Coming to Terms With The Dartmouth Review
Dartmouth's liberal contingent has a dirty little secret: many of them read The Dartmouth Review. I know you're aghast; it's a travesty, a sure sign of the coming Apocalypse.
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Dartmouth's liberal contingent has a dirty little secret: many of them read The Dartmouth Review. I know you're aghast; it's a travesty, a sure sign of the coming Apocalypse.
Sleeping through classes. We've all done it at some time in our lives, and it's not a crime, so long as it's kept to a minimum. The key word here is "minimum," however. Disturb your sleep schedule too much, stay up late studying or talking or doing who-knows-what too often, and you might just forget whether your 7:45 a.m. drill is on the second or third floor of Dartmouth Hall.
Ah, the Dartmouth winter. Sloughing through my third Hanover freeze, I find myself pondering a number of observations I've made over the years about this dreary season. Dartmouth doesn't just get cold for a few months; it crystallizes. Everything slows down. Caution guides our every move, be it within the realm of the physical, the intellectual, or the emotional.
Thursday, February 8th, 11:14 A.M.: Having handed in my last midterm paper, I am ready for the weekend to commence. I eat lunch at the Hop with a group of friends; we discuss the magnitude of fun that is about to enter our lives. Dance parties, multifarious costume balls and at least 16 levels of decadence, legal and illegal, await us. A few hours later, dressed up like something approximating a tuba, I head over to Dartmouth's version of Mardi Gras. On the way there I meet a woman who lived down the hall from me last year -- she's experiencing three different kinds of psychoactive drugs, she tells me. She would like to talk more, but is distracted by a nearby tree that is, according to her, a C.I.A. operative.
By now Dartmouth's lack of social options has been the subject of enough discourse that it's a cliche. But I think characterizing Dartmouth social life in terms of its quantity of options misses the point -- if you check your Weekend Update frequently enough you'll notice plenty of parties every Friday and Saturday. No, quantity's not the problem. Quality, however, is a different story.
I'm standing on the edge of the Green across the street from the Hop. Stretching out before me in frayed white paint is the crosswalk, that pedestrian haven, that relaxing free zone, assuring me that although I am crossing a well-trafficked street right now, I can still continue at my leisurely collegiate pace without fear of automotive onslaught. The crosswalk reminds me that this is Hanover, New Hampshire, a peaceful New England town, a sleepy hollow without the rush, stress, or hostility so often found in gridlocked urban environments. "Worry not," says the crosswalk. "Walk as you please, because the cars will stop."
The physical education requirement. Even now, sitting in my room, a 12-ounce can of Mountain Dew in one hand, a half-eaten package of Swiss Rolls in the other, I am still haunted by it.