The Dartmouth Mirror 05/08/15

MIRROR 05.08.2015

The ARt of Email|2

TTLG: HEnry Russell ’15 |3

STyle Watch|4-5

OUT OF STYLE |8 Shuoqi Chen/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

2// MIRROR

The Art of Email

EDITOR’S NOTE

SPOTLIGHT

Scene: Production night for The Mirror. Hanover sleeps.

Charlie snatches the computer from Maddie’s lap.

“We have to be efficient,” he yelps. “We are setting a timer for 20 minutes.”

For somebody on a perpetual power trip, Charlie has outdone himself with his propensity to bark commands at his fellow editor, whose name remains above his on the masthead.

What’s fueling his mania (besides the usual neuroses and obsessions)?

Oh, reader: Pray for humanity. Somebody lied at Charlie and described him as well-dressed, and as a result, the man’s ego — already blimp-like in size — has been growing by the minute.

What’s well-dressed about a guy who has been wearing schlumpy jeans in 80-degree weather?

When Charlie implored Maddie to describe his style, she responded, “Well, you’ve got your outfit on.”

This, from the woman who had previously told him, “Charlie, you’re really good at hating things.”

While Charlie was preening over his image, winking at himself in the mirror (haha!) and checking out his flabby dadbod (“Dadbod is in!” he smiles at himself), Maddie seized the opportunity to sneak in a feature on Taylor Swift.

While the dopey egoists are away, the mice will play.

Charlie might be woefully underqualified to come within a mile of the Style Issue, but thankfully, Maddie — who changes outfits approximately 20 times each day — was able to direct the magazine away from five articles about hipster socks and architecture.

Enjoy!

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MIRROR R MIRROR EDITORS MADDIE BROWN CHARLIE RAFKIN EDITOR-IN-CHIEF KATIE McKAY PUBLISHER JUSTIN LEVINE EXECUTIVE EDITORS LUKE McCANN JESSICA AVITABILE

How can I be trendier?

B y Sam Forstner

This is an age of brevity. Mounting time pressures shorten the day, and communication has become increasingly instantaneous and concise. In-person meetings become email threads, email threads become texting conversations and even written text often devolves into Emoji soup. On this campus, even the world “email” is clearly one syllable too long.

Blitz has long been a staple of Dartmouth culture — it serves as the primary medium for communication between students and their friends, professors and campus groups.

Yet Blitz’s central place in campus life brings unique perils. We must adopt different Blitz etiquettes in our daily interactions — since most of us would think it wise to keep the winky faces confined to messages with a crush rather than permit them to spill over into a note to a professor.

“To profs it’s always very respectful, like ‘dear professor’ and everything,” Clara Guo ’17 said about her own decorum when sending a blitz. “But to friends, it’s very little attention to grammar. A lot of GIFs, a lot of colors — it’s kind of fun.”

While email communication certainly varies based on the recipient of the message, many think of it as a casual mode of communication. While email might seem to be the a technological equivalent of a formal letter on paper, it is often used like any other messaging service, with the added benefit of having the entire student body at your fingertips.

“My emails are very colloquial. Lots of slang, lots of lowercase. Not very formal,” Kunal Rathi ’16 said.

Many students echoed Rathi when it comes to blitzing their friends. In the old days of the original BlitzMail, students often used emails in lieu of texts, using Blitz to make dinner plans, set up group projects and ascertain the general whereabouts of their friends.

Despite the ease that comes with each student having a cell phone, it seems texting hasn’t completely replaced Blitz.

“If a blitz is to friends, it’s just as casual, if not more casual, than texting,” Mayer Schein ’16 said.

Sali Tagliamonte, a linguistics professor at the University of Toronto and author of “So sick or so cool: Teen Language on the Internet,” said email has indeed become “the new letter writing.” To Tagliamonte, it remains more formal than texting on phones or computers. In her study, for example, she found that “LOL” was used more frequently than “haha” in instant messaging or texting, but less frequently than “haha” in emails.

One might question whether this increasing gravitation toward shortened forms of

What is the max number of T Sway songs can I play at a party?

Buy out Canada Goose — down vest, parka, windbreaker, the For all of you living under a rock, whole shebang. Better yet, because T Sway (T-Swiz, T-Swizzle, Tay, it’s sort of expensive and because TayTay, Swifty, Tayter Tot, T, they don’t make for good summer T-Sweezy or even Taylor Swift) is clothing, google “Canada Goose logo” the voice of our generation. She and print about 40 in var ying sizes. should be the ONLY musician Laminate these and tape them onto all played at par ties. Play the of your shorts, shoes, backpacks and same song on loop if you swimsuits to make you instantly stylish. are truly tr ying to turn up.

communications could cause a breakdown in the use of the English language, whether in daily conversation or academic writing.

Tagliamonte’s study suggests that email is used more formally than SMS or IM partly because “young people associate [email] with parents, professors and bosses.” Additionally, even though words and phrases change form (for example, “going to” becoming “gunna”), her study argues that “the grammar underlying the deployment of those forms remains stable.”

Despite its casual tone, email has not completely devolved into constant “LOLs” and “K.” Some students interviewed said they still write in proper English.

Bo Gibson ’16 and Adam Grounds ’16 both said they strive to maintain accurate spelling and grammar in email. Other students, however, shy away from the pressure to keep their writing so formal.

“People who tend to write more formally, the tone of their message feels a little more uptight. It feels more like a chat when you’re talking more informally,” Rathi said.

There are certain constructions and phrases that seem to be unique to Blitz at Dartmouth, and sometimes they carry over into daily spoken conversation.

Gibson said constructions like “@ now” or the use of the “@” symbol in general seem unique to Dartmouth, but that these phrases slip into students’ speech.

These sorts of phenomena, while often thought to be “email speak,” may not actually be caused by the form of communication itself. The phrase “@ now,” for example, seems to have become so ingrained in the student culture that it appears in conversation as often as in email. In this sense, Blitz may just be an extension of speech between students who happen to be in different rooms, and speech becomes a form of in-person, face-to-face Blitz-speak. New phrases and mannerisms flow freely between the two exchanges.

Are crocs out of style?

Definitely not. Any shoe that can be described as a foam clog should be kept in style. Even the word “croc” is catchy. You can wear them in the shower, to the gym, to parties and even to fancy dinners. (If you add Jibbitz and choose a sensible color like black, chocolate, khaki or cerulean blue.)

“On a meta level, blitz itself carries over into every day conversation,” Gibson said.

Rathi added that while he doesn’t see too much Dartmouth-specific jargon in email besides the aforementioned use of the “@” sign, he does like to mix in some West Coast slang like the word “hella” from time to time.

Blitz also prompts students to add a dose of personality to otherwise dry exchanges.

The way one chooses to begin or sign off emails is perhaps the simplest way to spice things up.

Gibson said he’s employs “cheers” as his sign-off, while Grounds described himself as more of a “best” person. Schein on the other hand said he prefers the slightly more heartfelt “All my love” from time to time.

For students and campus groups alike, having unique or funny emails is often a good way to accomplish a desired end, whatever it may be. There’s no denying that some Blitzes can be eye-catching — even if they may require a great deal of concentration to discern meaning from the cluster of letters and symbols bearing only vague resemblance the English language that lie within.

Guo said she noticed that one friend sends particularly startling blitzes.

“They’re punny in a clever way,” she said.

“Very colorful with lots of GIFs that I know she spends a lot of time finding.”

Despite the effort put into many emails by students and groups alike, though, the oversaturation of the campus Listserv has led to some criticism of Blitz as an institution in general.

Schein said that he simply doesn’t read most of his Blitzes, and Grounds added that has become accustomed to ignoring them altogether.

Read or not, people will continue to slave over their endless blitzes, overthinking whether or not to sign with best, cheers or respectfully. Cheers! (Or should I say Best Regards?)

Charlie Rafkin/THE DARTMOUTH SENIOR STAFF

MIRROR //3

The Other D-Style

THE D RUNS Campus’s favorite satirists turn their attention to Taylor Swift’s “Style.” THE SPOTLIGHT

B y Mary Liza AND Andrew Kingsley

Late night, Come and pick me up, let’s grab a bite.

Long line, Could end in mozz sticks or some Hop fries.

I look at you, oh, it’s been awhile since I have even seen boat shoes, seen boat shoes.

I guess now I know it’s spring ‘cause I’m Sporting 12 different toe rings And I see your ankle-sock tan line.

You are a salmon shorts, polo shirt, fresh kind of guy, And I got that sundress, J. Crew, look that you like.

And when we go into town, heads

turn on a dime.

We’re rocking that preppy style, We’re rocking that Sperry style.

He’s got that long hair, Tevas, Trips t-shirt.

We’re doing the Salty Dog and starting to flirt, And when we go stargazing, matching flannels each time.

We’re rocking that outdoors style, We’re rocking that Robo style.

So many Uggs Bean Boots, Timberlands, so warm and snug.

Walking home Lights are off, we’re taking off our coats.

I say, “I heard, oh, that Canada

Goose prices are out of this world, out of this world.”

He says, “What you’ve heard is true but it was a gift from my Aunt Sue,” and I...

I said, “I’ve heard that excuse few times.”

But he’s got that dry-cleaned ’15s sweater I like, And I got that North Face, skating on Occom’s ice.

And when we go crashing down, we get up every time.

We’re rocking that winter style.

We’re rocking that frostbite style.

He’s got that bright flair, dyed hair,

tie dye shirt, And I got that pink muumuu and a blazer from work.

And when we go dancing round, blame the boogie each time.

We’re rocking that H-Croo style, We’re rocking that rainbow style.

Welcome home, Oh welcome home, yeah.

Welcome home.

She’s got that high school, thinkI’m-cool look in your eye, And I got that lanyard, I’m scared, SOS vibe.

And when we unpack our stuff we meet for the first time.

We’re rocking that roommate style, We’re rocking freshman style.

NUMBERS 1988

The year that BlitzMail went live at Dartmouth

$845 The price of a Canada Goose Citadel fur-trimmed down parka

13

Tay l o r Sw i f t ’s lucky number

89 51

The percent of male students at Dartmouth in 1972 and 2014, respectively

$109 The price of 8” bean boots

Kathleen Rao/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

4// MIRROR

Style Watch SPOTLIGHT

B y Maggie Shields

Faith Rotich/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

For a casual look, Tyson Angeles sports a graphic tee with a hemp necklace and a bowler hat.

The student body was looking good on Monday. Maybe it was the glow from the remnants of a great weekend. Maybe it was excitement for the next round of midterms.

Or maybe it was the weather. After several weeks of questioning why this term is called “spring term” when there was still snow on the ground and nightly temperatures often below freezing, spring has officially sprung, and on Monday, the sun was out, the sky was blue and the Green looked kind of green in some places.

These last few weeks of the spring are really when student style is at its peak — well at least before finals period hits and the “I spent all night in the stacks with my Chemistry textbook and a box of Goldfish”

look dominates. The students I talked to dressed in a range of styles, from modern prints to vintage for girls and from pastels to eighties inspired outfits for guys. All of them were excited about what the warm weather meant for their style.

Emily Leede ’15 Describe your style.

EL: I like to pair indie and preppy looks together, so indie-prep.

What does your style say about you?

EL: I like the feminine edgy look, so I’m okay with being a girl but also strong.

Faith Rotich/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

Jessie Colin ’18 steps out in black fringe shorts, a floral print tank and red kicks.

Favorite Look?

EL: Dresses and skirts — anything with flowy fabrics.

Jessie Colin ’18 Describe your style.

JC: I just like to put on whatever. I have friends that describe my style as morph between different styles — one day I’ll be rocker, one day I’ll be hippie, one day I’ll be whatever. So I like to think I don’t have a set definition of style.

What does your style say about you?

JC: It says I like to be an individual and wear weird clothes and be fun and expressive.

Faith Rotich/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

Ruben Gallardo ’18 dresses in pastel pink shorts, a crisp white button down, boat shoes and aviators.

What does your style say about you?

RG: It says that I care about how I look. It shows that I put some effort in.

What inspires you?

RG: Probably my friend. I have a friend who is very fashiony, and he is really into designer names and he kind of goes above and beyond.

I look at him, and I admire his sense of style.

Favorite item?

RG: Mustard-color pants. I like the fit. I like how they look and that I can match them with a bunch of things.

George Wilson ’16

What inspires you?

JC: Different personas that people have, trying on different aspects of style that you see around you.

Describe your style.

GW: It really depends on my mood. Most of my style tends towards chic. I wear heels a lot. I wear like simple jewelry.

Ruben Gallardo ’18

What does your style say about you?

GW: I’m not afraid to wear what I want to wear, I think I dress a bit differently from the majority of the Dartmouth population because I’m not from here, but I wear it anyway.

Describe your style.

RG: Trendy. I would say I look at different types of styles and pick what I like best from each of them.

MIRROR //5

What inspires you?

GW: I love tropical prints and tropical style a lot. The hipster chic that you see in New York with the very chunky boots, It inspires me, I can’t really pull it off but I like to add little elements of that especially in the winter — it’s so hard to be stylish in winter.

Favorite Season?

GW: Summer because there are so many different styles of summer clothes and you can layer. You can wear different kinds of shoes.

Vivek Venkataraman, Ph.D. student in ecology and evolutionar y biology Describe your style.

VV: I don’t like categories in general.

What does your style say about you?

VV: I was teaching. It reflects professionalism, rather bland basically, neutral. This isn’t what I would wear on a daily basis. I would wear jeans and a white T-shirt or a flannel shirt.

What inspires you?

VV: I work with hunter-gatherers in Malaysia and Africa. I just got back from the field, and so I’m imitating one of my field assistant’s haircuts with my mohawk.

Jongmin Char ’15 Describe your style.

JC: Classic. I like to choose pieces that will not go out of fashion easily.

What does your style say about you?

JC: I think it says I’m organized. I like basic pieces that can be accessorized.

What inspires you?

JC: Europe inspires me. I studied abroad in France and in London, and I think I picked up a lot of style cues from there.

Favorite item of clothing?

JC: I like my sundresses. I really like this right now because it’s such a ray of sunshine.

Tyson Angeles, College staf f member Describe your style.

TA: Very random and outgoing, colors really influence me.

What does your style say about you?

TA: It says that I’m an old soul ­— I take things from the ’20s and the ’80s. Today was kind of more modern, usually I look at Jimi Hendrix a lot.

What inspires you?

Faith Rotich/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

Ph.D. student Vivek Venkataraman rocks a mohawk with a plaid shirt and cuffed pants.

TA: For sure Jimi Hendrix 100 percent. I don’t feel like genders clothes should matter.

I wear women’s clothes too, not dresses or anything but you know like coats and stuff.

I like to alter my clothes too so Jimi Hendrix is also a big inspiration.

Faith Rotich/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

George Wilson ’16 pairs a tribal-printed skirt with a white blouse and chunky wedges.

Favorite clothing?

TA: Australian cowboy hat. I made this hemp band around the top of it and probably my belt-scarf thing that I wear.

These interviews have been edited and contensed.

Faith Rotich/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

Jongmin Char ’15 wears a classic yellow and white sundress. Her style, she said, suggests she is organized.

6// MIRROR

Through the Looking Glass The Great Ashley SPOTLIGHT

B y Henry Russell

Ashley was a green light I never expected.

It was the end of my freshmen fall, and I was doing my best to woo an unreadable woman with blue eyes intense as a lion’s — the very same woman it seemed every guy on the cross country team was chasing. Ashley (whose name I’ve changed for this piece) wasn’t on my radar, except as another upperclassman runner, the one with unusually perfect skin who sat alone early in the mornings at Collis reading film reviews in The New York Times.

Ashley crashed into my world on one of the last nights of that term. I’d been following Lion Eyes from fraternity to fraternity, sipping beers as she got drunk and danced with me in that terrible just-friends sort of way. Ashley was there too, but I paid her little attention. At some point maybe we danced or shared a joke about a term paper I’d yet to start, though I can’t quite recall.

At the end of the night lion eyes was coming into what my dad would call “rare form.” Ashley and I walked her back to her dorm where Ashley, who was a type of older-sister figure on the team, said she wanted to sleep over to keep an eye on her. And then, as that door swung closed, I caught Ashley looking back. There was the sudden flick then casual roll of the eyes that seemed to say “Sorry, champ — let’s do it another time,” and as I walked home under the warm glow of the streetlamps I wondered at those eyes and just what “it” might be.

I didn’t have to wonder long. The team Christmas party was the next night.

At the party, Ashley was wearing her ugliest Christmas sweater, laughing with her group of older girlfriends as I played it cool by the stairs. I didn’t drink much in those days, and I was nursing a beer for show and leaning back against the wooden railing when Ashley appeared before me.

There was a cut on the left of her bottom lip and it was a swollen and purple.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” I said.

She laughed and her perfect skin went a little red at her cheeks and she said, “I ran into a sign.” It’s strange, but in that moment thinking about Ashley nailing her face on a road sign that morning seemed like the cutest thing in the world.

“So what are you doing standing all alone?” she said.

And I delivered a line for the ages.

“Waiting for you,” I said, and then I kissed her, swollen lip and all.

All I thought about over the Christmas holiday was Ashley, but, whether it was the time apart, the absence of that magical end-of-term euphoria or my own cowardice, I found, when I returned, I could barely get myself to speak to her.

Still, there was a silver lining: We were in the same creative writing class.

We didn’t sit next to each other. We didn’t get lunch or coffee afterward. I watched her from across the table, and I wrote for her — stories of fishing with my father and fist fights with hulking drunks, all at once fictions and yet half-truths I hoped she’d read and come to see me as not only a skilled writer but a man in the truest sense. I was writing the meat-and-potatoes Henry, the boy with an iron spirit and a 10-inch you-know-what.

And it was all for Ashley.

We ran into each other in the library one night and she said, “How are ya,’ Hemingway?” which I took as a compliment and then she said, “I’ll be Fitzgerald.”

I gave her a blank stare. I’m embarrassed to say it, but, yours truly, the Henry who spent the rest of his time at Dartmouth writing short story

after short story and reading every modernist text he could get his hands on, had no clue who F. Scott Fitzgerald was.

Ashley prompted me: “Ever heard of ‘The Great Gatsby?’”

“Oh, ‘Gatsby,’” I said. “Skipped that one in high school.”

The look on her face was of shock, almost disgust. The conversation ended awkwardly and as soon as she was out of sight I went straight into the stacks, pulled “Gatsby” and checked it out at the front desk.

I found Ashley studying alone in the lobby. I gathered my courage and sat down across from her and, without a word, I took out the book and I started to read. I had made it past the first party scene (“The description of the orange peels is my favorite,” Ashley said and I agreed), and then I walked her home and we kissed under the eaves.

“Lip’s a little less bloody this time,” I said and she laughed and when the door closed behind her I pumped my fist to the sky. Hemingway was back in the game, baby.

But the next day I sat again across the long table. Once more the green light drifted away as green lights are known to do.

There was just something about Ashley that made her unapproachable. Every woman on the cross country team looked up to her and I looked up to her though I couldn’t admit it. She was funny in a raunchy yet clever way. She was a great, great writer, and looking back, I wish I’d had the humility to let her know that.

One frigid afternoon I was running alone along the river in Vermont and, nearing the great Ledyard Bridge back into Hanover, I saw Ashley’s determined, shuffling stride churning along ahead of me.

“Hey, old sport,” I said as I came up behind her and she smiled and we were closing in on the bridge together when we saw what looked like a black plastic bag dangling from the center of the bridge, twirling in the wind high over the ice.

But as we ran along the path under the bridge we saw it was no bag, but rather a pigeon that had hung itself by mistake from a piece of string it was using to build its nest.

We stopped and we looked at it twirling there in the wind. The bird’s family — a mother and two little baby pigeons — was huddled against the cold in the nest above their dead, hanging patriarch.

We ran home in silence, chilled by the dark omen, and when we parted ways at campus I found a peculiar idea had come over me.

I wanted to cut down the bird.

The next morning I ran out under the bridge again. I watched the pigeon spinning over the frozen Connecticut for a long while. I made some calculations in my head. The bird was maybe 60 feet out, near the dead center of the bridge. The drop from where the bird hung to the ice below maybe 25 or 30 feet.

“Ah s--t,” I said and ran straight back up the hill.

But the next morning I walked out to the bridge again, this time with a friend, and I asked him, “Is it worth the risk?” and he looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Jesus Henry. Don’t risk your life for a dead bird,” and I said, “what about for Ashley?” and he said, “you’re an idiot, you know that Henry,” and so, once more, I walked back up the hill.

Over the course of the next week I took a new approach to the bird. I began to write a story — the story, of course, of the boy who finds a

hanging bird and cuts it down. Late one frigid Tuesday night I finished the story, and when the thing was done, I felt for the first time one of the most magical things about writing — the way it can change a person, change life really.

I set out alone into the night and down the hill to Vermont.

In the black underbelly of the bridge, I could feel my heart beating in my throat. My hands were sweating through my gloves and the sweat was freezing so the gloves stuck to the metal of the rafters as I climbed. I crouched and began to edge out over the ice. Inch by terrible inch I went and I was breathing hard with the effort and the fear. My eyes were only now adjusting to the dark. I came around a support beam that forced me to hang suspended in the air for a terrifying second and then I looked down and saw a stream of water running through the ice below. I felt the greatest fear of my life knowing that with one slip I would fall, break through the ice and be frozen and dead in a matter of minutes. But there was no turning back.

At last I approached the nest and I looked upon the bird, that dark ballerina pirouetting over the ice. A heavy step and the family of pigeons woke to my presence. The mother cooed and flapped her wings and shuffled the two children out of the nest, further down the ledge away from me. The family of birds watched in wonder as I reached out my hand and grabbed the string that held the hanging bird. I saw how it was tangled in his beak and then wrapped around his neck. I freed the line from the nest of twigs and held the weight of the bird in my hand and it was heavier than I’d expected. The bird’s tiny eyes were jet black, frozen beads that glinted in the moonlight. I made my way back over the rivulet of water that ran through the ice, aimed and dropped him. He hit the water with a soft kerplunk, resurfaced and floated off into the dark.

The next day, I turned my story in for the class to read.

Ashley sent me a message that afternoon: “You didn’t really climb out to get the bird did you?”

And in a final attempt at heroic mystery I didn’t ever answer that question — well, until now, I guess, in this piece of writing, three-and-a-half years later.

There have been other green lights since Ashley. There was a great runner I drove away

with overeager pursuit. A summer romance with a fisherman’s daughter I never quite caught the big one for.

And then there was something new.

I met a girl with whom it was easy. We spent two years together, best friends, lovers, family.

I knew her darkest secrets and she knew mine.

I sobbed for her and I laughed for her. Mornings I awoke in her arms, fell back into them with night. And then, only a few months ago, we realized the timing of our imagined future just wasn’t right. She was working a 9 to 5 and I was a senior here with dreams of the great American novel. Caught up in our pursuits, we let each other go.

On the day we broke up, I sat alone in my room and listened to Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks” (1975) the album my dad once said I would only understand when I experienced my first true heartbreak, when I lost the One — or at least a One. So I listened and I cried a bit and I sang the words whose terrible majesty I was only now able to comprehend when all of a sudden I found myself surprised to be thinking of Ashley.

It’s funny, I guess, because I hadn’t thought about Ashley in years. Still, I found myself thinking it strange just how much she changed me.

It was for Ashley that I learned to read in the careful way I do today, for Ashley that I became a writer. And of course, it was for Ashley that I cut down that bird, that long lost act of strange heroism whose truest motive even I couldn’t fully comprehend.

And so I sat there, listening to Dylan wail on over the speakers and I wondered at the extraordinary ride that is our lives here. Mercy to the flick of eyes, these simplest twists of fate, we fall into green lights and then, if we’re lucky, find ourselves tangled up in blue. All the while we beat on, blind skippers at the helms of boats we hardly know we’re in. We hold tight the tiller and — if we’re wise or reckless or maybe both — we seek out those moments when we must venture under the dark bridges within ourselves and find the courage to act in ways we’ll never quite understand but will know in our hearts are necessary.

You know I saw a pigeon the other day, pecking in the dirt down by the river, and when I jogged by him he looked up at me.

I caught his black eyes just long enough to imagine him saying, “Thanks, old sport.”

Alice Harrison/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF

A woman Henry Russell ’15 met during his freshman year shaped his time at the College.

FRIDAYS WITH MARIAN

Boots and RallIES COLUMN

MIRROR //7

By Aaron Pellowski

COLUMN By Marian Lurio

A lot has happened in the past week.

There were casualties, and there were controversies. But this reporter has lived to die another day.

For reasons that I don’t understand, on Saturday night many of my peers (on payper-view) and celebrities/high-rollers (at the ring in Las Vegas via private jet) watched “the fight.” Yes, this is how people referenced the much-hyped boxing match between Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao.

TBH, Phil invited me to a viewing party at the prez’s residence with Gail (obvi) and some other cool peeps (can I say Wes Schaub and his weiner dog?), but I don’t support extreme behaviors like physical violence, whether inside or outside the Dartmouth bubble.

Oh, Phil! Why did you have to invite me to a boxing match? Declining my darling’s invitation because of my moral conviction might be the hardest thing I’ve had to do at this school.

Like Miss America contestants throughout the years, I dream only of world peace and love shared among all people. Unlike Miss America contestants throughout the years, I also dream of sharing that love with one person in particular — a mustached College president.

I can just envision us huddled around the fire, watching something — anything — other than boxing.

Here in America, people bet on the boxing match. Simultaneously, our friends across the pond bet on the name of the British royal baby. I would be remiss not to mention the crowning of a new princess.

(Yes, that was a vaginal-royal double entendre.)

Princess Charlotte Elizabeth Diana (Like, really? This kid can’t catch a break!) emerged from Kate Middleton’s birth canal on May 2. It’s amazing how refreshed Kate Middleton looks ever y time (the two times) she leaves the hospital post-childbirth.

Even on my best non-pregnant day, I’ll never glow/radiate beauty like that woman.

Or perhaps there is something more nefarious than merely post-baby glow in the works. I suspect the Duchess of Cambridge (?) is drugged up post-child (…).

I feel similar sentiments about the 101-year-old Nepalese man who was saved from underneath rubble an entire week after the devastating earthquake. How does a 101-year-old sur vive that? His stor y puts Kate Middleton and her placenta to shame!

Perhaps most radiant of all this week were the Met Ball attendees. But seriously why did so many women who attended the prestigious event show up naked with bedazzled items barely covering up their goodies? I had thought the Met Ball was a

classier affair. I think once Anna Wintour allowed Kanye to bring Kim to the ball a few years ago, the risque factor has hit critical levels. If only Anna Wintour — the inspiration for Mer yl Streep’s betchy character in “The Devil Wears Prada” (2006) — had taken to this trend. Gotta show off those cur ves, Anna!

I think this is the appropriate moment for a little sexual education. A high school in Texas that doesn’t teach sex ed is having an STD crisis. Herpes? The clap? Crabs?

Nope. There is currently a chlamydia crisis in Crane, Texas. I hear if you’re going to get an STD, this is a good one to get. If only they had Coach Carr from Mean Girls to educate them on the topic.

Much like here at Dartmouth, students and townies alike live and breathe football in Texas.

F the Patriots, am I right?

Speaking of cheating, Tiger Woods and Lindsey Vonn have ended their three-year relationship. This break-up went a lot smoother than Tiger’s breakup with his then-wife Elin Nordegren, who famously chased and hit Tiger’s car with golf clubs as he drove away after his sexual deviancies had been revealed to the world.

Time for Tiger to find another hole to fill, I guess.

On the topic of modes of transportation: Despite his desperate appeals to minority voters, Rand Paul went on the radio show of esteemed Dartmouth alum Laura Ingraham ’85 and said that he was happy a train he was on didn’t stop in Baltimore. Hmm. Also this week, some of New Jersey governor Chris Christie’s people have been implicated in the Bridgegate scandal.

In my opinion, Christie is probably guilty of some shady business. I must, however, put my feelings aside and embrace the man who governs the greatest state in the land.

Just don’t block the Jersey Turnpike this summer when I head to the shore, and we won’t have a problem, CC. And for a while, I thought Rick Santorum had also put his feelings aside. Santorum, not exactly known for being open-minded, said that he believed that, if Bruce Jenner says he (Bruce still wants to be referred to by this pronoun for the time being) is a woman, then Santorum thinks he’s a woman.

To my dismay, Santorum clarified his earlier comments via — how else? — Facebook.

The God-fearing senator posted on his page, “Many of you may have read a stor y published by the website BuzzFeed where I was asked for my thoughts regarding Bruce Jenner. My comment affirmed Jenner as a person, made by God in His likeness as we all are. It was meant to express empathy not a change in public policy. #compassion.”

A friend of mine recently shared a theory of his with me that a better outcome of World War I would have ended with the German army successfully taking Paris and stopping right there. Paris, he explained, is an unreal city, but it is unfortunately full of French people who are lazy and rude. If we could have the best of both worlds — that is, all the resplendent French art and architecture but populated and governed by friendly and efficient Germans — that’d be a place worth staking out for one’s expatriate days. Since I know little about history or the character of the contemporary French, I have to stay neutral with respect to this theory’s credibility. Yet one point of credit that I’ve come across in the past week seems to vindicate the French at least a pinch in my esteem.

American teenagers are wont to deploy the abbreviation “ilu” in text messages to one another. Like most of these abbreviations, such as “lol,” “brb,” “srs,” “gj” and the rest of that ilk, I find “ilu” a hideous piece of language. I cannot imagine a 17-year-old boy with tears streaming down his Dorian face, calling up to the object of his infatuation on a cold Italian spring night, “Silvia, Silvia, ilu! ilu!” That sounds stupid. French teenagers, by contrast, apparently text each other “jtm,” which is short for “je t’aime” ­— French for “I love you.” Something about the aesthetics of “jtm” screws the flimsy “ilu” into the ground.

It comes across as so much more tender and bold.

I’m fascinated by the language of love. My opinions on the topic are about as strong — and as arbitrary — as any of the others that you’ve seen printed here, week by week. For instance, in the dull-brained bookworm’s favorite coming-of-age movie, “Dead Poets Society” (1989), Robin Williams’ character declares before a room’s worth of malleable young male sexuality that “language was invented for one reason, boys — to woo women — and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do.”

This line, which has enjoyed a memetic apotheosis on internet sharing platforms, makes my heart bristle and curdle. However earnest the sentiment is meant to be, it’s terrifically reductive and — though I promised myself I’d never put this word in a “Boots and Rallies” column ­­— so heteronormative as to be boring. Read “The Invention of Love” by Tom Stoppard, set in various periods of the life of A. E. Housman, author of “A Shropshire Lad,” formidable classicist and hopeless lover of his best friend Moses Jackson. Also in the play is a young Oscar Wilde — the most prolific proponent of dandyism — and like Housman, a gifted student of Greek and Latin. Both of them turned to the Roman poets who wrote impeccable verse expressing adoration for their young male lovers and both framed their

lifestyles (quite literally) along those lines. The love poem was invented to woo men, not solely women.

But if my qualms were only about identity and sexual politics, I doubt I’d have much to say that would be worth reading — ­ I just wanted to tip my hat to a literary tradition that I respect and which engrosses me. I have more to say about how to use the word love, and when and to whom. In a somewhat less recent conversation with another friend, I asked what love meant to her — since to me, it’s always denoted a kind of desperation and dependence that is only periodically satisfied.

Is that what it’s like for you? No, she said. For her it’s not like that at all. It’s just the feeling of incredulity at another person’s existence, that they truly awe and astound you to a degree at which you forget yourself and only wonder how such a human being could be.

No one’s definition of love is the same as another’s, and no one uses the word consistently. I love reading, but that’s different from how I love my friends, or even specific friends whom I love in different ways. It’s all different from how O.T. Genasis is in love with the CoCo, or how Machiavelli loved his native city of Florence more than his own soul. Normally I am quite insistent about the consistent use of words. I don’t like appeals to “usage” or terms that deviate from etymological origins — not a particularly fashionable stance in this age of strident relativism and deconstruction. But if love is my first religion, language is my second, and my faith will not be corroded by anything.

Love, though, is exceptional, in this and in every respect. I don’t think it matters that the word refers to uncountable emotions (there is at least one definition of love for every love poem written, if not more.) And it’s just because the one thing I will positively and affirmatively attribute to the word is the spirit of the limitless and infinite ­— love is the opposite of definition. So as concerned as I am with saying and knowing and making known exactly what I mean whenever I speak, I leave the “love” in “I love you” up for interpretation, lest the paralysis of ambiguity leave it out of my vocabulary altogether.

At the end of my favorite movie, “Beauty and the Beast” (1991), Belle kneels down in the rain beside the Beast’s expiring body. For the first time, she feels like she can give a word to the “something there that wasn’t there before,” and, crying, whispers to him that she loves him. Suddenly the sky clears and he is transformed back into a prince, and happily ever after, yadda. Who knows if she knew just what she meant when she confessed? I don’t suppose it mattered to anything or anyone except the spell of the enchantress. Magic only responds to magic.

8// MIRROR

Out of Style SPOTLIGHT

B y Lindsay Keare

Fashions come into style all the time, and they often go out of style just as easily — the hairstyles you’ll find in a quick leaf through the 1988 College yearbook confirm that in a heartbeat. Other changes at the College, though, are not quite as easy to spot with the naked eye. Here, we take a closer look at changes to how students have communicated over the years, what the most facetimey spots have been and how the job market has evolved.

In the second decade of the 21st centur y, it’s easy to take for granted the ease with which we can get in touch with our friends, plan meeting spots for group projects, organize a reunion dinner at Collis or meet up in the same fraternity basement on an out night. It has not always been as simple as sending “foco @ 6?” in a group text. Can you imagine if walking to a friend’s room were one of the only ways to meet up?

“My to-be wife would come find me and say, ‘Let’s get dinner,’” Steve Severson ’74 said.

Something like a real-life Facebook status, students would often write notes about their whereabouts on whiteboards on the doors of their dorm rooms. The whiteboard method wasn’t instantaneous, though, and students had to rely on trust and a little bit of luck, often struggling to meet up as planned.

“If you left that place [where you said you were going to be], there was no way to tell anyone that you had changed venues,” Jill Morgan ’85 said. (Full disclosure, Morgan is my mother.)

If you complain about living in the River Cluster now, imagine how much harder it was for your friends to find you back when changing your whiteboard message would require a long, cold walk for BOTH of you.

Morgan noted that one of her friends had a Mac computer by her senior year, but that it was just for basic word processing and didn’t necessarily make it any easier to get in touch with her friends.

By the early 2000s, Dartmouth’s famous Blitzmail system was in full swing. Mar y McVeigh ’03 explained that without wireless internet, students had to go to physical

locations in order to check their email.

“Blitz terminals all over campus were the way to get in touch,” she said.

The blitz terminals in Baker-Berr y Librar y are likely a leftover from the heyday of Blitzmail. In those days, the messages exchanged over email ser ved the same function as the text messages we send today.

“If I sent a blitz that said, ‘Want to meet at Collis in 20 minutes?’ I could reasonably expect that you would receive it in time and be able to respond,” McVeigh said.

Cellphones were just starting to become popular on campus then, too. McVeigh and many of her friends got phones going into the 2002 winter term, but they were only used for calls. Sadly, Hanover had spotty cell ser vice that made the devices largely useless anyway.

“My phone was always roaming, and I basically didn’t use it at all,” McVeigh said.

Although our campus now uses Microsoft Outlook — the system is technically no longer “blitz” — this system is only a few years old. Keith Moffat ’13 remembers the old version of blitzmail.

“It looked really janky and was really janky in pretty much ever y way, but it brought the community together because ever yone used it,” Moffat said. “Back in my day, blitz was actually blitz.”

Moffat also cited GroupMe as a great new form of communication that has come about since he matriculated.

While the way we communicate where we are on campus has changed over the years, so have the places students go on campus to see and be seen. When Severson attended the College in the 1970s, the librar y appears to have been a more studious space than it can claim to be today.

“People usually dispersed pretty well in the librar y and went to a study place,” Severson said.

McVeigh and Morgan cited the 1902 Room, formerly called the “’02 Room” as one of the facetimiest places on campus while they were students. Both women stressed that this was simply where they went, and did not necessarily represent the feelings

of the whole student body.

“Ever y time someone walked in you would raise your head and see who it was,” Morgan said, noting that she and her friends would often meet there before going to hang out in dorms or at parties.

While the 1902 Room certainly can’t be called the most facetimey place in the librar y anymore (looking at you, FFB), rubbernecking ever y time the door opens is a trend that has definitively not gone out of style. McVeigh said that Novack Cafe became the spot to hang out after Berr y Librar y opened following her freshman year. More square footage of librar y clearly means more places to be seen, leaving the 1902 room’s place of facetime glor y (and its rise in popularity for miserable students pulling all-nighters) in the 20th centur y.

Moffat highlighted the rising popularity of eating establishments as the places where people go to be facetimey.

“The new [Class of 1953 Commons] is pretty conducive to running into people, [whereas] the old FoCo was kind of fragmented,” Moffat said.

Perhaps one of least visible changes on campus has been a shift in post-graduation jobs. While certain things are like a classic pair of blue jeans and will likely never go out of style (read: New York and Boston for post-grad cities, medical school and finance jobs), other trends are on the rise.

In the 1970s, people did not usually take time between college and graduate school.

“People going to [medical] school and law school and business school tended to wait less between undergraduate and graduate school,” Severson said. “Now I think they take more time off.”

Center for Professional Development senior associate director Monica explained that students are now taking less time off during the summers.

“Many years ago you’d see more students who took the summer off to travel or have fun and didn’t worr y about getting a job when they graduated,” she said. “Now there are many more employers who look at an intern as a potential entr y-level hire so they’re using an internships as a screening

process and have fewer entr y level jobs to offer to seniors.”

In addition, the jobs market has expanded for out-of-college hires in recent years.

“Private equity and venture capital opportunities that never used to be open to college students are becoming more common,” Wilson said.

Wilson has also noticed a shift toward more students working on the West Coast after they depart Hanover. Indeed, the culture of Silicon Valley has had an increasing impact on students looking for employment.

Wilson cited the career fair in the fall as evidence.

“On the second day [of the fair] there was a room for start ups and early-stage organizations,” Wilson said. “You wouldn’t have seen that in years past.”

Paper resumes are also on the decline, a welcome boon for the Center for Professional Development, which used to send out stacks and stacks of resumes and cover letters for students.

“I think the resume is quickly going the way of the dinosaur and that LinkedIn profiles are going to be the way to go,” Wilson said.

We think of Dartmouth as a place where traditions stay strong, but the fact of the matter is, things that were once cool here don’t always stay that way. But if things like flare bottom jeans are any indication, a decade from now things we currently scorn could once again be “Trending@ Dartmouth.”

Stephanie Ng/THE DARTMOUTH STAFF