the bottom left corner of the spamburger, which says "U.S. inspected and passed by Department of Agriculture." Whew! I sure was worried! Goodness me. I'm so pleased the Department of Agriculture has passed this tin of SPAM. However, there is no expiration date.