The Mirror 05/23/14

5.23.2014

MIRROR R

In The Mirror’s senior issue, former directorate members and senior columnists reflect on their four years at Dartmouth and share parting words.

ALL PHOTOS BY ANNIE MA // THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

ERIN O’NEIL // THE DARTMOUTH SENIOR STAFF

2// MIRROR

EDITORS’ NOTE

ANNIE MA // THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

On Sunday evening after an exhausting Green Key, Jasmine was lying in bed when someone informed her that Yama was shutting down. Frantically she texted the first person on her mind to grab dinner at the Hanover sushi establishment. When that person said no, she texted Emma, who obviously was available and eager.

At dinner, Jasmine talked about jumping onto and then quickly falling off the Chainsmokers stage, and Emma boasted about getting a selfie with the KAF guy at Lupe. Jasmine nostalgically ordered the Dartmouth roll and slowly savored each piece, knowing that it would be one of her last. Tears mixed into her mini bowl of soy sauce. Emma heard the grim news while eating sushi at Orient on Saturday evening — her friend nonchalantly mentioned that Murphy’s had burned down and that Yama was closing forever. Though she prides herself on being one of the most coldhearted people she knows, this news proved too much for her, and she had to be forcibly reminded why eating a fourth dinner at Yama was not a good idea. She may be a bit sentimental about the ’14s leaving, but none of you can make her happy like bibimbap does.

Their eulogizing abruptly ended when their ser ver informed them that Yama was only closing for four weeks and reopening under new management.

Finally, we can connect our editors’ note to the issue. This is our senior issue. The ’14s are leaving.

People like to use the word “bittersweet” to describe graduation. We won’t because it’s so damn clichéd.

Graduation, we’ve decided, is like Yama closing and reopening under new management. You might think you’ll never taste another Dartmouth roll again, but that’s what reunions and big weekends are for (’sup creepy alums?). New beginnings are necessar y, inevitably. Now stop cr ying, and enjoy your damn sushi.

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MIRROR R MIRROR EDITORS JASMINE SACHAR, EMMA MOLEY EDITOR-IN-CHIEF LINDSAY ELLIS PUBLISHER CARLA LARIN

EXECUTIVE EDITORS MICHAEL RIORDAN STEPHANIE McFEETERS

STUFF DARTMOUTH KIDS LIKE: THE REVEAL column

B y Leslie ye

Dartmouth is an easy place to make fun of. It’s an icy tundra, it’s in the boondocks, hours away from a Chipotle (the hallmark of civilization). No one knows how many Dartmouth students it takes to screw in a light bulb because Hanover has no electricity — all the jokes have been made.

We like humor because it makes us feel connected to each other. Jokes are the ties that bind. As we trundle through life, we pull concentric circles of people around ourselves. These are the connections that keep us safe. You may not find out who your real friends are until you’re surrounded by darkness, but otherwise the thing that connects us is laughter. All those little quips only your friends or your family or your school understand? Those are your shared history, your experiences, your past. Laughter reminds us where we come from.

Humor can heal us, too. It reminds us that even when things are hard, there is still good in the world. They can ground us when things seem out of control and take our mind off our pain, even if it’s just for a little while. Why did Jon Stewart go on the air after the towers fell? David Letterman?

Jay Leno? We needed someone to distract us from the horror. Jokes can do that for you. That’s why I love them. **** I have a story to tell you. Maybe you already know parts of it. For some of you, there will be no surprises here. For the rest of you, I hope you don’t know it, because that would make this terribly boring for you. Here we go.

My sophomore fall could have been an unmitigated disaster. I didn’t get into a house and cried about it — which for all you ’17s, I highly discourage — and tried (and failed) to be pre-med. But it was also amazing. I was no longer part of the worst class ever, had figured out my major (government), my favorite study spots (3FB and the futon in my room) and my pasta order (half meat, half alfredo, lots of veggies). I was finding my place.

I wrote for The Mirror until junior fall

Art History Prof: Yes, some people were having orgies in the streets during the Black Plague... It was kind of like Green Key weekend.

’15 Guy: I don’t see the point of running if you’re not simultaneously tanning.

and was a regular Dunyun reader (RIP).

I admired the people with columns, the ones I looked forward to every week.

Seniors poked fun at the Dartmouth I had just begun to understand. They seemed omnipotent, all-knowing, wise.

They probably weren’t, but that’s what I thought.

I’d been thinking about it for a while — the senior column I wanted to write.

I wasn’t peppy enough to do something like “Dartmouth’s My Favorite,” and I didn’t have enough metaphorical stories in me to do a “Chicken and Waffles” redux. Besides, nobody likes a redux.

I tend to have my best ideas at night, alone in the dark. Some people think best in the shower — for me, clarity comes when the rest of the world is asleep. What did I want my time at Dartmouth to be? What I’ve always wanted out of life was to leave something behind. Not necessarily something profound or meaningful — if I managed to do that, great, but really I just wanted something I could look back at to remind me of who I was at that time.

That’s why I write. Writing, even if you’re only recording what someone else is telling you, is a form of creation.

It has weight. It is something you can hold in your hands. It is something you make out of nothing. I’m a big believer in words. I’ve written 74,000 for The D and at least twice as many for classes while I’ve been here. These are some of my last.

Back to sophomore fall. I was too young to do a senior Mirror column, so my best option was the Internet.

I created a Twitter account. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Quite a few of you follow it. In a none-too-subtle choice, I named it after the Dartbeat column I would write for the next two years: @StuffDKidsLike.

There is a blog called “Stuff White People Like.” It was last updated in November 2010, but in its heyday, it

’16 Guy: After Green Key last year, I was unsure if this was an Ivy League school.

’17 Guy: Staying in bed on Sunday morning and yelling “Oh god!” does not count as going to church.

was part of the zeitgeist. Written by Christian Lander, it is a satire of “leftleaning, city-dwelling white folk.” It was just politically incorrect enough without being offensive, quippy, funny and clever. It was my inspiration.

Those of you who know me remember that I was taking EARS 6, of bouncybeach-ball-used-to-call-on-people and group-midterms fame. On the night of Dec. 3, 2011, I was studying for the final, and my friend was in my room studying for his econ final. The tree had just gone up on the Green. It was snowing. We were blasting Christmas music.

My first tweet was at 4:45 a.m. It was about the late Jim ‘Gusanoz’ Dupuis’s FOOD 4 FINALZ Facebook event —this was back when Gusanoz stopped delivering to Hanover but Jim was bringing burritos to Webster every night. The most retweeted thing I’ve posted was a picture from this year’s midnight snowball fight. There’s a guide to surviving finals from 13W. The Twitter account is a record of my time here. @StuffDKidsLike started out as an actual list, and sometimes I still tweet additions, but it’s changed a lot. Sometimes the tweets are funny thoughts I want a larger audience to see. Sometimes they’re reminders, like that check-in or add-drop have begun. Sometimes they’re announcements, like when the Princeton hockey game is happening or that rugby won again. Most of the time they’re commentary, commentary on campus events, on truths I see at Dartmouth.

There’s references to our number one undergraduate teaching ranking, lots of poking fun at freshmen, lots of jokes about the Greek system. There’s a lot of stuff in there about blitz, Homeplate, Bored at Baker, facetime and pong.

Things that don’t make sense or matter to an outsider. Things that only make sense to you and me.

I thought @StuffDKidsLike was just about me, and in a lot of ways, it is.

It’s an outlet for my snark, a place for all the random thoughts I have about Dartmouth that would just clutter my personal Twitter. But it’s also about you. Without you, @StuffDKidsLike would be nothing. You are the ones that retweet and favorite and let me know when something I’ve said has struck a chord with a lot of you, and that feels amazing.

I’ll be tweeting until June 8, and maybe during Homecoming and Green Key next year. Otherwise, I don’t know what’s going to happen to @StuffDKidsLike. If you have ideas or want to take it over, let me know. Until then, thank you. Thank you for reading, thank you for laughing, thank you for reminding me that though I’m just a lone voice tweeting in the wilderness, you’re all out there listening.

’16 Girl: The easy way out is my favorite way in.

Econ Prof: You don’t want to run up your credit card debt buying liquor, drugs or women... I don’t know what you guys do on the weekends.

MIRROR //3

I WISH DARTMOUTH LOVE column

IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING column

B y katie sinclair

In case you were wondering, the wearing of a “cap and gown” goes all the way back to the Middle Ages, when students wore robes to class.

The mortarboard is a variation of a hat popular in the 15th century. It seems strange to think of the graduation ceremony when we still have 16 whole days to go, when we have finals to take and theses to turn in, but I have always been a fan of pomp and circumstance. I’ll get a cool hat with a tassel and they will call my full name, Catherine Elizabeth, a name I only whip out for momentous occasions such as graduation or possibly my coronation as ruler of a small European principality. I’m going to throw my hat up in the air, because when I was in high school I was denied the opportunity to don traditional academic garb. At my prep school, girls had to wear white dresses and carry flowers.

In protest, I swore that I would never wear a white dress again, and then of course I joined a sorority, and said dress got taken out and worn several times a term. I know that the gowns are polyester, and it’s going to be hot, and that mortarboards are not exactly the most flattering headwear, but I am graduating college, damn it. I want to look the part. If you can’t tell where this is going or have just completely ignored the cover that says “Senior Issue,” this is my last column before I graduate. I was told that this column could be more reflective, and had no need of the normal intro with a random fact, but I have been supplying facts weekly for the past three terms, so I will carry on until the bitter end.

For my peers, I know that things will all work out. We will be awesome and adventurous and do great things, even if we’re not all working at hedge funds in Manhattan making a ton of money. When I think about my uncertain future, my mind goes back to what is the most quintessential game of Dartmouth, the game of champions: pong. When you’re down to a half, you can’t lose on a serve, so just keep trying. You’ll hit the table eventually.

It’s time to take stock. The things I’ve lost include but are not limited to three (three!) frackets, a pair of frat flats (foam party 12X), my dinner, my dignity, a brown cashmere scarf, my pink water bottle with the fishes on it, my Walmart bicycle. Things I’ve gained: a plethora of random facts, some wisdom, too much flair and friendships that will carry on long after we’ve left the woods of New Hamp-

shire. I think I’ve already dispensed of most of my words of wisdom by now (see above, “three terms of random facts”). A friend once told me, “Your column’s actually really simple — it’s a lot about being nice to people.” So that’s it: the big takeaway — be nice to people and don’t forget yourself. It’s okay to suck at things, and it’s okay to quit things you don’t suck at but hate.

If you’re not enjoying it, then what’s the point?

Carrying on with the idea of being nice, I think thanks are in order.

Thanks to the professors, mentors and friends I’ve made along the way.

Thanks to my sisters, without whom this epic undertaking would not at all be possible. Thanks for all the trips to late night, the wine, the pong, the Netflix marathons, the walks along Occom, for listening to me bitch and complain about things that were mostly my fault anyway. Thanks to the drivers of the Dartmouth Coach, without whom I (and a good portion of you, dear readers) would literally not be here. Thanks to the people at the Hinman Mail Center, and especially to that one guy who got me my package even though it was 5:05 p.m. Thanks to the janitors and custodians who work tirelessly to save us from our own squalor.

Though I will soon be gone, I hope my legacy will not be forgotten. My usual haunts — including the couches at Baker Lobby, the armchairs on 3FB, the long table by the window at Collis, the table at the Hop next to the outlet — will soon be free for someone else to sit and read the interwebs (where else do you think all those facts come from?) while procrastinating on all their homework. ’15s, ’16s, ’17s and yes, God forbid, those ’18s who might be reading this (worst class ever!), may you go on and eat too many mozzarella sticks, wax philosophical over a particular breakfast food, jump in a frozen pond for no good reason, debate dinosaur physiology while drunk, write a thesis, never read Bored at Baker, always back up your files on your computer and compose insightful, witty satires that some people won’t get. You are brilliant, wonderful people, and I wish you all the best. In my humble opinion, the bar has been set high for the next writer(s) of this column, but I have faith that you will not only match but surpass it. Because that’s what Dartmouth does: it gives you a challenge, and you rise to meet it.

B y maggie rowland

Love, that ineffable, marvelous, painful, beautiful surge of emotion that may strike us at the most unexpected of times and in the most unexpected of places, is not perfect.

I remember feeling the sensation of love at first sight pretty keenly in October 2009, when I visited Dartmouth for the first time. As I drove past Leverone Field House and saw the brick of the gym, I felt a wave of excitement followed by a deep conviction that this was where I should be a student. I feel lucky, firstly, that I had the precious opportunity to exist in this world that is Dartmouth, and secondly, that four years later, I get just as excited when the Dartmouth Coach passes Leverone.

My new favorite campus activity is to sit on the steps of Dartmouth Hall with my best friend and talk while watching the world go by on the Green. A sense of calm and quiet comes from sitting on those cool stone steps, and the natural beauty of the College is easily appreciable from them. The scene on the Green, the different activities that people engage in — reading, talking, napping, playing frisbee, studying — and the mixture of faces that I see there, some familiar, some not, also make me smile. These faces remind me why I love this place. When you ask Dartmouth students what their favorite thing is about Dartmouth, they don’t always say the classes, the environment, the clubs or the opportunities. These are all reasons why they might have chosen to come in the first place, as I did. But hands down, the vast majority of the time, when you ask a Dartmouth student what makes this place special, they say the people, above all else.

When I arrived at Dartmouth, I described it as the perfect place for me to anyone who would listen, and many of my classmates did as well.

I am grateful that I can still call it the perfect place for me, though I now comprehend that it is not, nor will it ever be, objectively perfect as perhaps I once thought. I recognize that now, four years later, many people feel less positively about this place than when they arrived, and I certainly don’t blame them for the change in sentiment. Dartmouth, like any other institution, has various real problems that very much need to be addressed, and it is evident from the high administrative turnover rate over the last four years that very few of those in power are actually interested, willing or equipped to deal with them. With all the negative press, protests, backlash against protests, the actual problems themselves, the misconceptions about the problems and the problem of addressing the problems — well, let’s just say that the level of vitriol present in the campus climate may well be justified, but it can certainly cause someone to forget his or her initial love for dear old Dartmouth. Pragmatically speaking, it is certainly worth remembering

that whether you love or hate it here, the day you leave this place, you will have more doors open to you than the day you arrived. To claim any different is naive and ignorant to the point of being ungrateful.

When I wake up each morning, I try to remember this love. I watch the Dartmouth “Happy” video or Conan O’Brien’s commencement speech for the Class of 2011, I take a walk around Occom Pond and marvel at the natural beauty, I get KAF with a friend, I go to a class that I am excited about. There are many ways to remind oneself how to love. I only have a little time left here, and I want to appreciate each moment. I want to be grateful for it, reflective on it and humbled by my opportunity to experience it. Dartmouth is an imperfect place, and I am an imperfect person, but neither of these precludes my ability to love it. As human beings, we love one another despite our imperfections, and we help each other grow. We support each other in our times of need, and we are kind to each other.

When we fail at these endeavors (and this is inevitable), we try again, and we try harder. We promise to do better. My capacity to love and appreciate an institution such as Dartmouth doesn’t play by different rules. In some small way, perhaps I have helped show Dartmouth its weaknesses as it has shown me mine. This process has been gentler at some stages and rougher at others. I may not wear my hardships on my sleeve, but they have drawn dark circles under my eyes, branded memories into my vision and written stories of tears. Dartmouth has caused some of these and soothed others, while giving me the fortitude to make peace with all of them.

Whether or not we are responsible for each others’ hardships, I believe that both Dar tmouth and I have the right intentions: we simply try to make each other better. Just as I need people to love me, honestly and despite my flaws, Dartmouth needs people to love it.

I am a daughter of Dartmouth. We will both be weaker without the love of others, and perhaps first and foremost, without the love of ourselves. I try my best to love myself and Dartmouth, in spite of both of our imperfections, and I believe that we are parting ways better for this love. You get out what you put in, I think.

The subject of our love is never quite perfect, yet its imperfection makes it no less compelling and no less meaningful. If anything, it makes our love that much sweeter, for it shows the incredible capacity of the human heart to recognize that which is imperfect, that which might even hurt us, and love it anyway. To persevere in bettering it with our love, and to accept that an imperfect love is ever so much better than none at all — this is my hope for Dartmouth and those who remain here.

Trending D @ RTMOUTH

memorial day fun

Jk, we have no reading period.

COLLIS chalk cube Lesson learned:

never give Dartmouth students an open forum to provide drinking suggestions.

last chances

Need a formal date?

Didn’t find true love at the Chainsmokers? Blitz any and all ’14s. Rejection doesn’t hurt as much when you’ll never see them again.

sAyonara seniors Theses have been turned in

(hopefully). Printing credits are a hot commodity. The mysterious senior week is around the corner. The time has come for ’14s to prepare their last goodbyes — until Homecoming.

green drowning in fertilizer We find it a little suspicious that buckets of fertilizer magically make the Green green in a few days. But hey, whatever it takes to impress Shonda.

goodbye YAMA

This is pretty damn tragic. Hopefully the new management keeps the free lollipops and aggressive birthday celebrations.

russell sage cellar

Our freshman year, Russell Sage was filled with smelly couches and illicit water pong tables. We’re a little bitter.

4// MIRROR

JENNY CHE, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Nickname: Jche.

Post-grad plans: Summer internship with The Wall Street Journal’s Speakeasy.

Famous last words: Eat steak.

Piece of wisdom: Blunt honesty.

Favorite class: “Languages of Middle-Earth” (Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo!).

Tattoo you would get: My mom’s last name.

Craziest Dartmouth bucket list item: Hike the 50, but now I’ve missed my chance.

Favorite D memory: Trying to break news about canceled classes in a midterm review. Broke news, got broken by midterm.

Campus crush:​Collis butternut bisque.

FELICIA SCHWARTZ, EXECUTIVE EDITOR Nickname: Fels.

Post-grad plans: Starting my journalism career at The Wall Street Journal in DC for the summer, then who knows?

Catch phrase: #newtermnewfels.

Piece of wisdom: Friends are always the most important.

Favorite class: “History of American Politics.”

Tattoo you would get: I wouldn’t.

Craziest Dartmouth bucket list item: Lou’s challenge.

Favorite D memory: Making the ’12s’ joke issue and forcing everyone to listen to “Turn Me On” 100 times in a row.

Campus crush:​Finn (the BG dog).

DIANA MING, EXE Nickname: Some people ca certain 1988 Michael Jacks that.

Post-grad plans: Working a Davis Polk & Wardwell LLP Catch phrase: My sometim Piece of wisdom: Follow yo things. Take that class in th have never stepped foot in, Saturday morning to go on outside your circle wheneve regret anything.

Favorite class: “Global Polic Professor Wheelan and trav class for two weeks.

Tattoo you would get: A lon undying right?

Craziest Dartmouth bucket Fore-U challenge. Think Lou flying fish fudge.

Favorite D memory: Writing week last spring after the D Campus crush:​Victor Holle

SAM RAUSCHENFELS, SPORTS EDITOR Nickname: Sam. Post-grad plans: New Student Orientation Coordinator here at Dartmouth.

Catch phrase: “But actually?”

Piece of wisdom: Don’t wait until senior year to take Chem 5 AND all three PE credits...

Favorite class: My TV history classes.

Tattoo you would get: I change my mind on this monthly, but I WILL get one.

Craziest Dartmouth bucket list item: That time I did a circuit in a toga.

Favorite D memory: That time Susan Matthews ’11 (former EIC) woke me up from a nap in the Pottery Barn by body-slamming me in a puffy vest.

Campus crush:​The 2013 Orientation Team (hai guyz).

JONATHAN PEDDE, OPINION EDITOR Nickname: Jonathan Pedde.

Post-grad plans: Masters of Philosophy in Economics, Merton College, University of Oxford.

Famous last words: I guess I should warn you, if I turn out to be particularly clear, you’ve probably misunderstood what I’ve said.

Piece of wisdom: It’s better to be lucky than good.

You create your own luck.

Favorite class: “Introductory Physics II.” Craziest Dartmouth bucket list item: Worked on homework from 9-5, straight. (9 p.m. to 5 a.m., that is.)

Favorite D memory: When my first column was published freshman fall.

DON CASLER, OP Nickname: Don. Post-grad plans: Managem Alvarez and Marsal in New Catch phrase: oooooookay Piece of wisdom: Overcom Favorite class: “Global Poli Professor Wheelan.

Favorite D memory: Writing aftermath of Dimensions ’1 Campus crush:​Dave’s orig stir-fry line.

ALL PHOTOS BY ANNIE MA // THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

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as a litigation paralegal at in NYC. mes awkward chuckle. our gut and just go do hat department you rally your friends on a that hike, meet people er you can and don’t

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g three editorials in one Dimensions protest. enberg ’14, be mine.

PINION EDITOR

ment consulting at York. yyyyyy. mmitment is overrated. icy Leadership” with

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MIRROR //5

CLAIRE GRODEN, DAY MANAGING EDITOR Nickname: Condronum Claire.

Post-grad plans: Researcher-reporter at The New Republic.

Catch phrase: Every blitz deserves a cat gif.

Piece of wisdom: Not my wisdom, but Kurt Vonnegut’s: “I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”

Favorite class: My journalism classes with Professors Jetter, Craig and Sharlet.

Tattoo you would get: A temporary one.

Craziest Dartmouth bucket list item: If I learned anything from my time as an editor, it’s to not answer questions like this in a Google-accessible forum.

Favorite D memory: Calling a CEO and alum at home and instead interviewing his mother, who informed me of his great popularity in the fifth grade.​Watching the great James Peng ’14 get attacked by a fan sophomore summer was also a highlight.

Campus crush:​Foley House.

LESLIE YE, EVENING MANAGING EDITOR Nickname: Shmezlie.

Post-grad plans: Funemployment in NYC, for now!

Famous last words: After a 3 a.m. game of pong is over — “Let’s run it back.”

Piece of wisdom: Work hard, play hard and take CS 1 before you graduate.

Favorite class: “Civil Liberties” with Sonu Bedi.

Tattoo you would get: One is a quote from the Vladimir Nabokov story “Gods”: Today my soul is filled with gladiators, sunlight, the world’s din.

Craziest Dartmouth bucket list item: I did the Ledyard Challenge my sophomore summer and had to hide, naked, in a bush for 10 minutes from Safety and Security.

Favorite D memory: The first night of production junior winter. None of us really knew what we were doing, but we pulled it off anyway.

Campus crush:​Buddy and Watson.

SHARLA GRASS, ARTS EDITOR Nickname: Sharbles.

Post-grad plans: Consulting in Boston.

Famous last words: Shut up Greg.

Favorite class: “Public Economics.”

Tattoo would you get: Dolphin.

Craziest Dartmouth bucket list item: Use all of my meal swipes.

Favorite D memory: Getting to see the paper be printed on our last night of production.

Campus crush:​Gardiner Kreglow ’14.

AMELIA ACOSTA, MIRROR EDITOR Nickname: Amelia.

Post-grad plans: Making it up as I go along.

Catch phrase: Hello, Noreen?

Piece of wisdom: Find your secret pooping bathroom early, and use your brain in lots of cool ways, not just for academics.

Favorite class: The Class of 2014 (also “Civil Liberties” with Professor Bedi).

Tattoo you would get: Tyler Bradford ’14’s face on my upper-right shoulder.

Craziest Dartmouth bucket list item: Play pong on Main Street (I have not done this).

Favorite D memory: Finishing the homecoming issue with Diana Ming ’14.

Campus crush:​Ma Thayer.

ERIN O’NEIL // THE DARTMOUTH SENIOR STAFF

6// MIRROR

MOVING THE ROOTS column

PURE POETRY COLUMN By amelia acosta

As is probably true of many liberal arts education experiences, my time as both a government major and a creative writing minor has come with many fascinating lessons. One of the few incontestable right answers has been that there is no right answer — and that James Hutton is known as the father of modern geology, a fact that snagged me two much-needed extra credit points on my first and last earth sciences exam.

It is undoubtedly liberating to know just how many ways there are to approach many of the most challenging questions we’ll face, but after four years it is also impossibly frustrating.

In my creative writing courses, one fundamental question will forever haunt the walls of Sanborn Library and my dreams: what is a poem? If I put the diary I kept in fourth grade out on a table, with every instance of a boy’s name passionately Sharpied out in fifth grade for fear of discovery (by whom? Most likely the FBI, based on my only child’s inflated sense of self-importance), would that be a poetic statement on love and societal judgment? Someday I will try this.

But in the meantime, I think that the verbal zest and gymnastics stereotypically associated with a poem are beautiful and important, a tool to evoke an equally essential element, a “verbally inventive moral statement,” to borrow a phrase from Terr y Eagleton’s “How to Read a Poem.”

Paired with pretty language must be meaning, statement, an exploration of the human condition or at least one human’s condition. It’s a slim conclusion, but a helpful one nonetheless.

Closer than ever to the end of my time at Dartmouth, I’ve felt the common pull to roam, cross items off longforgotten bucket lists, explore those corners of life in this very singular place that I’ll soon be leaving. But just as often I’ve felt myself pulled to the places that are most familiar, where I feel like I’ve worn an imprint of myself into the walls. The little nook that houses Hinman Box 0059, the first couch to the right in Baker Corridor, a table for two at Umpleby’s, the second floor of Robinson Hall, the scattered tables of Collis porch, the patio outside North Fayerweather and that stunning curve of road where streaming sun and the Connecticut River burst into view on slow, lazy runs returning from Norwich.

These places, I think, are like the language of poetry. They call to mind colors, features, the way light comes through a window. They are accessible and evocative. Over the last 250 years, countless people have watched these places take shape with time.

Behind them, however, is my human condition and the meaning that my life has taken in these spaces. My Hinman is a narrow box with a difficult lock, but in years to come I will think of the care packages of macaroni and cheese and gum my father sent there freshman year, and how lucky I feel to have gotten closer to my parents over four years away from them. Umpleby’s will always be the taste of avocado on my grilled cheese, but more importantly the feeling of a rainy Saturday afternoon across the table from a friend, when we had too much work to do but always an extra minute to laugh.

From Robo I could see strips of moon behind Baker Tower as I reveled in the accomplishment of each issue of The Mirror, my first true labor of love.

And for each of these places, I will think also of the student at the next table, the hands turning the dial near mine, the hundreds of different things Dartmouth students accomplish every day, each of them evoking their own emotions and memories from the language of their own spaces. Embedded in each of us is every place that has ever been important to us. In just how infinitely and minutely different everyone else’s spaces and moments are, they are infinitely and minutely beautiful. Just as I will never lose mine, they will never lose theirs. That’s how we’ll never lose Dartmouth, and that is pure poetry.

When I graduate I will give my diploma to my parents for safekeeping (the last thing I need is vanilla latte and tear stains on the paper evidence of the last four years), but I will take with me my best friends, my darkest times and proudest moments, a troubled but loyal relationship with Dirt Cowboy, jokes that barely make sense anymore, a chemical dependence on blue Powerade and 10 new things I know now. I don’t always live them, but someday I hope I will: You will try many times before you perfect your stir-fry order. Even after you find your favorite, don’t be afraid to mix it up.

It’s worth it to get up (relatively) early sometimes, whether it’s for a

hike, a breakfast date or a chocolate chip scone. But sleep is also the best, so plan accordingly.

If you don’t like your behavior when you drink, you shouldn’t write it off as drunk behavior. You should drink less.

Dartmouth is bigger than some schools, smaller than others. This is how big it feels: if there’s someone you’re hoping to bump into, they’ll be missing in action for terms at a time.

If there’s someone you’re hoping to avoid, they will be anywhere and everywhere you are for a minimum of five weeks.

People fret that our generation’s legacy will be the selfie or grinding or Candy Crush, but I worry that it will be the text message that says: “let me know if it’s fun” or “text me how it is,” the constant worry about the eternal “better option” in a world made wild with choice. If we’re always waiting for something better, we’re not making where we are the best it can be.

There will be things you think are impossible in the fall that become reality in the spring. This year I went from being a one-lap-around-Occom runner in October to running my first half marathon in May. If you never have the “impossible” mentality, the reality can come to be a lot faster.

Take only the best care of your friends. Cheer for them, feed them, tell them they matter, hold them when they cry and hold them to a higher standard so you in turn will learn how to be a good person from their example.

If you’re angry, say you’re angry.

If you’re sorry, say you’re sorry. For the people who really matter, it will always be okay in the end. If you’re happy, say that, too. That’s not always the default state, and we should never take it for granted.

Finally, you can love Dartmouth while criticizing it and hoping it will change, just as you can take issue with the word choice of a beautiful poem. The truly lovely thing about poetry, about any literature at all, is that it takes much of its shape from the way it is interpreted by its reader, while shaping the reader at the same time. In a few weeks I will leave the space of Dartmouth behind, written into the future by this very special place. Thanks for the memories, and for giving me somewhere in the world to be all of me with everyone I love.

By TYLER BRADFORD

I used to feel more deeply rooted in this place. My mom is a member of Dartmouth’s second class of women.

I used to feel guilty for my status as a legacy child, which made it statistically easier for me to gain admission over the majority of the students here. But four years later, I have finally learned to accept my privilege. I used to hate it when people found out that one of my parents went to Dartmouth, but now I take pride in it. I tell them my mom came here when the patriarchy was even stronger and more pronounced than it is today. I come from strong people.

I came to Dartmouth in a cloud of shame and ignorance, not knowing myself at all. I had just spent four years of high school in a sea of strangers who constantly devalued my identity. I should have fit right into that environment — it was even more elitist than Dartmouth, if you can believe it — but for some reason, everything just felt wrong, and I left that place feeling very impoverished.

When my mom dropped me off at the Choates three and a half years ago, we got into a fight. She left, and I was overcome with a horrible sinking feeling that I had lost my mom forever.

I called her immediately and asked her to come back, so I would not have to start my time at Dartmouth with such a dark antagonism festering inside of me. She immediately returned, and we agreed that the argument was silly. The conflict was resolved, and I felt able to continue on to a Dartmouth that would surely welcome me with opens arms.

My sister, who graduated two years ago, helped me pick out good classes for freshman fall. My parents did not need a map to find my dorm when we got to Hanover, because they had been here many times before. This place was familiar to me before I even called it mine.

But its role as other people’s homes, people who I loved and with whom I shared a home, made me imagine it as a place that could be my home and that would want to be my home.

I spent a lot of time being lonely on campus, but freshman year definitely takes the cake. My elite secondary education deprived me of the space to question my gender and sexuality, so at Dartmouth, I spent my first months still not knowing how to do just that.

It’s been three years, and coming out is still the hardest thing I have ever had to do. It’s not just admitting you are different. It’s not just learning to own a part of you that a large part of society deems perverse or disgusting. It’s also having to admit to people you like and people you love that you have withheld a part of yourself from them, despite wanting to share with them everything that you

are. It’s having your voice and identity being shrouded, sometimes even by the ones who are trying to help you.

I came out at the end of my freshman year to my friends and at the end of sophomore year to my parents. It didn’t happen over night, because coming out is just one way that you come to terms with your identity and learn to accept yourself for who you are. I would argue it’s an abnormally challenging example, but it’s just one example nonetheless.

It’s ironic but not uncommon for peopletofeelverystronglyattachedtoplaces where they have experienced trauma.

At times, I have felt entirely rejected by Dartmouth for who I am. Accepting my sexuality involved a tremendous amount of pain. But Dartmouth is still the place where I have done the most important learning of my life.

I used to resent the way that my legacy status at this school marked me as privileged and constructed a false sense of belonging. I was shocked by the moments when I felt that Dartmouth did not want to be my home, and I was devastated by the pain that I felt here when I realized that everything I was pretending to be was an attempt in vain. Sometimes I feel like I missed out on creating community engagement for myself, because I was too busy trying to figure out and accept who I was.

I did not squalor my academic opportunity here, and I do think I have made an impact on some people’s lives.

But my quest for an ability to accept the central elements of my being is what makes this place mine. It is a physical space that has been my sanctuary, the place where I have been the most vulnerable. I used to feel more rooted here, because I used to consider it more the source of my values and intellect.

Now, that seems like an exaggeration.

My life changed while I was at Dartmouth. But I’m not entirely sure that Dartmouth changed it. I spent a lot of emotional energy during my time here, but I would not accuse Dartmouth of draining that energy from me. I was lucky to find a strong support system here, but I also forced myself to remove the veil of denial I had so desperately clutched onto before coming here. And for that, I give myself credit.

There are certain parts about this place that I will miss, and there are many others that I will not. My satisfaction from my time at Dartmouth is not going to come from the doors of success it opened for me, but from my knowing that I came here and gave this place the deepest part of myself when I felt more vulnerable than ever. And it has been my struggle to have that part of me be a part of Dartmouth that made my time here meaningful.

MIRROR //7

THANK YOU FOR ALL OF IT column

STRIVING

TO BE BETTER

B y Seanie civale

Last week, in an English class that can only be described as earth-shatteringly depressing, my professor told us that the most optimistic thought is that the past is inside us and can be brought back to life.

To some extent, I hope not. I am graduating in two weeks and two days and there are, by all means, things that should be left to die. Futons, we must part. So long to trespassing and biweekly buffalo chicken pizza. I look for ward to a time when I won’t impress myself by purchasing the second least-expensive wine in the store.

From the past four years, I can count more concrete failures than concrete successes. That’s a brutal ratio, and I’d be glad to see it go. If there’s something to be said for messing up a bunch so that when you get things right it’s glorious, I’m ready to have reached my threshold of mess-ups.

So yes, there are things that should be left to die. But there are good things, too, and those are the ones I don’t know what to do with. Memor y is so elusive.

I don’t want to forget these things or these people, and I’m afraid of how it’ll feel when they only come back to me with a sharp twinge in the chest.

As a freshman, I often thought about what I’d be like senior year. I’d look in the mirror and see a jumpy teenager whose skin still kind of sucked and who responded to nearly ever ything with ner vous laughter. I imagined that by senior year, I would have written a novel and grown out the bangs that made me look like the lead singer of Fall Out Boy. I am graduating, and I feel robbed.

I’m still a bit of a mess. I don’t know what to say most of the time, and I have absolutely no idea what I want to make of life besides one day die happy and know that I did it right. I’ve fallen in love with several versions of how my life could go, including one in which I live alone on a farm and another in which I go bankrupt and write on bar napkins until I become J.K. Rowling. Meanwhile, I find it terrifying to actually feel things worth feeling and do things worth doing. I admit that I am unworthy of giving advice, but if I had one piece of it, it’d be to feel and do those things.

I definitely haven’t a lot of the time — far from it. One particularly strange failure to take my own advice happened

column during my sophomore summer, when I took care of a friend’s houseplant. It was probably the worst thing I ever agreed to do because I had and have no idea how to take care of a houseplant. It almost died, and I had to revive it often. At some point and for some reason, I started thinking that the plant’s cycle of life and near-death was symbolic of my emotional state. When the plant was green and sprouting, I felt accomplished and at ease. When the plant was a single brown leaf attached to a wilted stalk, I felt despondent.

Living with the emotions of a houseplant taught me that you shouldn’t live with the emotions of a houseplant. It’s weird, and most of the time it’ll just make you sad.

Don’t save yourself from doing and feeling real, non-houseplant things. It’s easy to fall in love with the lives you could live and the person you could be. It’s harder to become that person. I wish I had spent more time tr ying over the past four years.

It may be silly to believe that in this unfathomably big universe, leaving this place is a huge deal. But I’ve had a lot of good things here that I don’t want to let die. I’m afraid of forgetting them.

The things I know pretty much amount to the following: When a professor tells you that your sentences are grammatically correct, but upon closer inspection, deeply problematic, you probably shouldn’t follow through with three more years as an English major. You don’t have to do anything that great for people to love you. You can fall in love with someone who was wearing Crocs when you hung out for the first time.

You can have best friends who will change your life by being nothing like you.

Someone who barely knows you can love you because you love someone they love.

They can even send you a care package full of your favorite sour geckos. You can have Fall Out Boy bangs, and your parents will still love you enough to send you 3,000 miles away for an incredible education.

This place has given me so much when I’ve had the heart and head to receive it. In the end, I have no idea about most things, if you haven’t noticed already. I’m uncertain, shaky and grateful. While writing this, four people have interrupted me: two to get advice that I gave poorly; one to get help zipping a dress; and one, in a towel, hair sopping, to sit next to me and stare at the wall. It has been an exhausting four years.

But you all have been just the invasion of personal space that I needed.

Thank you for all of it.

B y Amanda Smith

Much of the press that has surrounded Dartmouth since I arrived here four years ago alludes to or points out that there are bad people on Dartmouth’s campus. Either that or good people who do bad things.

I want to dedicate my final senior column to celebrate the many good people who do good things who populate Dartmouth — celebrate them and challenge them to become great.

A few weeks ago, my co-columnist and I received an email from a member of the Dartmouth community, with the subject line ‘love your column!’ and a nice note in the body of the email. This was shocking for a number of reasons: one being that we couldn’t believe people other than our moms, a few devoted members of our dance group and our very tolerant editors actually read the column. Second, it was unexpected, unprompted and came from someone we didn’t even know. The email gave us a feeling I wouldn’t soon forget.

I recently attended a presentation put on by a student who I “kind of knew” but didn’t “really” know. We had met once or twice freshman year and hadn’t crossed paths since. I watched his presentation, which was creative, deeply personal, brave and thought-provoking, and when it was over, I trickled out of the theater with the mass of other audience members, letting everything I had seen, heard and been asked to consider sink in. I later sent the student a brief email thanking him for sharing and told him that I appreciated his performance and the effort behind it. I hoped that my email would spread that special feeling Seanie and I experienced to someone else.

Those are specific examples, of course, and I encourage anyone who ever has the urge to reach out to do so, since the smallest thank you can make the biggest impact. When I was younger and sassier, I was told, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” But now that I am older — still pretty sassy — and on the telling end, I’d like to revise those instructions: “If you do have something nice to say, say it. Share it.” But that’s not all.

It’s likely that anyone who is reading this has at some point had a teacher or a fellow student say, ‘If you can hear my voice, clap once.’ It is likely that anyone who is reading this has, at some point, clapped. But the more complex task lies in listening. I wonder what would happen when the tough issues come up, if the person speaking were to say, ‘If you can listen to my voice, clap once.’ Universal agreement has never been a requirement at Dartmouth, but respect has never stopped being one. I encourage everyone to use their voice, and to use it constructively. But I also encourage everyone to listen.

I have a lot of faith in Dartmouth. The green light on top of Baker Tower has been assigned many symbolic meanings, but it reminds me a little bit of the green light in The Great Gatsby.

Dartmouth as an institution may not be in pursuit

of impossible love, but we, Dartmouth as a community, are in pursuit of improvement. Gatsby’s dream of Daisy was unattainable, but the dream to make Dartmouth a safer, more inclusive place, is not. Our green light will shine on as our collective and individual dreams evolve, and as we continue to take steps toward betterment.

I say collective, because though we may accept or reject labels of class, race, ethnicity, gender, Greek house and on and on, and though there is no one defining ‘Dartmouth experience,’ we as a group define our Dartmouth. We, together, make up what Dartmouth is now and where it is headed. Though we as individuals may not directly participate in the problems that the school faces, that does not mean the problems are not our own, that we aren’t to be held accountable for helping effect change. That we shouldn’t take the time to say thank you to those around us when they do good and offer encouragement to do better when they don’t. To take the time to listen, to self-reflect and evaluate our own areas for improvement and then actively work to transform ourselves from the good people I believe we are into great people I believe we can become. The great people who can make Dartmouth an even greater place.

Dartmouth is full of smart, thoughtful, driven, motivated, compassionate, caring and complicated people. Yes, we can be selfish, shortsighted, stubborn, immature, downright dumb, lazy and offensive. Sometimes our priorities are out of whack, sometimes we forget to call our parents back, sometimes we stay out too late and drink too much, sometimes we have to drop a class or two, sometimes we do and say things we shouldn’t. But none of those singular moments or qualities summarize who we are, what we stand for, who we’d like to be.

When I went to acting camp about a decade ago, I got the tiniest little role in the play “Annie.” Of course, I was disappointed because I wanted to be Annie — even though my hair was brown, I couldn’t actually sing all that well and I was aware of both of those things. But I took comfort in the saying, “There are no small parts, only small actors,” and I ended up doing my best as the space filler that was ‘Orphan #4.’

The quote is not exclusive to the stage, though.

There are no small parts at Dartmouth, because we all have our own opportunity to make change within ourselves and within our community. It is on our shoulders to make the most of that opportunity.

My time as a Dartmouth student may be coming to a close, but I still hope to take part in Dartmouth’s growth. I am excited to stay in touch with younger friends to see how their Dartmouth changes. And I encourage everyone to take notice of and celebrate the good, say thank you even when you don’t have to, listen even when it is hard and work together to make our Dartmouth — your Dartmouth — better.

8// MIRROR

Better than they found me

Don’t succumb to overcommitment

After four years of reporting and editing your stories, I can’t believe the time has finally come to write mine. I spent more hours in The D’s offices than the librar y, FoCo, even my own room — first as a staff reporter, and last year as executive editor.

I read hundreds of stories and inter views in my tenure, and it was through this nightly routine that I finally felt invested in Dartmouth. I read your harrowing tales of sexual assault, your efforts to start clubs, your complaints about DDS, your frustrations with the administration and your hopes and dreams. You expressed apathy, passion, excitement, distress, sarcasm, distaste — the list goes on. I learned so much about all of you, but I learned even more about me.

Over the past four years I often forgot how lucky I was to be on this campus, surrounded by so many brilliant and interesting people. Being on The D’s directorate meant more to me than I would have ever imagined. Not only did I discover that I wanted to pursue journalism after graduating, but I learned that Dartmouth is a place worth fighting for, in spite of its imperfections.

I came to Dartmouth assuming I would hop on the corporate recruiting hamster wheel. Many of my friends did, and they have fantastic jobs, so congratulations to all of you for your secure futures and large paychecks. If you had told my freshman self that I would be pursuing journalism after college, she would have laughed in your face. In fact, if you had told my freshman self about the ways I would grow and mature here, especially in Robo, she might not have believed you. I had a ver y different vision of the kind of person I’d be at Dartmouth — outdoorsy, constantly wearing flair, quirky!

I flirted with quitting The Dartmouth too many times to count. The editors demanded so much, and I struggled to balance writing one stor y per week with my classes and social life. But by my freshman spring I had somehow eased into the non-routine of being a reporter on The D, and even made some friends along the way. But more importantly, I realized that reporting was a fantastic outlet for what my friends call my “persistent” personality.

Being relentless and a little bit annoying actually makes for well-reported stories.

I was consistently amazed by what people would say if I called or approached them and said I worked for The Dartmouth.

In class I was a shy homesick freshman, but for the one or two days a week when I wrote stories I became courageous and bold. I could approach anyone — students, administrators, professors, politicians — and ask them whatever I wanted.

Fast for ward to Januar y 2013, when I made the not-so-smooth transition from staff reporter to executive editor. I was no longer just a student, but a leader and full-time journalist, although for the first few months I felt more like a nocturnal zombie roaming campus. I slept with my

I don’t remember most of my junior winter. When I force myself to summon up the term, to find some memor y that validates it, I am usually hit with desperation instead.

I flip through old Facebook photos, my classes on Blackboard, emails and Spotify playlists sorted by term — grasping at straws to cut through the amnesia. I find snippets: long nights in Robinson Hall as I acclimated to my editorial position at The D, my friends making fun of me as I passed them balancing a tower of books for a final paper, humming along as a crush played me Joni Mitchell songs on his guitar. It’s a pathetic har vest for 10 weeks of active memor y storage. Wasn’t I experiencing some mix of academic enlightenment, college debaucher y and adventure? Did I really never go skiing once?

There’s probably something neurological at work that explains why, for a handful of my terms at Dartmouth, I was basically blacked out, consciously living through my days with my long-term memor y deactivated. But since I only ever took Bio 2, I have arrived at a singular conclusion — all fault lies in my iCal. It’s a pretty clear pattern: the more my days were segmented into perfect colored blocks of commitments, the less I remember them.

Instead, the terms blur into exhaustion and routine.

Being busy is such a comfort. It is an affirmation of worth, a parade of commitments that block off the typical traffic of self-doubt and self-consciousness.

Throughout my time at Dartmouth, I’ve overfilled my days so I’d be too busy and exhausted to be by myself, because loneliness at Dartmouth is a terrifying thing. At a school where even being in the librar y is a social activity, where is a person supposed to eat alone, study alone, exercise alone, without feeling even a little on display? The only solution I found was rarely being alone, or making sure I was drowning in work when I was.

My frenetic schedule of lunch plans and dinner plans and nights editing at The D and ever y other group and club meeting, plus finding time for classes and homework, intoxicated me. I believed that my packed schedule meant I was doing Dartmouth right, because those who do Dartmouth wrong eat alone on the second floor of FoCo and spend too much time in the librar y out of boredom. I remember being shocked whenever a friend texted me for a meal “@now” — didn’t she have plans? Did she really think that I was just free? I was addicted to my sure-fire method of avoiding self-consciousness (read: introspection).

I quit scheduling cold turkey at the end of my senior fall, when my directorate handed over our positions to the Class of 2015. I lost my crutch.

What was I supposed to do with all of my time? I enrolled myself in my most challenging academic term at Dartmouth: a notoriously demanding government

Column

B y felicia schwartz

phone next to my pillow, ringer on loud, so I would always be ready for breaking news or disaster. Such as at 6:30 a.m. on a winter morning when I received a call that I had messed up terribly in sending the paper to the printer and that our paper deliverers had no paper to deliver.

Or when I tried to catch up on my sleep deficit on a weekend night, only to receive a phone call that students had protested the Dimensions show.

Once I joined the directorate, I spent nearly ever y night of the week in Robo.

After finally adjusting to my new sleep schedule, I realized that I couldn’t get enough of breaking news. One of my favorite memories of college was our directorate’s chaotic effort to beat the administration in breaking that classes were canceled following threats Dimensions protesters received. This ef for t involved a frenzied series of texts and emails, me cornering my professor during a 10-minute break in class to get a final source and a confusing series of headlines as we all scrambled to coordinate while sitting in 2As. The second floor of Robinson Hall was my home. I met many of my closest friends and mentors in The D’s offices.

I made some of the toughest decisions I have ever had to make sitting at my desk in the production room and laughed the hardest I’ve ever laughed during our delirious late nights.

Headlines abound questioning the usefulness of an institution like this one. Why go to college when we can take classes online? Is $250,000 worth it? What is the point of a liberal arts education? After four years here, at the ver y least I know there are no tidy answers. For me the value of this place did not lie solely in the classroom, although I would be remiss to neglect how much I learned from my professors.

Dartmouth’s value lies in its ability to connect some of the greatest minds in the world, both inside the classroom and out. Most of my education took place in Robinson Hall. The D’s offices brought together hundreds of people with diverse academic and personal experiences, who taught me about journalism and life. It was there that I learned to write quickly and clearly, to be skeptical of people and institutions and to probe deep beneath the surface of ordinar y events. I learned to trust my instincts, to ignore people who say something can’t be done and that sometimes failure is perfectly okay.

I am sad to leave Dartmouth but not scared. This place gave me the courage to pursue my passion and a wonderful set of friends who have supported me in doing so. My friend recently explained to me the “leave no trace” philosophy, as it applies to relationships. You should aim to leave someone as good or better than you found them. In my four-year relationship with Dartmouth and The Dartmouth, I think I can say I am better than they found me.

Column

B y Claire groden seminar, a writing workshop and a class that blew through scores of novels. Altogether, I wrote over one hundred pages and actually completed all of my reading (a first since freshman fall, undoubtedly).

But, without The D, I simply couldn’t fill all of my time with pressing tasks and commitments.

It was disorienting to say yes to spontaneous walks around Occom Pond with friends, finally taking the time to parse their emotional turbulences in a way Collis lunch dates don’t allow. I felt unmoored spending a weekend in New York City in the middle of the term. I spent entire days sitting in Sanborn and pouring myself into creative writing for the first time since high school. Sometimes I ate lunch alone or texted out to see if friends were spontaneously free. Someone always was.

The terms that I remember most clearly from my time at Dartmouth are those in which I let myself drift away from the rigmarole of Dartmouth’s over-scheduled, over-socialized culture. Those are the terms I quit my iCal. This is the part where senior columns, already a deathtrap for clichés, tend to go off the rails. Here is My Dartmouth Experience, wrapped in a piece of advice and tied with a bow. Somehow, it never reads as sincerely as it writes.

Humor me.

On Saturday night of this year’s Green Key weekend, I spontaneously drove off campus with two good friends. We wound through empty Vermont roads to Gile Mountain, and after giving up on finding the trailhead to the fire tower, parked on the gravel shoulder. We stood in the center of the pavement, the glowing butts of our cigarettes like little light flares in the dense blackness beneath the canopy of trees.

It was so quiet that my ears strained, picking out each smoky exhale and the whispering of an invisible brook. Our phones were useless, beyond the reach of ser vice and 3G. We stared at the stars, but mostly talked about ways to incapacitate the hypothetical rapist, kidnapper or serial killer. (Apparently, it’s easier than you might think to rip off a guy’s earlobe.) We were so helplessly alone, self-conscious of our own fear, that we reveled in it.

Each time a car approached, we held our breaths praying it wouldn’t stop. When it passed, we laughed giddily, exhilarated by our irrational fear and the braver y of our isolation. It’s weird. But I know that next year, when I’m thumbing through my memories of this place to reconstruct some lost feeling, this night will come through sharply, still smelling a little like clove cigarettes.

So, all I’m really tr ying to say is, don’t black out. There’s too much to do, too many experiences to be had with your eyes open, to let it all succumb to the tyranny of overcommitment. Trust yourself to be alone.