The Mirror 10/03/14

10.3.2014

MIR ROR

DinnerTime| 2

Missed connections| 3

Anniversaries| 4-5

Mirror Asks| 8 ANNIKA PARK // THE DARTMOUTH

2// MIRROR

EDITOR’S NOTE

It’s Time for Dinner story

By caren duane

Courtesy of Erin Landau

This summer, a new friend and I went on a long hike — just the two of us. We didn’t know each other that well, and I was nervous we’d have nothing to talk about during the 10-mile ordeal. I spent a lot of time during the summer reacquainting myself with some people I’d known peripherally in the past, either through friends of friends, freshman year pre-games or other less savory scenarios. These re-connections afforded me the opportunity for some much needed self-reflection, which can be sorely lacking during our hectic 10-week terms. It is easy to get caught up in the insanity and rush of fall term at Dartmouth, or in reality, any term at our college on the hill.

During the hike, my friend and I agreed on this and many other aspects of our Dartmouth careers. We discussed how it is hard to believe that three years have passed, and we’ve spent too little time thinking about our actions, mistakes, successes and failures. We reflected on how much time and effort we’d spent worrying about things that in the long run barely mattered. We discovered that we were, in fact, similarly minded about many topics relating to Dartmouth. Some would call it jaded. I would just call it critical.

The topic of anniversaries — our centerfold this week — got me thinking about the importance of getting a little perspective, which is hard to do while burrowed in the stacks or, in my case, lurking in my off-campus apartment. There are so many people I could have met, clubs I could have joined, apples I could have picked. It’s a good thing I still have a little bit of that precious time left.

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MIRROR R MIRROR EDITOR ERIN LANDAU

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF LINDSAY ELLIS PUBLISHER CARLA LARIN

EXECUTIVE EDITORS MICHAEL RIORDAN STEPHANIE McFEETERS

Courtesy of Caren Duane

Three years ago I left home, hiking pack on my back and stiff boots on my feet, for my first-year trip. After our first day of hiking, my trip and I arrived at our campsite where we encountered a thru-hiker. His trail name was Lazarus. He trekked into our wooded campsite just as the sun was setting and kept to himself while he prepared his dinner. For an hour he crouched over his rusty stove and waited for the water to boil for his freeze-dried pasta primavera. Meanwhile, my fellow hikers and I ate our cheesy tortillas around an unlit fire pit. I hadn’t showered for three days and my clothes smelled like pine needles and sweat. My hand shivered each time I removed it from the sleeve of my sweatshirt to eat my dinner.

At that moment I would have given my Nalgene bottle with my last 10 ounces of water and my left hiking boot for a homecooked meal with family.

As I crouched around a dormant fire pit with near strangers, I couldn’t help but fantasize about dinnertime back home, something that was quite ordinary — that is, until I moved 3,000 miles away. There was something so wonderful then about the idea of the familiar people and tastes, the shrieks of my mother herding us to the kitchen.

In the dark New Hampshire jungle I could almost hear my mom screeching, “DINNERTIME, get down here... NOW.” It would take 10 minutes for everyone to emerge from their bedrooms. One after another my siblings, Erin, Patrick, Michael, Charlie and Jack would appear.

“Hurry up, guys, I’m starving,” I would say.

We’d shuffle to our seats and do a jig to finagle all eight of us around the table. My parents would assume their positions at the dual heads. The youngest, Erin and Peach, would insist on sitting beside my mom. I would strategically sit next to Erin so I could

’15: “I just wear my clothes until the wrinkles go away.”

Blitz your overheards to mirror@thedartmouth.com!

steal her leftovers. The “bigger boys,” Jack, Charlie and Michael would sit across from me. In unison we would recite grace and eat our dinner together.

I snapped back to reality as a blanket of darkness engulfed the sky. That’s when Lazarus began to talk. As my fellow trippees and I prepared to slumber, Lazarus the thru-hiker became Lazarus the storyteller.

Hidden in my sleeping bag, I closed my eyes and listened to his story.

His journey began on the Appalachian Trail in Georgia six months prior. Traveling alone for the entirety of the trek, he planned to end in Maine. Lazarus had lived through a gruesome lightning storm, escaped a mountain lion, been arrested for hitchhiking and survived two days without food. He told us about his childhood growing up in Western Massachusetts and his experiences as an undergraduate at Yale — I was spellbound by his stories for over an hour.

But, of everything he told us, I was most curious about his eating habits.

“Lazarus,” I said, “doesn’t it get lonely eating alone every night? Do you ever miss talking to people?”

“The only lonely part of my day is dinner time,” he said. “The rest is great.”

By that point, it was late and time for Lazarus to bid farewell to his new Dartmouth hiker acquaintances. But before he disappeared into the woods, he left us with some final words of wisdom.

“You Dartmouth students are pretty smart, so I’m going to give you one piece of advice,” Lazarus said. “Always eat dinner with other people. It is the most sacred part of the day.”

After three years here I have received a lot of worthwhile advice — choose your classes based on the professor, don’t go to Collis at rush hour, invest in a long coat for winter, don’t be disheartened when you get

’16: “I still can’t believe I skipped rush to go to a freshman pregame.”

’16: “I kept looking at my notes to give him a hint. My lack of eye contact would’ve gotten me reported in rush.”

rejected from everything you apply for, don’t study in the 1902 Room, your first real job won’t determine your career, you don’t have to fit one mold in college.

But still, the best advice I have received was from that thru-hiker on the Appalachian Trail.

Dinner time at Dartmouth is important to me, not just because I love a good stir-fry, but also because it is the one guaranteed time of day when I get to relax, have a good chat with my friends and enjoy a warm meal.

Sometimes dinner is a “partay” because I get the pleasure of eating with everyone and their mother at FoCo. These meals full of chatter and food thievery remind me of family gatherings at home. I get to catch up with friends who have been buried away in the stacks since sophomore summer, and try every entrée that campus dining has to offer.

On Sunday nights, my friend Annie and I have our pre-radio show dinner ritual. We always sit in the upstairs of FoCo to avoid the stampede of post-practice athletes as we choose songs for our show. If I’m craving a grilled cheese and a calm environment, I’ll go to the Hop with Lisa. And when I just can’t wait for dinnertime I’ll meet Aliza for a 5 o’clock supper at Collis.

Life at Dartmouth gets busy and stressful. We can’t make time for everything. But dinnertime is one part of the day I am not willing to sacrifice. Whether it’s a two-hour ordeal at FoCo that involves walking away with a dozen dirty plates, five cups and 50 napkins or a quick sit-down at Collis, I must make the effort to physically sit down and eat with someone. It may never be the same as dinnertime at home — I don’t say grace, my dogs don’t eat my scraps and I certainly don’t get in trouble for stealing my sister’s food — but dinner at Dartmouth is my sacred routine.

’17: “Does this dress make me look too happy?”

’15: “My dinner was tequila and bread.”

MIRROR //3

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new hampshire > hanover > missed connections

the fifty

By Luke McCann

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Sept.15 - Frat Boy Freestyle Machine - w4m (Collis) I heard your voice yesterday before I even saw you. I was turned around at the Freestyle Coke machine, having already accepted that mixing the grape and strawberry Fanta flavors would be the most interesting part of my day. I heard you shout behind me — you yelled “yoooooooooooooo” enthusiastically as a friend of yours walked up. I spun around, and your overwhelming dapperness drowned out the conversation for me. You had the most beautiful dirty blonde hair that was just shaggy enough to look purposeful — perhaps you were two or three hours overdue for your biweekly touch up. You wore a pressed white Vineyard Vines button-up and a pair of bold, salmon-colored pants. Next to you were two of your friends, one in a white Ralph Lauren button-up and salmon pants, the other in a blue Vineyard Vines button-up and salmon-colored shorts. I briefly heard you mention that you were considering dropping your economics major and picking up government modified with econ. As my eyes gently slid down your figure, I saw that your Sperrys were clearly not new. They were handsome in the way Gatsby was handsome, and yet so effortlessly worn in the right spots. I can tell you’re a man who knows how to work hard but frat even harder. Dartmouth can be a hard place to find love, but you’re obviously different from the other men on campus. I’d love to find you again. Is there a line on taking you out for drinks?

Sept. 29 - Can I Help Who’s Next - m4w (Novack)

Those were the first words I ever heard leave your mouth, and I’ll never forget them. I was walking to my 10A last week after pulling my first all-nighter of the term, and the entire world seemed so bleak that the only fitting breakfast I could imagine was Novack sushi left in the fridge from the night before. As the line dwindled, I noticed you glancing back at me every time you swiped someone’s ID. By the time I finally made it to the counter, I couldn’t remember what I’d come to order. I got a Greek yogurt because the girl in front of me had, and it was the only thing I could think of as you locked eyes with me. When you asked what flavor, I blurted out blueberry because it reminded me of staring into your deep, ocean blue eyes for so long. I visit every single morning hoping to see you there, but I get cold feet every time I see you ask another student if they’d like their hot pocket heated up. Maybe if you see this, I can take you out for dinner sometime, somewhere they won’t ask “DBA or meal swipe” at the end?

Sept. 30 - Presidential Burden - w4m (Pres. Lawn)

I missed what might have been one of the most powerful connections in the history of Dartmouth College. As my successor, I helped make sure you would be an excellent fit here. You came to my office to talk about the future of the College, and we continued to talk several times during my last few months as President. Before I got to know the real you, though, I was beckoned by the siren call of the rolling hills of North Carolina. While distance may separate us right now, I look forward to getting to know the real man behind the mustache. I’m not looking for anything romantic, but think of the legacy we could leave behind if we joined forces and worked in tandem. When the stress of the job becomes too much, it can be hard to talk to people. No one understands the burdens of being president like a fellow president. If these feelings are mutual, if you too can see what we could do together, contact me immediately. You have my information.

Oct. 1 - The Dog Days are Over - w4d (Phi Delt) I walk by your house almost every day on my way to class, but you’ve always been too busy getting attention from other girls to ever really notice me. Two days ago, I was a few minutes early for class, so I decided to linger on the edge of your yard for a few minutes and watch you play with the other students like I’d wish you played with me. That’s when, after months of walking silently by, you finally glanced in my direction. I could’ve sworn you were running toward me with that tennis ball in your mouth before that blonde girl grabbed you for a selfie. I would’ve stayed longer, but class was about to begin and attendance is 15 percent of the grade. I have three dogs at home, and I feel so lonely here without them.

Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a big, furry friend who doesn’t always need to talk. You seem like a good listener.

Maybe one day I’ll pass by the yard and we can play a game of fetch or something. I’m really just looking to make some good friends on this campus. Until then, I’ll just keep liking all of those other Facebook photos of you, wishing I were cool enough to be your friend.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ALYSSA SCHMID // THE DARTMOUTH

Apple Picking Literally what groups aren’t doing this?

Tours Try not to heckle the future ’19s as they ask those weirdly intrusive questions.

Leaf peepers Autum leaves have fallen, as have the senior citzens. Watch out for flying tour buses.

Hop Garage We went for the free booze and stayed for the rockin’ tunes.

Plus those day after photos...

Midterms Oh the joys of the quarter system.

Good luck out there.

PLEDGING Jk lolz.

4// MIRROR

Anniversaries at

By Sam

When this article is published, the Class of 2018 will have been on campus for 25 days. To put that in broader historical perspective, if Dartmouth College’s span of existence was one day, the ’18s have been here not much more than 20 minutes.

With the relative insignificance of my tenure at the College in mind, I set out to look back on the “day,” and all that has happened on the very ground upon which we all stand.

This year marks the 100th anniversary of the beginning of World War I. Some of you might wonder why this matters when America wasn’t yet involved in the war. Students at the time seem to agree with you — 1914 issues of The Dartmouth devoted much more space to tobacco ads and football coverage than to any sort of international news. But the impact of the start of this horrific and global conflict was felt even here in the wilderness of Hanover.

Then-College President Ernest Fox Nichols spoke almost exactly 100 years ago at Webster Hall, opening a chapel service and sharing his thoughts on the Great War with the student body.

“It is indeed a dark and sobering day when several millions of young men not far from your own years and experience, those who are the world’s greatest hope for years to come, face each other in battle with no thought but to slay, to destroy, to bring to naught the richer promise of a brighter day,” he said. “Thank God our nation, from her position, can, through wisdom, guarded speech and act and righteousness toward all, escape ill-will and chance of future bloodshed — but other consequences of the storm we cannot, must not, shirk.”

Although the group of students in the audience that day didn’t look much like those here today (although judging by advertisements, flannel shirts were still just as hot of a commodity), it’s easy to imagine what it would feel like to be a college student during the war. Looking back now, neither President Nichols nor the students sitting in the room had any idea how close to home this “foreign” issue would soon become.

More than 1,000 Dartmouth students enlisted in 1917 when the U.S. entered the war, and drills commenced immediately in Alumni Gym. Students even built trenches outside Hanover to fight simulation battles, and professors taught war preparation classes.

Outwardly perhaps, the casual observer wouldn’t notice that many differences between Dartmouth then and now. Plenty of buildings from that era still stand today. In fact, the construction of Robinson Hall would have just been wrapping up 100 years ago today, making this the 100th anniversary of Robo.

It’s safe to say Hanover hasn’t evolved into a gargantuan metropolis since then, and one can still see the presence of uncorrupted nature in the Upper Valley stepping outside of Dartmouth, to the rivers, brooks and trails that compose our pristine wilderness.

So next time you toss a Frisbee or just chill on the green outside Webster Hall, home of the Rauner Special Collections Library, take a moment to consider the history that has come before our time at the College.

Before Nichols gave his speech, 130 years before to be exact, one of the College’s most iconic buildings was constructed — Dartmouth Hall. This year would mark the 230th anniversary of the beautiful white colonial building, if the original hadn’t burned down in 1904. More recently, on the steps of the rebuilt hall in 1964, another large group gathered in response to the most pressing issue of the time.

This was not an organized, administrative event — it was a civil rights rally. Dartmouth came together to fight against injustice going on right then and there, both on this very campus and in the greater U.S.

1799 - The Dartmouth is founded.

1769

MIRROR //5

Dartmouth

Forstner

“If you want to be a patriot today, you must be brave and love justice more than order,” keynote speaker Noel Day ’53 said.

The rally was a culmination of “Freedom Week,” a week to promote awareness sponsored by the Upper Valley chapter of the NAACP. With the passing of the Civil Rights Act later that year, Dartmouth solidified its place on the forefront of social issues during this momentous time for American society.

Despite the Dartmouth community’s attempt to correct the social wrongs of its past, 25 years later, all was not resolved — not even close. On the exact day that the Berlin Wall fell in Europe, it was clear walls of another sort were still intact at the College.

An article in The Dartmouth from November 9, 1989, titled “Ivy League Schools Face ‘Willful Segregation,’” detailed the continued presence of racial and ethnic sorting on college campuses.

“There are definitely tables where if a black person sat down he’d feel out of place and definitely tables where if a white person sat down he’d feel out of place,” then-Brown student Lilly Hayden said at the time.

In an interview I conducted to get a little perspective, Catherine Duwan ’89 articulated a similar sentiment about Dartmouth at the time, blaming the choices of students rather than the institution as a whole.

“I didn’t see [self-segregation] as a negative thing, I saw it as a positive thing,” she said. “If you choose to do so, the availability is there. The same way as if someone wanted to live somewhere where you only spoke French all the time or only cooked vegan food.”

And although the article offered various perspectives, some of which indicated that this separation was a non-issue, it was clear that the legal precedent set 25 years earlier was not a cure-all.

The other day I went to the Hood Museum of Art to see its latest featured exhibit, “Witness: Art and Civil Rights in the Sixties.” It was impossible to look past the first room’s centerpiece, which appeared anything but welcoming: a wooden door, with a window marked “Admissions Office.” Below the words are two pitch-black handprints, a rough outline of a face and of a torso, conveying a person desperately pressing up against the door but being denied entry. This “greeter” sets the exhibit’s tone. Besides the fascinating display, the exhibit also inspires thought about current racist structures. And though 50 years have passed since the Civil Rights Act, and another 25 since the publication of “Willful Segregation,” nobody could argue that racism no longer impacts everyone in our country or on this campus.

“It’s a legacy that although the world as changed so much, we still have so many of the same problems, but the battle and the way of dealing with them has changed immensely,” Hood visitor services representative Christopher Warren said. “It’s very interesting to see how everyone sees it differently.”

One section of the exhibit asks guests to leave their thoughts on sticky notes labeled “What does your activism look like?” and “How is this History Reflected in Your Life.”

One such note read, in part, “I can’t believe we have to re-fight the ’60s struggle again. Privilege is invisible to those who have it. We white people who believed racism was conquered have to move more out of our comfort zone and realize that we still have work to do.”

Looking back through the lens of today on issues that seem so far in the past satisfies more than just a nostalgic need to connect to those who have come before us. The goal is not to point out specific issues or further an agenda. I know that all of these anniversaries are just numbers, a few that align with 2014, but it’s important to reflect on what happened at each of these times and make comparisons to where we are now. These reflections generate awareness and engagement with issues just as relevant today as they were then. We cannot undervalue the importance of being informed in making progress and inciting positive change.

1914 - World War I begins.

1955 - The Civil Rights Movement emerges.

2014

SAM HEATH AND EMILY MA // THE DARTMOUTH

6// MIRROR

Through The Looking Glass Frat Enough or Nah? COLUMN

B y Prodhi Manisha

As I come upon my fifth term at Dartmouth, I have reached the status of what one would call a SWUG — “Sophomore Washed-Up Gendernonconformer.” Despite the growing exhaustion, I have undergone an incredibly comprehensive process of self-discover y. For many of my peers, the last week of September may bring an opportunity to explore how they fit into the social fabric of Dartmouth as they navigate the rush process.

Me? I feel like I’ve been rushing for over a month.

During my freshman year, I loved exploring the social scene on campus with my friends. I loved Dartmouth.

For the first time, I felt a sense of community. By the end of spring term, I was sure I wanted to rush to extend that sense of belonging. The social scene here mostly consists of single-sex Greek houses. Like others planning to rush, I wanted to meet people I could consider family.

Given my appearance, people around me expected me to rush a sorority, which is great until — wait a minute.

I’m not a self-identified woman.

I’m not a self-identified man, either.

I’m neither.

The epiphany hit me like a fastmoving truck — I would have to rush both fraternities and sororities to stay true to my identity. The coeds are wonderful spaces, but I didn’t want to close myself off to the larger social scene simply because I was gender-nonconforming. During the last month, I’ve had long conversations about this with several people.

In my experience, the sororities are accepting of anyone who doesn’t identify as a self-identified man. One would assume the converse might be true for fraternities — that I should be able to rush if I were not a selfidentified woman.

Apparently not. The “constitutions” of these houses mandate that most fraternities only allow selfidentified men to rush, barring selfidentified women and genderqueer people.

“Sex and gender aren’t one and the same,” my entire body screamed when I heard about these rules.

When I finally went through the process of rush with the few houses that could work their way around it, I couldn’t get in — some people still didn’t get it and couldn’t accept me for who I was.

When I was 16, I experienced gender dysphoria causing me to feel completely out of place with my body. I wore baggy “boyish” clothes in places they were frowned upon. At 18, I hacked off my long hair. These days, I’ve been embracing my body because it’s my body, not because it’s a female body upon first glance.

ANNIE MA // THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

Prodhi Manisha ’17 explains how their gender-noncoforming status makes finding a place in the single-sex Greek scene difficult.

I wear dresses because they simply make me feel good, not because I feel like a woman. If I were still stuck in my state of gender dysphoria, would I be more qualified to be in a fraternity because I’d seem more like a “dude,” even though the person inside has stayed the same Prodhi?

I’m not vilifying the houses that have had to turn me away. These houses were welcoming spaces that made me feel safe, so much so that I could see myself being a sibling to these brothers. A lot of the affiliated individuals don’t even agree with their archaic constitutions.

Some people do identify strongly with being a man or a woman, so I see how the presence of single-sex spaces, if they operated like affinity houses and living-learning communities, would be beneficial. However, what I want to question is what it means when these single-sex spaces end up constituting our ruling cultural force and what it means when our dominant social scene is so sharply binarized. If I’m not “man enough” to be in a fraternity, does that mean a cross-dressing “feminine” male would not be allowed membership either? What determines this “maleness” (or “femaleness,” conversely)? I may appear “female,” but right now I could

be undergoing hormone therapy for all anyone knows.

I feel defeated. Rejected. Ver y lost.

Like my identity isn’t good enough to be part of the social scene here.

I’ve been living in private hell tr ying to fight my discomfort and paranoia surrounding this campus, where the social scene actively hurts and alienates me. To those who are affiliated I ask — are you feeding the very system that perpetuates a discriminator y binar y? It shouldn’t be this exhausting being me — the “me” that I love and am proud of beyond its non-normative identities.

I probably sound complicated because of the label: “gender-nonconforming.” It’s a mouthful. Ask yourself though — do any of us really conform to being completely masculine or completely feminine? What does it mean to be in a “male space”? If, let’s say, it means a space full of “masculine” interactions, several people without the stereotypical male genitalia probably thrive off these as well. It’s perfectly valid to seek out spaces where we can identify with similar people.

In the current system, however, the overarching assumption is that “men” and “women” are too inherently different to identify with each other on

a deeper level of siblinghood.

Take a moment to think about how this idea perpetuates antiquated gender stereotypes. Take another moment to think about how membership was once barred to people of different sexualities, races, et cetera on the basis of a similar argument. Right now, having a binarized system like the one we have in place allows a handful of privileged individuals to take away someone’s agency to fully participate in the campus’s dominant social space on the basis of transphobia.

College can be a fantastic time to discover that those we have considered the “other” for so long are actually our peers — our siblings. If a house opened up its membership to ever yone regardless of gender, would it not be a self-selecting process anyway, where the people rushing the house would be similar people (and not just by the virtue of similar-looking genitalia)? Would it not, dare I say, make the dominant social scene inclusive of trans* people such as me who don’t fit into the socially constructed boxes of “man” and “woman”?

Would it, after all, be so bad to simply be the children of Dartmouth, rather than its sons and daughters?

FRIDAYS WITH MARIAN COLUMN By Marian Lurio

Boots and RallIES

MIRROR //7

COLUMN

By Aaron Pellowski

If you’ve been paying attention to the news, then you’ve undoubtedly read, seen and/or heard about Robin Thicke’s recent ordeals and legal drama. I’m only kidding — you have to look really hard on a slow news day for this riveting drama.

I could probably write this yearlong column exclusively about Thicke’s personal and deepseated emotional problems. But I won’t do that to you, Phil. For this week, at least, I’d like to focus on Thicke’s deposition testimony from April, which was just recently made public.

What was the testimony for, you might ask?

Well, Marvin Gaye’s children sued Thicke for allegedly ripping off the singer’s hit “Got to Give it Up.” But most important was Thicke’s shocking reveal during the testimony.

“Every day I woke up, I would take a Vicodin to start the day and then I would fill up a water bottle with vodka and drink it before and during my interviews,” Thicke said in the deposition transcript.

Thicke conveniently forgot to mention this when he was promoting the song — in fact, he lied about pretty much every aspect of the “Blurred Lines” creation process. PHARRELL WROTE IT. Sorry for the caps, but let’s just say my life was pretty shattered after that revelation.

Disclaimer: I used to be obsessed and IN LOVE with Thicke. You know my love (read: stalker tendencies) ran deep when I was more excited to see him than Beyoncé. Because yes, he was the opening act for Beyoncé’s 2007 tour, “The Beyoncé Experience.” My longtime BFF Dévi bought the tickets as a present for my birthday. We have gone to quite a few concerts together, and pretty much all of them come with a great story — except for this concert which happens to be relevant to this week’s topic.

Of course, once Beyoncé performed, I realized I’d been foolish to act as if “The Beyoncé Experience” was just a sideshow to Robin Thicke’s slow croons-mixed-with-lots-offalsetto. I have hundreds of pictures and videos to commemorate my Beyoncé experience — if you (Phil) are interested in seeing them, let me know or feel free to hack into my iCloud. I don’t have nearly as many photos of Robin Thicke because he was an opening act and therefore spent much less time on stage than Beyoncé, and because I was too busy screaming inappropriate things to him at the top of my lungs from a distance too far away for him to hear (the first row on the side of the “mosh pit.” This was not a problem at the Katy Perry concert, but that’s a story for another week).

Honestly though, as I’m writing this, I’m listening to “The Evolution of Robin Thicke (Deluxe Edition)” and still loving it. I may have fallen back in love with the (old) Robin, if I’m being real with myself and with you, my readership. You may remember the song “Lost Without U” from that soulful album — an instant classic if you ask me.

But I must say I’m a little upset Robin didn’t write “Blurred Lines” while under the influence because that might help to explain (but not justify!) the lyrics of that song — and the (uncensored) music video.

Of course, when prompted by an interviewer for GQ magazine, Thicke responded to his haters, saying, “I’ve always respected women.” There’s a lot I could say about this claim.

Remember the photo in which he has his hand between some woman’s legs (only visible in the mirror behind them, which is captured in the photo!)? She recently said that the pair did indeed have sex, then RT was kind enough to finally introduce his woman du jour to his thenwife, actress Paula Patton. Remember that time a naked Paula graced his album cover? Actually, you might not because that was back when he sported greasy shoulder-length locks (and you thought his hair was weird now…) and went by his nom-de-plume — Thicke.

Just in case you weren’t creeped out enough already, Thicke devoted his 2014 album — “Paula” — to his estranged wife, the mother of his son Julian Fuego Thicke. Evidently, Thicke hasn’t evolved all that much — lest we forget his 2009 album “Sex Therapy.”

On the other hand, I have. The few non-brooding songs on the “Evolution” album, which were irrelevant to my life back when I was a die-hard fan, have finally become relatable since arriving at Dartmouth. I’m of course referencing “Cocaine” (self-explanatory) and “Teach U a Lesson” (a song about a teacher-student roleplay scenario).

I’m only kidding — my current reality or fantasies (hello to those government department hotties) thankfully do not involve what Anne Hathaway might call “love and other drugs.”

While I’m on [the topic of] illicit substances, I can’t help but think about the relationship between getting messed up and being a real person. Thicke may think it’s normal to wake up in your own vomit. And if you asked Andrew Lohse ’12, he’d probably tell you that many Dartmouth students (or at least those in the Greek system) embrace this practice. But I’ve observed that Dartmouth students are some of the most hygienic people you’ll ever meet (not to be confused with the thru-hikers). Let me take this opportunity to say that I’m not trolling around Dartmouth messed up all the time (or literally ever) — so despite how disheveled I look, that’s not my life. I just have unruly hair (and who am I to tell it how to live its life?) and enjoy glaring at my peers. So don’t pull a Robin Thicke and waste all of your 15 minutes of fame, or your time at Dartmouth, high on cocaine.

Also, this is an aside, but am I the only person who finds shot fairies roaming the library during finals a simultaneously annoying and confusing — but mostly annoying — phenomenon?

Please leave your response (hopes, aspirations and dreams) somewhere on my computer and/ or Google Drive account, Phil.

Welcome to the third article in a series of undercover expositions of Dartmouth’s undergraduate culture, generously supported by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. If you’ve been paying attention on the journey thus far instead of losing all your waking hours to GameCubes and Go-Gurt, you’ll recall that I confessed two weeks ago that for the past three years, I, Aaron Pellowski ’15 (real name J. Deirdre Horowitz, RISD ’06, DAIUS ’10) have systematically hoodwinked you all into believing I was yet another of the hyper-privileged bovines in Barbour jackets and Nantucket reds that call this campus home.

After this year is up, I will return to my loft apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where I will likely dabble in fingerpainting, codeine and Baha’i. But mostly I will be working on my memoir, which like my other articles, will be a sparkling and trenchant polemic about why I’m better than everyone and how everything about Dartmouth is bad. Of course, I will take no personal responsibility at all for my own choices and conduct.

With any luck, such a publication will grant me the apotheosis I desire to dwell among those detractors of Dartmouth who have made a name for themselves in a similar fashion.

The topic of this article is sorority rush. My first introduction to the nightmare circus of sorority rush came when I was a sophomore, sitting in Collis and watching what I later learned were bids get handed out. I saw girls come up to the table where the Rogue Eyes were seated, open an envelope and proceed to either screech with glee, or to twitch a little and give an affected “Yay!” In a few sad cases, a girl would take one look at her card and instantly crumble like a Jell-O cup on the GDX dancefloor while the Rogue Eyes hugged her and squealed “Welcome to Apple Delta!!!” or something like that.

This year I decided to study sorority rush more intensively. I interviewed several rushees and present sorority sisters and sat in on a few rounds of deliberations. At this point, I have several astounding findings to announce.

First, the shotgun-and-scram process used during sorority rush is possibly the stupidest system invented. This is not news to anyone, but consider if literally anything else in the world worked like rush does — College applications?

The job hunt? Visits to the hospital? Everything is decided by a hundred-mile-per-hour merry-go-round of banal conversation and snap judgments. Imagine saying at the ER, “Nurse, you gotta let me in! I’ve got a three-pound anal cyst, and I think it could blow any minute!”

Nurse: “What’s your name? Where are you from? What did you do this summer! Wow, that’s so cool! My freshman summer I taught orphans how to program in Python.”

Another big question in sorority rush — local or national? Many sorority sisters have confided in me that some of the most treasured aspects of the Greek experience to them were

the instant assumptions onlookers made when they learned their exact affiliation, an event expedited helpfully by the endless supply of branded commodities — pins, backpacks, totebags, sweaters, you name it. While local sororities contain more empowered social spaces, their sisters lose the privilege of being inscribed in a two-letter box after they graduate since, outside of the Upper Valley, no one has heard of Simba Elk. Finally, I’d like to add on some rush tips and insights for the girls in the Class of 2018.

(Sorry ’17s — the future of your value and identity at Dartmouth will have been locked-in by the time this article is published.)

Prepare three good knock-knock jokes for round one. A spot of humor can really take the edge off a nerve-wracking process like rush, and it will make you stand out as a “funny girl” if you have nothing else going for you. I might suggest “Knock knock!” “Who’s there? “Anita!”

“Anita who?” “Anita go pee really badly but I’d rather hold it for now so I hear more about your sisterhood’s charity work!”

Bring an extra dress with you on a hanger.

If anyone asks, let them know you’ve brought along a spare in case you get too sweaty and need to change. Sorority girls understand the value of preparedness and your vigilance will not go unnoticed during delibs.

Practice simultaneously maintaining contradictory beliefs, i.e. “The sun is the center of the universe” and “The earth is the center of the universe.” This skill will come in handy as you chalk up your own shortcomings in rush to “some computer glitch” or the “total arbitrary unfairness of process” while at the same time, you look at your sobbing friends who didn’t get an Aphid bid and quash the awkwardness by thinking, “It’s hard to swallow, but I guess I am prettier and more socially talented than them.” Doublethinking will prove useful again later when you defend sororities as legitimately empowering to women in your sophomore summer women and gender studies course.

Finally, I’d urge you to keep in mind something you will probably be told a thousand times — rush may be a miserable process for almost everyone, but no matter what happens, you have the same chance to be happy as any other student. Dartmouth supplies us with infinite resources, structures and programs so that we always have something to do and identify ourselves with, but it’s the experiences we create and initiate ourselves that are truly fulfilling and unforgettable. You can do that in any sorority or in no sorority at all, and realizing that this power belongs to you and not some randomized institution is awesome. It’s hard to criticize rush in the abstract when it’s complicitly perpetrated by the same people it victimizes. But at the bottom line, the process remains what has been called “one of the dumbest, meanest things on campus.”

So don’t let rush try to tell you what your value as a person is. Only I can do that.

8// MIRROR

The Mirror Asks...

Taylor Malmsheimer ’15, managing editor: Getting my daily pumpkin spice latte (GLORIOUS).

Stephanie McFeeters ’15, executive editor: Sweet potato and pumpkin treats at Collis.

Michael Riordan ’15, executive editor: Judging those who buy pumpkin spice lattes (VILE) and later Instagram their drinks (MORE VILE).

Natalie Van Brunt ’16, Mirror writer: The return of seasonally shaped Reese’s Cups.

What’s your favorite thing about fall?

Sam Forstner ’18, Mirror writer: Continuing to have really cramped dorm parties always at a high risk of getting busted.

Sasha Dudding ’15, managing editor: I have not prepared for creepy alums, but maybe I should pick up my key from ORL? They did send me a strongly worded blitz about it the other day.

Emily Albrecht ’16, opinion editor: Readying my body for more Lou’s cider than anyone should ever imbibe.

Ashley Ulrich ’15, arts editor: Devising a plan of attack to round out the top end of my Dartmouth Decade.

Aaron Pellowski ’15, senior columnist: Designing alter aliases that might appeal to older generations, e.g. J. Edwin Balderdash McRockefeller Money III.

Rachel Hein ’15, Mirror writer: Sometimes creepy, sometimes cute, sometimes both and sometimes just overly affectionate Dartmouth couples. I’ll just watch from afar.

How are you preparing for Homecoming?

Marian Lurio ’15, senior columnist: Does that mean looking at leaves? I don’t get it. I’m a creep no matter what tree I’m sitting in the branches of.

Natalie Cantave ’16, photo editor: Wilder Hall, tree by Silsby and of course, Occom Pond.

Kalie Mariscano ’17, Mirror writer: Leaf peeping sounds incredibly invasive but anyway the ivy on Wilder is the best.

Lindsay Ellis ’15, editor-in-chief: You can’t beat the Robo porch.

If you could leaf peep anywhere, where would it be?

DANNY KIM // THE DARTMOUTH ERIN LANDAU // THE DARTMOUTH SENIOR STAFF MICHAEL RIORDAN // THE DARTMOUTH SENIOR STAFF