The Dartmouth Mirror 10/16/15

MIRROR 10.16.2015

Sticky Fingers|2

Crime and Punishment|3

Crimes of Dartmouth Past|4-5

TTLG: Kleenex and cheez-its|6 Nora Masler/THE DARTMOUTH

2// MIRROR

Through the Looking Glass

EDITORS’ NOTE

Kleenex and Cheez-Its Column

Sophomore fall, Maddie and Maggie, along with four other women, lived in North Fay 401 a.k.a. the Sextet a.k.a. the Sexytet (worst nickname ever — Maddie REALLY hates this name but was also the one who coined it). One of their roommates — we’ll call her Party Patricia — had quite the little hobby. She loved decorating the room. One night, Maddie and Maggie came home to find a new futon in their common room.

What a wonderful surprise! Now they would have a sitting area for guests! Two weeks later, they found the most exquisite 3’ by 5’ painting of a few gentlemen toasting around a table.

Small knick-knacks continued to mysteriously appear in their room throughout the term — a “Hook-Up Responsibly” poster, a red leather rotating desk chair (perfect for spinning!), a framed picture of two twentysomethings standing awkwardly next to a penguin mascot and several other trinkets.

Later in the term, Maddie and Maggie were hanging out in the common room working on an article for The Mirror when Patricia barged in to the room, grabbed the equisite painting off the wall, sprinted into her room and threw the painting under the bed. Maddie and Maggie were “v” confused. Patricia explained that each of the items that she acquired had disappeared from various fraternities on campus and mysteriously reappeared in their room. When she was expecting a visitor from the fraternity with the missing painting, she realized she had to hide it before her “hobby” was found out.

This week of the Mirror, we explore crimes at Dartmouth — from infamous campus crimes to graverobbing and public indecency to (gasp) taking two pieces of fruit from FoCo. BON APPETIT! — Ol Mads and Lil Mags

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MIRROR R MIRROR EDITORS MADDIE BROWN MAGGIE SHIELDS EDITOR-IN-CHIEF KATIE McKAY

PUBLISHER JUSTIN LEVINE

EXECUTIVE EDITORS LUKE McCANN JESSICA AVITABILE

B y Claire Guo

15F. September. DHMC. I crossed my legs, my laptop precariously balancing on one knee as I frantically scrolled through the form with checkboxes ranging from “depression” to “paying bills.” I had to find the box for “anxiety” before the woman sitting next to me listed another symptom of dementia.

The patient’s voice broke. I stopped scrolling. The resident in charge handed the nearby box of tissues to the woman who seemed far too brilliant for dementia’s strike. She thanked him and took only two, using one to wipe her eyes and tearing the other to pieces. I wanted to take her hand, to do something — anything — to show her that we could do more than just transcribe her speech and analyze her symptoms. But I sat still, waiting for the small room to house more than hiccupped breathing.

“Anxiety” had long ago left my mind.

The woman’s glasses fogged with the moisture of her tears — her hands, now in her lap, wrung together, squeezing the old tissues in her palms. I lowered my laptop screen. The resident again offered her Kleenexes. This time, she took the entire box.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I look away?

Would the patient interpret my shifting of gaze as a sign of discomfort or a sign of respect?

Would she even notice? I used my thumb and index finger on one hand to pinch the pressure point on the other and willed my own eyes to please remain dry. I turned my attention to the resident — surely, he’s seen it all. He sat with his elbows on his knees, eyebrows furrowed in empathy, softening his stare. I couldn’t help but wonder if he truly felt for her or if he simply pretended to, already desensitized after months of clinical work.

My heart broke for her. Out of compassion. And pity. And knowledge. She was alone without a husband or kids, fully cognizant of her decline and dementia’s cureless hold. She knew, as did everyone else in that room, that she would only get worse.

Will she die alone? Will she find someone during her last decades of life who will love her and nurture her as I someday hope to be loved and nurtured? I don’t know. I don’t think I will ever find out.

This woman was my first patient on my first day of work. I wish I could truthfully say that since then I have learned to distance myself from my emotions while maintaining the optimum level of empathy, straddling the line between friend and doctor. I can’t. I’m not even a doctor. I haven’t seen that many patients. Worst of all, though, I still cry without fail whenever someone else cries.

’19: “You pretty much have to go into banking just to pay off these KAF tabs.”

“Something funny ‘16: “Biting into a coldsomeone croissant issaid like finding inout Collis that Claus one night.”

—Drunk that Santa isn’t real...for the second time.”

17

KATE HERRINGTON / THE DARTMOUTH SENIOR STAFF

Claire Guo ’17 reflects on taking time to relax in the midst of a busy schedule.

Someday, I hope to be a surgeon — perhaps than what I thought was my tipping point. I a pediatric neurosurgeon. But I worry that my can no longer count on seven hours of sleep emotions will be my downfall. because my late-night thoughts drive me wild. I can no longer depend on a last-minute 15F. October 6. I love routine. I have always hyper-focused study session because I keep loved routine. I have 12 color-coded Google wondering, who is taking care of that woman calendars that I update nearly every day. I’ve with a failing memory? been using the same color-coded note-taking Sometimes, I am tired of being alone (Aren’t system with the same brand of ballpoint pen we all?). I miss the naivety of childhood (When since freshman year of high school. I always did our futures grow so unsure?). I yearn for put on my left skate before my right, always the certainty of routine, the foolish notion tilt papers at least 45 degrees to the left before that I’ll be okay, so long as I plan every hour writing. I pick my nails when I’m bored. I binge of every day. eat Goldfish crackers when I’m stressed.

As I write this, I’m sitting in Moore Hall. It’s I love the nonstop hustle and bustle of 8:51 p.m. I’m waiting for my subject to finish routine, addicted to a calendar with minimal running the experiment that I’ve been working blank space. Staying busy forces me to com- on since freshman winter. I’ve already eaten partmentalize and prioritize — school first, one bag of Cheez-Its and am debating starting followed by family and friends, then research a second. I worry Cheez-Its have become my and work and figure skating and the occasional new goldfish. gym session. Sometimes, though, I forget to After the time commitment of sorority rush, call my parents back after weeks of silence. the mental exhaustion of studying for quizzes Sometimes, I cancel dinners or coffee because and the physical pain of powering through I fixate on that one neural pathway I can’t figure skating practice, I am thankful that remember but am nearly positive will show work this afternoon at DHMC was cancelled. up on the exam. I worry that, soon, routine Today, for the first time since term started, I will no longer be possible, that I’ll be on call spent two precious hours of my day lying in in the hospital, sleep-deprived, barely trained, bed, watching a mindless romcom, with grades and someone will come in with a head wound and medical school and my future boxed up that I am not equipped to treat. I worry that and pushed to the corners of my mind.

I’ll be in surgery when my kid falls at the playMy subject is almost done. I open up my ground and an ambulance is called. I’m bad Google calendar and see an empty two-hour with surprises, even worse when my routine block that used to say, “DHMC: Memory fails to produce desired results.

Clinic.” I fill the blank space with “NETFLIX!” My routine has always been my comfort. because that moment, that short-lived deparBut these past few months working at DHMC ture from routine, should be remembered have pushed me emotionally, much further along with the others.

’16 stumbling down frat row: “Which way is Mecca?”

From the Collis kitchen: “Rise, sex panther.”

’17: “I did 20 lines of coding right “Something funny somebefore class.”

‘16, about protecting her strawberries: ’16: “You did 20 lines of coke and one“No, saidI don’t in Collis trustthat theseone bitches didn’t invite me?” night.” —Drunk 17 ’17: “Dude what is wrong with you?”

Check out Overheards and Trending@Dartmouth on

Crime and Punishment Richard and Judith Return to Campus Drama

MIRROR //3

Trending D @ RTMOUTH

B y MARY LIZA HARTONG and ANDREW KINGSLEY

Judith: We haven’t received a text from Binky in the last hour. We should drive up to Dartmouth to see if he’s alright.

Richard: Sweetie, we’re from Minnesota.

Judith: Your point?

Richard: Let’s just not forget the MapQuest this time. I don’t want to ask that harlot Siri for directions again.

Judith: Fine. We won’t call my niece Siri anymore. It’s just that she’s a travel agent, and I thought we ought to support her.

Richard: Alright, let’s go. *Three weeks later.* Judith: Richard, look at all these couples canoodling and fadoodling on the Green Quad Hang Out Grass. Reminds me of Woodstock when we found that other couple and we— Richard: Judith we don’t speak of those times. I’m glad Binky doesn’t behave that way. It’s just criminal, all that slinking and swiveling and such.

Judith: Agreed sugar muffin. Now give me a kiss. I’m as horny as a sailor.

Richard: What?

Judith: I said I’m as thorny as a tailor.

Richard: Get your paws off me, handsy Nancy. You’re just like your niece!

Judith: Sorry Richard, these youths are getting to me with their hashbrowns and their instant ham. It won’t happen again.

Richard: I should hope not. Let’s find Binky and remind him about

the birds and the bees. His test on winged creatures is coming up soon.

Judith: You read my loins! Lines.

Mind. You read my mind.

Richard: Who is that downright baby-making couple over there? *Richard and Judith squint at the distant but flexible lovers* Judith: I think that’s Binky!

Richard: It couldn’t be!

Judith: He’s doing your signature butt-grab!

Richard: Where did he learn that?

In unison: SIRI! Judith: We have to confront him before he makes grandparents out of us — or worse, Democrats! *Cut to Binky and Dinky, sucking face.* Binky: Shit! I think my parents are here.

Dinky: Those are just birds. Come back here.

Binky: You know I want to, but we have to run. They killed my last girlfriend with a crossbow.

Dinky: Oh just rela— *An arrow wounds Dinky. She falls.* Dinky: Run for your life Binky!

Binky: Not without you, Dinky. *Binky grabs Dinky, pulls her up and runs off into the Stacks with her. Richard and Judith approach the library, crossbows and torches in hand.* Richard: We can’t hunt on an empty stomach. We’re not Democrats.

Judith: Right you are, pumpkin spice. To King Arthur’s Flowers!

Richard: Look at this line! Out of our way, youths. Respect your elders.

That means haul ass, Peter Pan! Judith: Morning maestro, we would like two breads and two a-cock-y teas.

KAF employee: Did you two just cut the entire line? Also, it’s pronounced a-sigh-ee.

Richard: Did you just snort a line?

She said two asscracky and bread.

And take those hula hoops out of your ears.

Judith: And step on it. Binky could be dead.

KAF employee: Whatever. *Richard and Judith enter the stacks.* Judith: They could be anywhere.

We best be quiet. *Richard knocks down a row of bookshelves. Crushed students groan.* Richard: Alright, alright. Get up, you pansies. This isn’t Neverland.

Judith: Richard be gentle. They haven’t built strong bones or a sizable 401K. Richard: I think I hear him. Also, intercourse.

Judith: No, sweetie, those are the students you crushed.

Richard: Intercourse, cr ushed dreams. What’s the difference?

Judith: Well, one leads to a baby.

The other to a sigh of pleasure.

Richard: Yeah, yeah. BINKY! You get out here and show your skinrubbin’ rump before I count to three or else we’re rescinding your allowance.

Judith: That’s right, sweetie! Your dirty DVD allowance will be reduced to dust if you do not come out. The same goes for your flexible

female friend.

Binky: Fine! Mom, Dad, this is my girlfriend Dinky. We met in “Writing 5.” She’s from outside Boston. Are you happy?

Judith: Not once since Woodstock.

Richard: Judith, remember the task at hand.

Judith: Oh yes. Dinky, you understand what we have to do?

Dinky: I don’t think so. Aren’t you supposed to treat us to Canoe Club, small talk, then you leave and I rock your son’s world?

Richard: Not exactly. We were thinking death by Antiques Roadshow. And crossbows.

Dinky: I hardly think that’s necessary.

Judith: I hardly think you’re necessary.

Richard: I hardly think life is necessary. I crave the grave.

Binky: Enough you three! Dinky is the love of my life. I’m serious. I-Siri: I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.

Dinky: Sorry my phone sometimes does that.

Richard: Judith run, your niece is back!

Judith: Is nowhere sacred?

Richard (now running away): You two don’t make whoopy while we’re gone.

Dinky: Oh we won’t! *Richard and Judith are now gone.* Binky: Wanna suck face?

Dinky: Let’s! *Judith and Richard were found three days later still lost in the Stacks, huddling their acai berry teas and fighting over their baguette.*

YOLO It’s coming back.

Peak Foliage You just want to be outside all the time

Students In Suits

First round interviews, second round at Molly’s

Rapidly changing temperatures Don’t cry because it’s cold, smile because it was warm for so long.

Midterms and Hangovers The only pairing worse than Franzia and EBA’s.

Frat ban Ending

Last weekend in Sussell Rage.

Flitzing Need one for semi!

KATE HERRINGTON / THE DARTMOUTH SENIOR STAFF

Judith and Richard cross the steps of Dartmouth Hall off their Dartmouth Seven List. Or is that Sanborn? They must be confused.

Story

Nestled among foliage-rich mountains, with its quaint Georgian architecture and innumerable friendly-faced students, Hanover seems little more than a quintessential, idyllic New England town. Nothing indicates that a histor y of violent crime lurks beneath its picturesque surface — and to imagine so seems virtually impossible.

And yet, to the incredulity of many a naïve student, that is the harsh reality. The same pathways you walk on the Green were once surpassed by ax-wielding murderers, the same Baker Tower you photograph on a sunny day was once gazed upon by cold-blooded killers. Although instances of violent crime are not frequent in the College’s histor y, their existence — albeit minimal — merits some attention, if only to quell the false sense of protection Hanover residents enjoy.

1891: A Crime of Passion Ostensibly, George Abbott was an intelligent and handsome child from a prosperous New England family. Abbott, however, was not the man he first seemed to be. He exhibited criminal tendencies from a young age, was implicated in several burglaries and gunfights and, at the mere age of 30, he had spent nearly a third of his life in jail. After escaping from imprisonment as a young man — fashioning a ladder from pieces of cord and iron pipe over the course of seven years — he made an attempt at redemption, changing his name to Frank Almy and seeking honest employment. Opportunity struck and he found work in July 1980 as a farmhand in bucolic Hanover, New Hampshire, assisting Andrew Warden and his family on their property. Warden, likely dubious of Almy’s murky past but willing to give him a chance, had no idea what this seemingly trivial hire would later engender.

Shortly after beginning his employment, Almy set his sights on 28-year-old Christie Warden, his employer’s beautiful and charm-

ing daughter. Initially, Christie accepted his advances — the two went on sleigh rides, attended church and exchanged Christmas gifts, much like any other couple. Christie, however, became increasingly frustrated with Almy’s refusal to discuss his past, and that coupled with his unpredictable temper caused her to sever ties with him. Andrew Warden did not renew Almy’s contract, and subsequently the young man moved to Massachusetts, where he showed a photograph of Christie to his landlady and suggested that if he could not have her, no man could.

In June 1891, Almy took a train to Hanover, with gifts, a book and two revolvers in tow. He dug out a space to sleep in one of the family’s three hay-filled barns, seeking refuge there and stealing food from nearby barns to sustain himself while he spied on the family. Unable to find Christie alone, he came upon her one night walking with her sisters down L yme Road, near the current Hanover Countr y Club. He violently grabbed her and shot at her sisters as they tried to fend him off, pulling her into the Vale of Tempe as her sisters ran to get help. When they returned, Christie had been shot dead and Almy was gone.

After an extensive police search, the murderer was found living in his hole in Warden’s barn. He was tried and hanged the following year. Christie’s grave remains in the Dartmouth College Cemeter y.

1895: Corpse Heist In 1895, a Nor wich resident named Joseph Murdock completed suicide. Although a tragedy, Murdock’s death would have been largely inconsequential for the Dartmouth community had his family members not noticed footsteps leading to and from his grave in the days following his burial. As in turns out, members of the then Dartmouth Medical School had encouraged two of its students from the Class of 1897, John Pearl

Gifford and John McDonnell, to steal the body for academic dissection — all in the name of science.

Instead of condemning the students for their obviously criminal activity, the Medical School stood behind Gifford and McDonnell, even endorsing their actions by collectively paying their fines and welcoming them back to medical school wholeheartedly. Gifford would later establish his own hospital at the age of 32, now known as Gifford Medical School in Randolph, Vermont. Patients are likely unaware of their lionized doctor’s criminal past.

1920: Bootlegger Shooting In 1920, the New York Times reported that Henr y Maroney, then a senior at the College, had been shot and killed in the Theta Delta Chi fraternity house by Robert Meads, then a junior.

The details of the shooting are murky, but what’s clear is that both of the men involved in the bootlegging business . After a disagreement over how much Maroney was going to pay for Meads’ whiskey, the former allegedly grabbed a bottle and jumped out a window. After three unsuccessful attempts, Meads finally cornered Maroney in his TDX room and shot him two times, killing him, the Times reported.

This wasn’t Meads’ first time behind the pistol, as he had also been the perpetrator of a fatal shooting of a fellow freshman during his first year. That shooting was ruled accidental, and nothing more came from it.

For the death of Maroney, however, Meads was later convicted of manslaughter and was sentenced to 20 years of hard labor in prison.

1949: Varsity Jacket Murder In 1949, a group of intoxicated varsity football players stormed the Mid-Massachusetts Hall dorm room of freshman player

B y Ca

aroline berens

Raymond Cirrotta, planning to ransack his study room, perhaps as part of a hazing ritual.

What started as a scenario not unimaginable for our generation of Dartmouth students quickly turned violent. But when Cirrotta emerged from his room wearing a varsity sweater — despite the fact that freshmen were only supposed to wear their class numbers — the group became angered.

According to eyewitness reports, Thomas Doxsee ’50 then attacked Cirrotta. Cirrotta was later taken to Mar y Hitchcock Hospital, having sustained several head injuries, where he was pronounced dead.

Even more horrifying than the actual murder is that Doxsee simply received a $500 fine and a suspended one-year sentence after pleading no contest to manslaughter.

The remaining football players were acquitted by the police and received suspensions from the College. The investigation would later be labeled, unsurprisingly, as flawed.

1991: Graduate Students Ax Murderer Trhas Berhe and Selamawit Tsehaye, two women in their mid-twenties originally from Ethiopia, came to Dartmouth seeking the kind of elite education not af forded to many in their home countr y. Brilliant and ambitious, the women were graduate students in the physics department at the College.

During the interim between spring and summer terms, Haileselassie Girmay, another man from Ethiopia who allegedly wanted to marr y Tsehaye, came to visit her and Berhe in their then-home on Summer Street. Girmay, also an academic, was in the middle of advanced graduated studies at Sweden’s Uppsala University. During the visit, Tsehaye expressed that her priority was finishing school, not marriage.

Although Girmay did not express outward signs of anger during the conversation, he promptly went to a local hardware store and purchased an axe. After hiding in the

women’s apartment, he brutally killed both women by striking them in the head and neck with the axe, allegedly a dozen times each.

When the police arrived after a neighbor repor ted some disturbance, Girmay answered the door and informed them that he had killed both women with an axe. Although his lawyers later used the insanity defense to keep Girmay out of prison, a jur y would judge this to be false, assessing his state of mind as sane. Girmay was sentenced to life in prison in 1993.

The Summer Street apartment where the murder occurred was, reportedly, located within 100 yards of the current Leverone Field House and Hanover High School.

2001: Zantop Murders In 2001 — a time during which all current students at the College were alive — two Vermont high school students Robert Tulloch, 17, and his best friend James Parker, 16, became bored with their small-town Vermont lives and developed a thirst for adventure. Tulloch, president of the student council and a debate champion, and Parker were described as well-liked students who performed well academically, played sports and largely stayed out of trouble. Beneath this façade of normalcy, however, the friends were brewing a plan to acquire $10,000 and move to Australia.

The first stage of their plan was to steal cars, but they realized this was unfeasible without vehicle registration. Instead, they developed a gruesome and nefarious plan to steal strangers’ ATM cards, force them to reveal their PIN numbers and subsequently kill them.

Half and Susanne Zantop were professors in the College’s earth science and German departments, respectively. Naturalized citizens originally from Germany who had met while studying at Stanford University, they were beloved for their kindness, warmth

and giving natures.

In Januar y 2001, the two high schoolers knocked on the Zantop’s door in Etna, New Hampshire, and were consequently invited in, on the premise of doing research for a school sur vey. After chatting with the boys about his academic interests for 10 minutes, Half reached into his wallet to find the phone number of an environmental expert to help the boys with their research.

Tulloch took this as his chance to attack. He lunged at Half and stabbed him in the neck and throat, immediately killing him. When Susanne entered the room, the boys killed her too with several blows that fractured her skull. The boys made off with $340 in cash, fleeing the scene and leaving the two dead professors behind. Interestingly, they headed to Barnes and Noble to find books on coping with guilt associated with committing murder.

After a subsequent month-long nationwide manhunt, the two boys were found in Indiana attempting to hitchhike to California. Although Parker immediately cut a deal to avoid life in prison, Tulloch rejected any defense, pleading guilty to first-degree murder. He was the first person in New Hampshire to reject any such defense, making histor y. He was reported, however, to be completely apathetic and emotionless throughout the trail, juxtaposed beside Parker, who sobbed uncontrollably through the trial and profusely apologized to the Zantops’ family members.

Tulloch, who has been speculated to be psychopathic, was sentenced to life imprisonment without parole. He currently resides in the New Hampshire State Prison for Men. Parker was sentenced to 25 years to life in prison, and is currently incarcerated in the same prison at Tulloch, where he will remain until he becomes eligible for parole in 2026. The two men apparently have no contact with each other.

NORA MASLER / THE DARTMOUTH

6// MIRROR

Sticky Fingers

The DDS Theft Epidemic STORY

B y Lisa oh and sarah kovan

It’s 8:35 on a Monday morning and you’ve stopped at Collis Café on the way to your 9L. You push through the students crowded around the smoothie station and reach for a “best ever bran muffin.” When you go to pay, you realize that 12 students have beaten you to the front of the line.

Not having a minute to spare, you shove the muffin into your backpack, slip out the back door and sprint to the Life Sciences Center.

At Dartmouth, we’ve witnessed students taking Tupper ware containers full of Greek Yogurt, numerous apples and several other quick snacks without paying for them. If you ask around, most students can tell you at least one crazy stor y about theft in the dining halls.

“When it was apple day at [Class of 1953 Commons] my freshman year, a girl on my floor took 72 apples and stuffed them in her backpack,” Missy Cantave ’16 said.

Whether it’s 72 apples or a single muffin, taking anything from FoCo, Collis, the Hop or Novack Café that you did not pay for is a violation of Dartmouth’s Standards of Conduct. It’s there in plain letters — theft of any College property is firmly against the rules. Almost any student has, at some time, gotten their FoCo to-go, often when we’re huddled in the librar y over midterms and we can’t take the time to sit down for a meal. Many of us likely throw the small slip of paper in the plastic containers away without giving them a second glance, but on them lies the all important to-go policy.

Put simply, you are only allowed to use the containers issued by the dining hall — the use of Tupper ware is not permitted under the public health code — and the students may not eat during the process of collecting their food. If you choose to take your meal inside, you’re allowed to carr y out one piece of fruit, an ice cream cone or a cookie. It might seem minor at first, but students who are caught violating these rules may be subject to judicial review.

Director of Dartmouth Dining Ser vices David Newlove said he has witnessed various degrees of dining hall theft and noted the monetar y loss it incurs.

“For the 16 years that I’ve been at Dartmouth there have always been students who have stolen from the dining halls,” he said.

“The typical numbers are that two percent of retail sales are lost each year to theft.”

Students are predictable, though, and just because something like stealing food is against the rules, there’s still a number of people who tr y it anyway. FoCo super visor Scott Jandreau also said he witnesses two or three attempted thefts on a typical day.

“The most common thing for people to steal is a few extra pieces of fruit or to also eat in the dining hall when they are getting their food to go,” he said.

Newlove said that the most frequent thefts at Collis and the Hop occur over the weekend and during Late Night hours. He said that students often forget to pay for food or consume food and leave before paying. He also told us that there is a definite correlation between alcohol and drug use and theft.

Yet, if the occasional FoCo apple or Col-

ALICE HARRISON / THE DARTMOUTH SENIOR STAFF

A Student leave the Class of 1953 Commons with bags of food. Students taking food from the dining hall is a problem on campus. lis baked good is known to go missing, it’s not necessarily as prevalent ever ywhere on campus. Novack employee Veronique Davis ’15 said that she only sees a couple students tr ying to steal from Novack each term.

“People tr y to steal Odwallas more often than anything else because the fridge is out of our direct sight,” Davis said. “A lot of times people tr y to take things that aren’t included in the lunch meal swipe specials, so they’ll tr y to take fruit snacks instead of chips.”

Cindy Ramirez ’18 said that some of the cases of students stealing from the dining halls are more extreme than others.

“One time my friend snuck out 20 bananas in his backpack,” she said. “It was funny because he had two in his hands, so one of the workers told him to put it back, but he didn’t care because he knew there were 20 more in his backpack.”

Newlove also told us about some of the larger thefts that he has witnessed throughout his time at Dartmouth.

“We’ve had students that have been caught multiple times stealing loaves of bread,” Newlove said. “We’ve had students come into the Hopkins Center storeroom and take boxes of granola bars. We’ve been broken into by students who have broken into the back doors or climbed through windows.”

For some, stealing from the dining halls can be a source of pride. I once heard about a student who bragged about taking an entire tub of ice cream from FoCo by putting it in his backpack. Jandreau told us about a unique theft he witnessed in 2013.

“Two years ago, I had to chase some-

body out the door because they stole the big Count Chocula sign around Halloween when they were having a big promotion,” he said. “I think it was a fraternity thing.”

According to Newlove, students are usually given warnings the first time they are caught stealing. If they are caught a second time, they are referred to the judicial affairs office.

“If there’s an egregious theft where a student is stuffing their backpack and there’s no ‘I didn’t know,’ we refer them immediately to the judicial process,” Newlove said. “If there’s a second time that that happens we refer them to the Hanover Police to be charged with shoplifting. We have camera systems throughout the dining halls, so if something goes wrong, we have 30 days for Safety and Security to process the footage.”

Jandreau said that when he catches firsttime offenders tr ying to steal from FoCo, he makes sure to explain the DDS rules to them.

“Most people are ver y up front and honest. Others will give me some attitude,” he said, “Usually after I confront somebody once about stealing, I don’t see it happen again.”

Students have used many different justifications to defend stealing from the dining halls. Judicial affairs director Leigh Remy said that when the judicial affairs office meets with students who have stolen from the dining halls, the students often do not think that the amount of food they stole would harm the College’s bottom line and that taking food from the dining halls is more convenient than going to a grocer y store.

Samuel Emmah ’18 doesn’t believe that taking food from the dining halls should always be considered a crime.

“They are going to waste the food and throw it out anyways, so they might as well let students take it,” he said. “People waste their meal swipes, so it probably balances things out anyways.”

Others explained that students sometimes steal unintentionally without realizing that they are stealing. Robert He ’19 remembered a time he forgot to pay for his collis stir-fr y when he spotted his friends already sitting down.

Ramirez said she feels that taking food from the dining halls should not be considered a crime because the costs of meal plans are so high.

“I’ve taken more than one fruit before,” Ramierez said. “I don’t see why it’s so bad to take more than one fruit. I feel like the school is already overcharging us.”

Newlove explained, however, that the rising cost of meal plans has been in part due to the two percent of retail sales lost to theft each year.

“It’s sad because the students who steal are stealing, not only from the school, but from other students as well,” he said.

Some students, like Gage Guerra ‘19, believe that stealing is stealing and that the rules should be enforced.

“I just experienced an altercation between a worker and a student,” he said.

“The worker thought that a student walked out without paying for their meal. It turns out that the student just paid in the other line, but I think it’s good that the workers are doing their jobs and staying on top of things.”

MIRROR //7

JOE KIND, A GUY

COLUMN

By Sam Van Wetter

MASTERS SAM and DISASTERS SAM are playing pong together.

COLUMN By Joe Kind

I remember my first Homecoming like it was yesterday.

The men’s and women’s swim teams dress up for Homecoming every year, and a few of the freshmen guys and I went to Party City — my first and only off-campus trip my freshmen fall – to pick up our necessary supplies — tights of assorted colors and patterns, plastic leis, stripper bowties and green facepaint for our chests. The look would have otherwise bombed without our Speedos.

I started at McLaughlin with my floormates. The entire cluster was socializing in Occom Commons, under multi-colored lights and banging speakers. We were greeted with ecstatic UGAs and tables of EBAs and red licorice. My floormates and I were in the predictable dancefloor circle, nodding along and taking pictures. I checked my phone frequently, waiting for the cue from my teammates. Eventually I snuck to the River, where I changed into my costume and tights with my teammates. We all walked up Tuck Drive and met up the rest of the class at McLaughlin.

I was initially concerned about the dropping fall temperatures of late October. Surely I would get sick. Surely I needed a jacket. At least I had my teammates, even if we were still getting to know each other. We had a lot to adjust to as first-years on the team, as all first-years do. The time we spent alone as a complete class was a small fraction of the hundred or so hours we had spent together with the rest of the team. We were united, yet still trying to figure each other out. I know I took a long time to get to know my teammates.

Walking down Maynard Street, in front of Richardson and behind the Fayerweathers, with my fellow scantily-clad “men,” I felt a sort of swagger, both uncontrollable and surely temporary (though that’s beside the point).

My skin tickled under the strangest combination of judgment and awe. I frequently raised my arms, meeting the high-fives that found me.

Here we all were. Eyes were darting everywhere, trying to comprehend what was happening, while our hips stayed facing forward on the course. Here we were, caught under a momentous wave of bubbling anticipation.

Something was brewing under our saunter. I looked around at the faces I had seen before on campus. The bodies I had passed in Baker-Berry and FoCo. We were spewed into this one beautiful moving thing.

Lest the old traditions fail.

We walked up around cars with alumni

SAM’S LITTLE LARKS

and athletes, finally arriving at the Green.

The bonfire stood above us, its life and death simultaneously impending. The bonfire is finally lit, and suddenly I am running.

I am ensconced in a sea of first-years. An exodus, if you will, except the sea refuses to part. Instead, a whirlpool emerges. Running, jogging, in circles, I am submerged in the heat and the glory of belonging.

I am running laps and laps and laps, and I don’t want to stop. I had decided beforehand to attempt the 116 laps. But this feeling was not premeditated.

I am not a runner, let’s be clear. I am not an endurance athlete. I was surely in pain, though at the time I felt none.

At each lap I had my parents, teammates, and the Dartmouth community. I felt lifted, almost. Running around flames in a hellish haven.

Of course I was not able to physically run all 116 laps — I intermittently walked and jogged the last 50 or so. My parents, watching me and meeting my eyes at nearly every lap, walked some laps with me at the very end. The endurance runners and other crazies had all finished their laps a while ago.

My parents were happy to see me so happy.

My mom nearly caught hypothermia just at the sight of me, but she remained on the Green for me when most of the (sensible) Dartmouth community had left.

I finished my 116 laps after a good two and a half hours. Baker Tower, shining its bright triumphant green, congratulated me. My parents and I promptly absorbed ourselves into Collis couches and watched our San Francisco Giants win Game 4 of the World Series in extra innings.

Reclining between my parents at this school, I had found the Promised Land. At this point I became certain that I would make it — something that I was not entirely sure of that long first month of college.

Flash forward three years to a very different kind of Homecoming. My parents were not here for the bonfire, crazy as it is, for the first time since I’ve been here. But I am thankful to have established such a comfort here that made up for their absence.

It is a bit unfortunate that my last Homecoming arrived as I was confronted with the realities of my Home-going. (You know I’ve been waiting to use that pun.) But Homecoming is so great precisely because it is a time to press pause on all that, and reset.

I looked forward to last weekend, as does most of the Dartmouth community, and for good reason — there is nothing else quite like the Homecoming weekend experience.

DISASTERS: I don’t understand this game.

MASTERS: What do you mean you don’t understand? It’s trucking fun as truck.

DISASTERS: It’s not really that much fun.

MASTERS: You’d have more fun if you were better.

DISASTERS: And you’d have more money if you were richer. And you’d have more mates if you were hotter. But I live in the real world.

MASTERS: You just need some practice.

DISASTERS: I’ve been practicing since freshman year.

MASTERS: You’re kidding.

DISASTERS: Dead serious. I learned during pre-Orientation week in the basement of Chi Heorot. I was with some kids from my Trips section, and a brother gave us a rather rudimentary outline of the game and a case. The rest is history. It was back in the days before the freshman ban, when freshman table scenes were as ubiquitous as Canada Goose and freestone flowed like the Connecticut.

MASTERS: You’ve been playing pong since you were a freshman?

DISASTERS: Yeah, why?

MASTERS: I mean, you’re pretty bad.

DISASTERS: I’m not that bad!

MASTERS: You’re not great.

DISASTERS: You shoulda seen me three years ago then.

MASTERS: You think you’ve improved?!

DISASTERS: Of course I have. Everyone improves. But I’ve since plateaued.

MASTERS: You should keep practicing.

DISASTERS: I do! Many Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights! I sometime even schedule two-, three- or six-a-days with extras on Thursdays and Sundays. But it’s no use. I peaked sophomore summer.

MASTERS: Me too, man. Remember masters?

All those pong-loving pongerinos ponged up in that basement, pong flowing through out veins, pong ringing in our ears, the pong pounding into our hearts, pong pong pong and like wham!

Pong save! Paddle! Ball! Half cup! Chug it! Sink it! Brawl! Pong is the song on everyone’s lips, pong is the question that is answered with a sip, pong for your friends and your enemies and your dog, pong for your daddy and pong for your mom. (MASTERS is enraptured, reliving the moment, feeling the grime and the sweat and the cloud of evaporated beer hovering three feet above table. He snaps back into it.)

Did you play masters?

DISASTERS: I was on the alternate c-team for my coed society, so sort of.

MASTERS: Well I for one believe that pong is the single greatest contribution that Dartmouth has made to the world ever.

DR SEUSS: Really?

MASTERS: Absolutely.

NELSON A. ROCKEFELLER: You wanna rephrase that?

MASTERS: Why would I? A CHORUS OF DARTMOUTH’S CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE WORLD — MORE THAN 164 REPRESENTATIVES AND SENATORS, TWO SUPREME COURT JUSTICES, 12 PULITZER PRIZE RECIPIENTS, THREE NOBEL LAUREATES, A NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER, A MULTITUDE OF OLYMPIC COMPETITORS, SEVERAL LIFE-SAVING MIRACLE MEDICAL ADVANCEMENTS AND PHIL HANLON’S MUSTACHE: How do you figure?

MASTERS: I mean, pong is the greatest and most customizable hang out activity you could ever ask for. No other game is as social and

multi-faceted, allowing for dancing and conversation and flirting and drinking and demonstrations of athletic prowess. It’s a way to unite brotherhoods, sisterhoods, gender-inclusive hoods, neighborhoods, children and parents, alums and undergrads, Tuckies and Thayies and Geisies and townies together in one room just being together, building something. I’m sure there’s no better feeling than a successful throw save. It’s the game that gives forever and never gets dull. You can’t say that of Dr. Seuss.

THE ACCOMPLISHED CHORUS: That’s fair.

DISASTERS: Doesn’t the waste bother you?

MASTERS: The only thing wasted when playing pong is the people.

DISASTERS: What about the hours? The mental facilities? The bags languishing on Sunday lawns, brimming with cans and cups and cardboard? What about all those paddle handles?

A CHORUS OF DISCARDED PING PONG PADDLE HANDLES SINGING A GOTYE COVER: You didn’t have to break me off!

MASTERS: “Waste” is an essentially capitalistic and therein constructed concept meant to guilt people who are just trying to have a good time.

But, yeah, kegs would probably help reduce the footprint.

DISASTERS: Granted.

MASTERS: And I don’t mean to oversell it — though I couldn’t if I tried — but pong is the only place at Dartmouth, possibly in the world, where phubbing is prohibited.

DISASTERS: Phubbing?

MASTERS: Phone snubbing; the act of ignoring the people around you via a tiny, shitty screen. Pull out your phone while waiting with friends in the KAF line and they’ll be annoyed but not indignant. Pull out your phone while you’re supposed to be serving and you’ll be annihilated. There’s no reason to do it — no Snapchat worth sending and no mother’s text urgent enough to justify a phub. Anywhere else in life you get a free pass, but at the pong table, your presence is sacred.

DISASTERS: I hadn’t thought of that.

MASTERS: And, you’d probably know better than me, but there’s really no such thing as being bad at pong. Sure, you might not hit the table, much less a cup, but pong is less of a sport and more of a ritual. And rituals will always be successful as long as all the component parts are present. So it matters naught if you’re uncoordinated as long as you bring your entire living-breathing-paddleflapping self to this meeting of minds. No one is unwelcome. We’ve all seen the guy willingly partner himself with the least skilled girl in the room. Is it because he feels bad for her?

Because he wants to get her drunk? Because it makes him look better by comparison? No, it’s because he is a missionary for the ritual, a diplomat of debauchery who only wishes to share the fun with someone who might think the game is dumb. He wants to coach you along, not necessarily into proficiency but at least to appreciation. He will hold your hand all the way to the golden tree, if necessary.

DISASTERS: Is that why you’re playing with me?

MASTERS: Don’t worry about it. It’s your serve.

8// MIRROR

Dying to Dissect

A reporter investigates rumors of graveyard robbery in Dartmouth’s past SPOTLIGHT

B y Leina mcdermott

In early December of 1895, relatives of the recently-deceased Joseph Murdock visited his grave in a Norwich cemetery.

The Granite State Free Press reported that upon arrival, they discovered footprints in the snow and evidence that the grave had been disturbed. After further investigation, they discovered that Murdock’s body had been stolen and dragged across the snowy cemetery to the main road, where he was likely loaded into a cart and driven away. Less than a week later, two Dartmouth medical students were arrested for robbing Murdock’s grave.

On the night of the crime, medical students John Pearl Gifford and Joseph O’Donnell were serving as waiters at the Alpha Delta Phi banquet in Norwich, the New York Times reported. At 3 a.m., O’Donnell returned to the venue, the Newton Inn, to borrow a wagon under the pretense of driving his drunk friends back to the College. He returned the wagon and the horse after “carrying his companions home,” and spent the night at the hotel, the Times reported. Several days later, the robbery of the grave was discovered and all evidence pointed to Gifford and O’Donnell.

After pleading guilty in the Windsor county court, the two were fined $2,000 and $1,500, respectively, though their fines were both paid by the medical school. Both went on to practice as successful doctors, and Gifford was named valedictorian of his graduating class at the medical school.

Medical schools, Geisel included, have always needed bodies for their students to dissect. Today, institutions respectfully receive cadavers from indi-

viduals who choose to donate their bodies to medical research. But 200 years ago, it wasn’t quite so simple.

Before the 20th century, the process of body donation did not exist, and schools in rural areas often struggled to obtain specimens for dissection. At Dartmouth, many medical students took matters into their own hands and procured bodies in the most direct way possible — stealing them from graves. This phenomenon took place throughout the 1800s, resulting in town riots, high-intensity carriage chases and the arrests of at least two medical students.

Rauner Library processing specialist Ilana Grallert said grave-robbing was a popular practice in the 19th century.

Medical schools would often hire outside contractors, called “anatomy demonstrators” to steal bodies for use in the classroom or encourage students to do the job themselves. It was common at the time to associate medical teaching and practice with grave robbing, so it comes as no surprise that New Hampshire passed a law prohibiting grave robbing in 1796 — the same year Nathan Smith proposed the foundation of a medical school to the College’s “Board of Trust.” The penalties for violating the law included a fine of no more than $1,000, a prison sentence of no more than one year and 39 lashes, journalist and medical historian Constance Putnam said.

In spite of the law’s stringent punishment, body-snatching incidents involving Dartmouth students quickly gave the Medical School a poor reputation in the region. Grave robbing became so prolific that drawings depicting body snatchings were printed beside the names of the graduating medical school class in several issues of the Aegis. Often the most infamous criminals were also the school’s highest achieving students, those willing to put everything on the line in the name of science.

Doctor Amos Twitchell was one of Nathan Smith’s first and favorite pupils.

After graduating from the College in 1802, he lived in Norwich for several years while first practicing medicine.

According to A History of Norwich Vermont by M.E. Goddard and Henry V. Partridge, Twitchell had a “notorious and unsavory” reputation for stealing bodies from nearby graveyards. During his time as a student and his first years of practice, he was known as “one of

the most daring and adroit operators in this line,” Goddard and Partidge wrote.

Yet his criminal activity had seemingly no effect on his success as a student or doctor.

Several years after Twitchell’s time at the school, another incident occurred that created a major rift between the school and the neighboring towns. The event is documented in Centennial Exercises. In the fall of 1809, a young medical student was sent to procure a body for use as a subject in class. He stole the corpse of a young boy from a recent grave in a neighboring town, but left traces that induced an investigation. Unbeknownst to him, he had left his pocketbook bearing his name at the grave, and later that day a sheriff with a search warrant appeared unexpectedly at the door of the lecture room. The sheriff found nothing, until on his way out he discovered a loose board “and under it the missing body, pretty thoroughly dissected.”

Following this, townspeople threatened to burn down College buildings, and for a while townspeople stopped burying their dead in public burial grounds. In an attempt to quell the local sentiment, Nathan Smith attended a town meeting held on the subject but was “violently thrust out, and mounted his horse and fled to escape further outrage,” the Express wrote.

In the wake of this upset, a committee for the medical school class wrote a letter of apology to the “honorable President and Professors of Dartmouth College,” which is currently archived at Rauner Library. In the letter, the students express regret for the disturbance caused by the grave-robbing incident, though as Rauner special collections librarian Jay Satterfield points out, the apology is not entirely sincere. He said the students likely viewed the townspeople as ignorant and superstitious for clinging to their dead.

“If you read it, there’s this kind of attitude of ‘we know better,’ within the medical community,” Satterfield said.

“And that’s one of those things that starts to create those splits between the public and the medical world, and, you know, makes people distrustful of doctors.

There’s a long history to that.”

The relationship between a doctor and a body was very different back then from how it is now. In the 19th century, there was a large stigma associated with donating one’s body for dissection. This was largely due to the Christian belief that in the Second Coming, people would need their bodies intact in order to rise from the grave to heaven. As a result, the only legally-obtained cadavers at the time came from condemned criminals who would be forced into donating their bodies as an added punishment.

“And the kind of assumption, I think, in some of this, was that these were people who weren’t going to heaven

anyway,” Satterfield said. “So dissecting their bodies was not the same kind of desecration.”

Satterfield explained that now the view is very different.

“Now it’s considered a very honorable thing to donate your body to science,” Satterfield said. “It’s a very giving thing and the medical students are very respectful of the people who have done that, and they actually establish a relationship with the body.”

Satterfield used the story of Dartmouth’s grave robbing history to lead an exercise with first-year medical students in the “On Doctoring” course at Geisel.

Most of the students were very surprised by the 19th-century attitude. At that point, the students were dissecting cadavers, and they had a very different relationship with the bodies than the medical students in the 1800s would have had.

“Doing something like this with the first-year medical students was really an interesting experience, because they’re really having an emotional time dissecting a cadaver,” Satterfield said. “You’re confronted with a lot of issues that you’re going to have to deal with as a doctor.”

At the College, certain classes also offer undergraduates the opportunity to work with donated bodies. Kelly Bach ’16 has experienced this in her anthropology class “Human Functional Anatomy,” which holds certain x-hours in Geisel’s Cadaver Dissection Lab. She said that before her class worked with a body, the lab director explained who the donor was and how he or she passed away.

“They very much so make sure that we are very aware that this is a human being and that we have the reverence that we should have for what we’re working with and what we’re seeing,” she said.

Bach said she appreciated learning about the donor because it helped her to be in the right mindset during the dissection, which she found to be a very strong learning experience. As a student planning to attend medical school, she said that she has the utmost respect for those who choose to donate their bodies to science. She considers donation a very big sacrifice.

“I just think it’s really great that somebody can feel that they are going to be shaping what the future of medicine will look like in America and how future doctors will be able to function with their patients,” she said. “I think that on the whole, medical students are very grateful and very understanding of the sacrifices that these people have put in.”

Kathleen Rao/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF