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When I first came to Dartmouth this past fall, I was genuinely concerned that I wouldn’t find “my people,” a sentiment that I’m sure many other freshmen shared. Who was going to be my college partner in crime? My best friend? My rival best friend who would motivate me to do better? The twin I never had?
Today, we’re here to celebrate not pop culture, but flop culture. That is, long-lost fads that have been left in the past where they belong. Human history is filled with the what ifs and have nots. These are the trends that almost made it, but didn’t quite have the stuff. You won’t find these in the history books. Cute British accents during the Revolutionary War “Thanks love!” “Terribly sorry!” “Belt up ya barmy fizzog ya twit!” What do all these things have in common? They’ll make anyone swoon if said in a British accent. The cute British boy minstrels “The Judas Brothers” wooed all the American girls of the 1760s with their loose bloomers and lack of dysentery. Their hit songs “Best Hymn Ever” and “Love Yourself (But Not Indecently)” caused even the crotchety old miller, Sir Chester Miller, to go weak in the knees. Their accents could stop witch hunts and consumption in their tracks. That is, until the Revolutionary War began and “The Judas Brothers” had to flee for their lives. Their siren songs were never heard again. Hand Piercings, 0 C.E. Ear piercings were so 50 B.C.E. Tongue rings? Get out of here! The trendsetting Romans were looking for the next big thing and Pontius Pilates had run out of answers. After one too many Bacchanalia, daredevils Typhus and Lupus were playing gladiator, until Lupus accidentally skewered Typhus’ hand. The party screeched to a halt. But the famous fashionista, Pilates, declared the pierced hand the future of fashion. Boy, did he nail it! Soon, all the Romans were clamoring to pierce their paws. That is, until Jesus rolled into town and totally ruined it. Clifford the Big Red Dog during the Cold War Everyone remembers Clifford from their childhood. Who didn’t want a giant, crimson beast to ride around on in the late ’90s? Little do people know that Clifford originated in the ’50s as a symbol of national pride after World War II. That is, Russian national pride. Stalin chose the giant canine as the symbol for united workers, strong economy and borscht. Dogs of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your leashes! Eisenhower, however, put that dog down. Any American child seen idolizing the socialist monster was sent to the gulag and forced to eat borscht. Woof! The 2004 ‘Katrina Doll’ Picture this. It’s 2004. Barbie is dominating the doll market and nobody could compete. American Girl and their dolls were floundering. They needed the quintessential doll that would topple Barbie’s tyranny. So they came up with Katrina, the all American girl who loved everything hockey, especially the Carolina Hurricanes. She took the doll world by storm, and soon Katrina dolls were flooding the market. Mattel needed rescuing, but no one could save them. Even FEMA — Federal Emergency Mattel Aid — couldn’t help. Fortunately for Mattel, Hurricane Katrina swept the competition away the following year. Cremation in Pompeii Traditional burials were so blah. A wooden box for all of eternity? No thanks. Hip Pompeiians needed to die in style circa 78 CE. Sacrifices were all the rage. Fire was on fire. Soon, all the sexy teenagers wanted to be incinerated. Hot! Unfortunately, Mount Vesuvius really harshed the mellow on this one. Needless to say, the cremation business and everyone else were soon turned to dust. Flea Markets and Rat Races after the Black Plague We all love a good flea market. Antiques, vintage clothes and delightful old women. But did you know that flea markets originated in the Middle Ages, where they actually sold fleas to people? That’s right. Flea circuses were hotter than Satan’s wrath in 1320. And rat races. Everyone loved a good rat race. I always put my money on Seabiscuit, the fastest thoroughbred rat in town. Business was booming, that is, until people were dropping dead at the race track. Not because of the excitement, but because of the deadly pathogen that soon swept Europe faster than the flea market trend. Oh well, another pastime down the drain.
I arrived at Dartmouth nearly four years ago as a wide-eyed girl wheeling two oversized duffel bags to the Choates. Butterflies ruffled my stomach as I looked around at picturesque Baker Tower, the rolling New Hampshire hills and the beautiful... BOYS.
My ethics and public policy professor assigned the class a paper topic of particular salience for those preparing to enter the job market — “Among the occupational choices available to you, are you morally obligated to choose an occupation that (you believe) serves the social good?”
WING IT SAM and WINGMAN SAM are nestled among a lot of trash: cardboard, branches, packing tape, hot glue, cans, bottles and plastic bags. They are making letters, maybe. It’s supposed to spell “JUST TRANSITION.”
Hello, Mirror readers, and happy week three. Now that the weather has finally reached (slightly) above freezing temperatures it’s easier to believe that we’re already one fourth of the way into the spring term.
Senior staff photographer Eliza McDonough wanders around campus, gets lost and finds symmetry.
All things change with time, including campus. The Mirror explores, in this photo essa, how locales can change with the seasons — or simply some snowfall.
As an Indian-American woman with immigrant parents, I was both shocked and yet not at all surprised to have found greater diversity at Dartmouth. Granted, the Long Island town from which I hail served as a skewed baseline and left me deeply confused about my identity (or as my grandmother likes to call me an ABCD — American Born Confused Desi). I ate my idly and sambar out of tupperware amongst the PB&Js, and I could never really empathize with girls in the summer complaining about their peeling sunburns. Physically and culturally, I stood out. The problem was, I never had a penchant for the limelight. I still don’t. I don’t sit in the back of class because I hate engaging in the classroom: I do it because sitting in the front makes me feel as though all my classmates are watching my every move — what I write down, how many times I touch my hair and whether I’ll have any nail left to gnaw on before class ends. The point is, I hated standing out. I yearned to fit in, and more so to blend in.
Philosophy professor James Binkoski looks like he should be on a college brochure. He’s well-dressed, his face is a little ruddy from the cold, and he sports a rugged New Hampshirite beard. He’s the kind of professor who looks like he would be against maintaining a Canvas page, but he’s not.
Paul and Emily Brigham return to Dartmouth for their 50th reunion. They met their senior spring at a mutual friend’s “chill wine/16Soberwhat? party” and have been nagging each other ever since. After a few bottles of champagne at the reunion dinner and awkward conversation with former trippees and hook-ups and trippee hook-ups, the Class of 2016 walks to the BEMA to unearth their senior time capsule.
BEEN SAM and BEEN DIFFERENT are talking at the Collis front desk. A tour of eager high schoolers has just exited.
This first week of the spring term featured discussions of spring break activities in all their predictable forms. Across campus, sun-kissed faces exchange tales of adventures and extravagances. What was less discussed though, were the moments in between: the tranquilities and the comforts of rest, at home or elsewhere.
Happy Wednesday, Mirror readers. We hope you are handling the abrupt change in weather better than your Mirror editors are. “It will stop snowing eventually, right?” Hayley asks Caroline in a defeated voice, thinking longingly of sunny days in Hanover.
RETIRING SAM and EXPIRING SAM are sitting on the Collis porch. It is almost-sunny. RETIRING SAM is wearing shorts, a little prematurely. He doesn’t have a backpack. EXPIRING SAM does.
I’m a klutz. Over the course of my first-year trip, I sprained one ankle, rolled the other and lost roughly two square inches of skin to a hastily applied bandage over the rolled ankle. The side-effect of my clumsiness is that I was less surprised by my trip’s raid than my fellow trippees, as I was informed a raid was occurring, partially to arrange the aforementioned bandage.
Orientation week, a random smattering of the class of 2016 piled into Alumni Gymnasium Hall for some official-sounding “Welcome to Dartmouth” event. I say “random smattering” because I’m pretty sure half of us didn’t go — like that “Strange as This Weather Has Been” class book lecture that was supposed to bind us all together over summer reading. I think the only thing I remember from that book was that a main character got splinters on her butt from having sex in a shed.
’Twas the night before 16S, with students on the loose.Not a creature was resting, not even a moose.
Happy spring term, Mirror readers! We hope you had wonderful and relaxing spring breaks, and that you didn’t miss us too much. If so, rest assured, we have an entire term ahead of us to satiate you with Mirror issues.