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It’s Time for Dinner

(10/02/14 11:55pm)

Three years ago I left home, hiking pack on my back and stiff boots on my feet, for my first-year trip. After our first day of hiking, my trip and I arrived at our campsite where we encountered a thru-hiker. His trail name was Lazarus. He trekked into our wooded campsite just as the sun was setting and kept to himself while he prepared his dinner. For an hour he crouched over his rusty stove and waited for the water to boil for his freeze-dried pasta primavera. Meanwhile, my fellow hikers and I ate our cheesy tortillas around an unlit fire pit. I hadn’t showered for three days and my clothes smelled like pine needles and sweat. My hand shivered each time I removed it from the sleeve of my sweatshirt to eat my dinner.

Editor's Note

(10/02/14 11:54pm)

This summer, a new friend and I went on a long hike ­— just the two of us. We didn’t know each other that well, and I was nervous we’d have nothing to talk about during the 10-mile ordeal. I spent a lot of time during the summer reacquainting myself with some people I’d known peripherally in the past, either through friends of friends, freshman year pre-games or other less savory scenarios. These re-connections afforded me the opportunity for some much needed self-reflection, which can be sorely lacking during our hectic 10-week terms. It is easy to get caught up in the insanity and rush of fall term at Dartmouth, or in reality, any term at our college on the hill.

Boots and Rallies

(10/02/14 11:51pm)

Welcome to the third article in a series of undercover expositions of Dartmouth’s undergraduate culture, generously supported by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. If you’ve been paying attention on the journey thus far instead of losing all your waking hours to GameCubes and Go-Gurt, you’ll recall that I confessed two weeks ago that for the past three years, I, Aaron Pellowski ’15 (real name J. Deirdre Horowitz, RISD ’06, DAIUS ’10) have systematically hoodwinked you all into believing I was yet another of the hyper-privileged bovines in Barbour jackets and Nantucket reds that call this campus home. After this year is up, I will return to my loft apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where I will likely dabble in fingerpainting, codeine and Baha’i. But mostly I will be working on my memoir, which like my other articles, will be a sparkling and trenchant polemic about why I’m better than everyone and how everything about Dartmouth is bad. Of course, I will take no personal responsibility at all for my own choices and conduct.

Woodward: Help Us Help You

(10/02/14 11:41pm)

Following the conclusion of men and women’s rush this past week, certain inescapable realities about the recruitment process once again reared their ugly heads. Despite the Panhellenic Council’s extensive efforts to improve the manner in which houses conduct rush — extending round two parties by 20 minutes to allow for more time to meet rush participants, pushing for all potential new members to receive invitations to round two parties at four houses — some women still fell through the cracks. Men too. While the raw aggregate numbers (297 bids were extended to women and at least 241 bids were extended to men) are impressive, it is still an unfortunate truth that single-sex Greek institutions have not completely mitigated how emotionally taxing the recruitment process is on the Dartmouth community. The process is rough for everyone, whether an individual receives a bid at his or her favorite house, gets put in one of his or her bottom two or simply drops out.

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