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Now that we have officially passed the halfway mark of our undergraduate careers, the push to find work during off-terms or study programs is becoming more essential as we begin “the hardest year at Dartmouth” according to the undergraduate deans.
A few weeks ago, all anyone was talking about were the Democratic and Republican National Conventions. The internet was ablaze with recordings of speeches, political attack articles and photos of Bill Clinton kicking balloons. Now, although my Facebook newsfeed and my phone’s New York Times updates have been taken over by Olympics buzz, the lasting significance of the two party nominees weighs over our heads as we decide how to vote this November.The Class of 2018 has something to say about their voting preferences in this week’s issue of the Mirror. Hopefully, their voices serve as a reminder of the impact that our decisions on who to vote for, and whether to vote at all, have this fall.
Happy sophomore summer, Mirror readers. My hiatus from the Mirror is over, although I return alone, without my co-editor Hayley. With nobody to monitor my coffee consumption and comment on it in editor’s notes, my coffee habits have only gotten more excessive.
I’ve always been bad at pop culture. I don’t know any actors, I’ve never subscribed to a magazine and I went years pronouncing “Nike” without the “e.” No one even bothered to correct me. My relationship with television is no exception to this pattern. Somewhere along the way, in an attempt to justify my general cluelessness, I adopted an obnoxious holier-than-thou perspective and decided that TV was a base and unfulfilling activity for people who didn’t have anything better to do with their time.
Though campus appears to be overflowing with hordes of “business casual”-attired students bustling between information sessions and cover letter workshops, the truth is, not all Dartmouth students choose the financial path — with some taking artistic routes instead.
I, Parker Thornton Richards, do not understand pop culture. That’s essentially the starting premise of this week’s Mirror, centered around the impact of cultural phenomenon amongst Dartmouth students, from late-night viewings of “Game of Thrones” to screenwriting internships. That’s something worth covering. The next Mindy Kaling, Shonda Rhimes or even Fred Rogers (yeah, he went to Dartmouth) might already be amongst us.
My grandfather has read the same book every day for 43 years.
“Audrey Hepburn is the most popular by far. For every five Audreys, I probably sell one Marilyn.”
Few life transitions are as immense as the shift from high school to college. Suddenly, your parents — and the curfews, restrictions and rules (if you’re already 18 by the time you matriculate) that often accompany them — are gone. You’re living in a new room in a new place with thousands of new people. Your schedule is often much less regimented than it was in high school, and it’s okay if you sleep through class or go to bed at 5 a.m. In many ways, it’s like stepping into a new, unfamiliar world.
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.