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When I was 11 years old, I had an irrational fear of sailing. I didn’t like the way the wind jerked the boom violently in irons, it filled me with an overwhelming anxiety. This changed when my summer camp counselor taught me a lesson that has stayed with me for over two decades.
The column “Why I Voted for Trump” perpetuates violence and reinforces perspectives that must become unacceptable if we are to create a world of peace and justice for everyone.
Shortly after Florida Sen. Marco Rubio announced his candidacy for president of the United States on April 13, 2015, I pledged my support to his campaign — a campaign largely grounded on the rural conservative ideologies I was raised with. My support for the Republican candidate’s campaign strengthened as the GOP debates progressed last fall, and I did not look back. I distinctly remember when Rubio, while on the campaign trail in Waverly, Iowa this past January, promised an atheist voter that “no one’s going to force you to believe in God. But no one’s going to force me to stop talking about God.” As an evangelical Christian and a Constitutionalist who supports atheists’ rights as firmly as those of Christians, I became even more committed to Rubio and his campaign after hearing this.
Donald Trump is the next president of the United States. It seems easy to lose hope, to believe that this election shows the irredeemable hate that lives in this nation’s underbelly. We desperately want to disengage and hope that, in four years, there will be enough of a millennial or minority vote to return us to the path of “progress.” Mostly rural, white Americans decided this election. They felt left out, excluded from the progress of the past eight years. They have grounds to believe that globalization and technology have robbed them of their once-thriving livelihoods. They have been told that life is better now than it was eight years ago by people for whom that is true — but that is not how they feel. They have expressed this anxiety through a rhetoric rife with hate, but hate alone did not win this election. To continue to believe that it did would be to continue missing what the media and liberal America have failed to recognize over the past year and a half.
For many Dartmouth students, this November will mark the first time they cast a ballot in a presidential election. Today, students will be lined up outside Hanover High School to pull a lever that will determine the course of our nation — no pressure for you first-time voters.
Newly on the brink of adulthood, Dartmouth students are tasked with great responsibility, especially during this election season. It is a test of your character and it asks that you embrace the noble art of being uncool.
Many times throughout this election season, Donald Trump has proven himself unfit to be president of the United States, and this is precisely why he is the most important candidate.
We the rejects of sorority recruitment are here. We exist, in the flesh.
I am dumbfounded. When I read that Irving Oil was funding Dartmouth’s Arthur L. Iriving Institute for Energy and Society, I checked to see if the article was in The Onion. Sadly, it was not.
I’m writing this to the activists who are considering joining a Greek house or holding Greek leadership positions to promote “change from within” the system. My advice to you: don’t.
As one of the art history professors and droning voices who defend the Orozco murals and the College's decision to restrict access to the Hovey murals, I feel compelled to offer a response to recent complaints about censorship published in The Dartmouth. This most recent lament is but one in a chorus of "dissenting" voices on this issue that have graced the pages of the paper since the 1970s. The latest round takes the novel tack of insulting Dartmouth students, characterizing them as grade-grubbing zombies in an attempt to rile them up about the issue. Since no actual research on the history of the murals or the College's response to them seems to have been done, I will here inform the campus readership of just a few things that might interest them.
In public art controversy, the art in question is almost always the occasion for voicing other grievances. For example, when attacking the colonial legacies of racial inequality seem impossible, the easier and at times more productive thing to do is to criticize a work of public art and demand some form of public representation that would symbolically rectify what otherwise seems politically or economically intractable. Dartmouth College is no stranger to public art controversy. From Orozco's frescos, executed in 1932-33, to Walter Beach Humphrey's "Hovey Murals," completed in 1939, to Wenda Gu's "hair installation" occupying the library's Main Street in 2007-08, the College has witnessed periodic calls for censorship, often accompanied by race-baiting vitriol. Bizarrely, Roger Lott's editorial in The D ("Points in Perspective, Wednesday, Nov. 10, 2010) represents the first assertion that there "should" or "ought" to be controversy where none currently exists.