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Happy 16X, Mirror readers! For many of us, the supposed highlight of our Dartmouth careers has finally arrived: sophomore summer. The weather is beautiful, we’re surrounded by our best friends and drowning in DBA, our workloads seem lighter, we can socialize endlessly and really, we’re only thinking about which fun activity to do next. Nothing could be better.
From Friday, May 27 to Wednesday, June 1, The Dartmouth conducted an online survey on the demographics, Dartmouth experiences, opinions and post-graduation plans of the Class of 2016. Two hundred ninety-seven students responded, making for a 27.7 percent response rate. What follows are some of the more interesting results that the survey returned.
Dartmouth has strengthened me a great deal, but it has cut me down in certain ways, too. That’s mostly been for good.
When the Indian-American Pulitzer Prize-winning author Jhumpa Lahiri gave a lecture at Dartmouth last week, I sat in my seat, jittering with nervous energy. The elegant and eloquent woman sitting before us had long been my literary idol. Her rich, vibrant works about the immigrant experience in America — from “The Namesake” to her short stories in “Interpreter of Maladies” — resonated with me from a young age, the daughter of Indian immigrants, perpetually grappling with the balancing act of several competing identities.
When I promised my little sister that I would take her friend Sam out at Dartmouth during my freshman spring, I had no clue what I was getting myself into. As we wandered from Collis towards Webster Avenue, Sam — then a high-school junior — walked with swag, high-fiving and saying hello to everyone that we passed. People probably thought he was drunk, but he was completely sober and just trying to have fun and feel out if Dartmouth was right for him. At a fraternity, he greeted the kid on door-duty with a big “WHAT’S UP” and a full-blown handshake that turned into bro-hug. The door-duty kid shot me a confused look, and I ushered Sam towards the basement. At this point, I was pretty nervous about bringing him downstairs. He knew absolutely nothing about the delicate relationships and social norms that existed at Dartmouth, and so, in my head, he was bound to do something embarrassing. As my schmob of friends and I danced in the dimly lit basement, I saw Sam eyeing the tall blond girl at the bar talking to some of the fraternity members. I instantly recognized her — she was the senior girl on H-Croo that everybody had a crush on. Before I knew it, Sam was walking up to her. I cringed and wanted to leave as I saw him talking to her and all of the older boys. What was he saying? Did he ask if they knew me? (Obviously they didn’t.) He was totally ignorant of any social norm — I was embarrassed for him.
On my last day on campus at the end of freshman year, the air was heavy with impending rain and the sky was the color of slate. I was sitting on the Ledyard boathouse dock with my roommate waiting for the sunset that never pushed through the clouds. Quarter-sized raindrops started tumbling out of the sky, but we stayed, uselessly tying sweatshirts around our heads. Branches and leaves flew by as the river swelled and its banks turned to thick mud. For two hours, we talked in the rain.
PREVIOUS SAM: Where should we talk?
Week after week you, the loyal readers of our column, pick up the Mirror and brace yourselves for a whole lot of crazy. Things like, “How do they do it?” and “Have they found Jesus?” and “There’s medication for that” run through your minds as you read our stories. But enough about you, you sniveling consumerists. Let’s talk about us! For our final column we shall share with you the story of how we met. You’ve heard of “When Harry Met Sally” and this, dear readers, is nothing like that.
The time has come, for me to lip-sync for my life.
Happy week nine, Mirror readers! Hayley and Caroline can hardly believe that this is the last editor’s note they will pen together, as Caroline will be abroad in London in the fall. Where has the time gone?
Language and cultural perceptions surrounding mental health can often be gendered, a result of a long history of mental health stigmas that persist today.
From the U.S. Women’s National Team suing U.S. Soccer this year for wage discrimination to the splitting of rifle shooting based on gender in the 1984 Olympics after Margaret Murdock tied for first place with a man in the then-mixed event during the 1976 games, sports and gender have always had a complicated relationship. Female coaches still make less than male coaches. In the 2014-2015 season at Dartmouth, head coaches of men’s teams averaged salaries of $125,311 while head coaches of women’s teams had an average salary of $86,595. Assistant coaches of men’s teams made on average per full time employee $64,090 while their counterparts on women’s teams averaged $56,414. Of the 13 full-time head coaching positions of men’s teams, all 13 are filled by men. Of the 15 full-time head coaching positions of women’s teams, six are filled by men and nine are filled by women. Of the 35 assistant coaching positions of men’s teams, 30 are filled by men and five are filled by women. Yet, of the 29 assistant coach positions of women’s teams, 13 are filled by men and 16 are filled by women. So, in general, men can coach women, but women can’t coach men, and the gender of the athletes you coach determines how much you can make.
Here’s the thing: being a woman of color was never something I thought about really being until I came to Dartmouth. Politically I identified with it, but it wasn’t until I arrived in this frankly toxic white, male, heteronormative space that I absorbed the full extent of how much being a woman of color would dictate my experience here. Although Dartmouth has many more people of color than the incredibly white town in which I grew up, its rhetoric of diversity and inclusivity only masks an apathetic at best, though often actively hostile, attitude towards those who by their mere existence challenge the rigid norms of this place.
When we started thinking about what the topic of gender means, we realized that it is incredibly broad. Gender is an integral part of our identities, and thus plays a role in almost everything we do. As gender has risen to the forefront of national discussion, particularly in the context of politics, we wanted to explore how these different issues and experiences manifest here on campus. Dartmouth’s gender dynamics are somewhat complex — the College was all-male for the first 202 years of its history — so it wasn’t a surprise to us that we found widely varying experiences and feelings over the course of our partnership.
For Logan Henderson ’17, his identity as a trans and gender-queer person of color has been significantly affected by the College’s small size, lack of racial and ethnic diversity and location in a rural town. Most people hear the identity stories of wealthy, white people, Henderson said, adding that stories like his own are rarely, if ever, told.
Despite its 247-year history as an institution, Dartmouth opened its doors to women 44 years ago, and since then we have had some incredible alumnae who have made their mark in a patriarchal world. These are women who are working to improve the lives of other women, who have seen firsthand the kind of inequality that women around the world face, who have had to work harder to make a career in a male-dominated industry and who have gone through trauma that they hope to save other women from ever experiencing.
Making things might actually be our oldest profession. Humans have been makings things — tools, weapons, pottery, art, fire — since the beginning of our species.
The Class of 1953 Commons is known on campus for a variety of things — ramen week, the annual Mardi Gras spread, the kosher dining section — but perhaps its most popular section is the bakery area. Filled with desserts ranging from danishes to pies to the ever-tempting Foco cookies, the Foco dessert section is a campus fixture.
Noelle Anderson ’18 has an enrapturing sense of authenticity. She paints whale sharks. She dances on tables. She has stayed overnight in the Black Family Visual Arts Center. She modifies all the items on the menu when she goes out to eat, and she unapologetically wears crocs in the studio.
Two years ago today, I was on my 20-hour return busride to Buenos Aires, Argentina. I had just spent the long weekend in Bariloche, Argentina’s equivalent of Vail or Vancouver. This trip occurred a little past the halfway point of my Spanish LSA, during the dead quiet of Bariloche’s fall season. The town was pretty sleepy, waiting patiently and eagerly for snow — unlike Hanover during any of my four fall quarters at Dartmouth.