barefoot@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Fri, 03 Jun 2011 05:47:00 +0000

I'm sure you've noticed, dear readers, that I've been neglecting postings as of late. I kept trying to think of things to write about: new things I've discovered about Dartmouth, new experiences and adventures that have taught me something utterly unique about the College on the Hill. It's not that I don't have anything to say - I do. It's just that there have been a few things keeping me from writing.

First, discovering things about Dartmouth means necessarily being separate from it: it wouldn't be called discovery if you were already a part of that which you were exploring. And I feel as though, after two years here, discoveries about Dartmouth are fairly indistinguishable from discoveries about myself - and I have yet to decide whether or not I want to share those discoveries here.

Which leads me to my second point: although Dartmouth is a wonderful place, it's also a small place. Living here is like living in a petri dish - and that analogy works on so many levels. (The first time I went to office hours with my English professor this term, for instance, he told me that he'd read my blog.) I've often wondered if there's a way to be a social person here without encountering uninvited criticism and scrutiny... I imagine this statement could be misconstrued in a thousand different ways, but each of them would only serve to prove my point, I think. So no matter what I write, I feel, someone will have something bad to say about it, and about me, or about both - and that's rather paralyzing, especially for someone who seeks only to be a positive force (or, at the very least, an unobtrusive presence) in people's lives.

Third, I don't know how much more I can say about Dartmouth that's appropriate for an admissions website. Of course, Dartmouth is a charming little collective of brick buildings tucked away amongst the pine trees of New Hampshire where eager, bright-eyed students toddle off to class in the mornings. But Dartmouth is also the inspiration for Animal House. There seems to be this fine line between "selling" the college to prospective students like yourselves and letting you know what you're really buying. Yes, you're going to be receiving a world-class education with a walk-in closet and a full bath - but you might also get a mundane lecture of 100 disinterested, hungover students with a drippy faucet and the occasional mouse. You'll get friendly, kind, interesting, compassionate peers - but you'll also get bored@baker (look it up... trust me).

When people ask me what I want to do after college, I used to say that I wanted to go to University of Chicago and get a PhD in English and become a prof and live in a quiet little house built fifty years before I was born. Now I tell them I want to live in a field, off the grid, exploring and adventuring and misadventuring. I say this now because the thought of three more years of school after these four years feels absolutely excruciating. It seems nearly impossible to me to balance what I want to do and what I have to do - and I think I have a lot more what-I-want-to-do to get out of my system before I can move on to the obligatory. And I want to live in a field because I want to live alone - I want to escape the endless exhaustion that comes with participating in a community every hour of the day. I'm fascinated by the possibility of it, by the limitless freedom of choice - by this I don't mean physical or logistical choice, but rather ideological decision: I want to think everything, an everything unconstrained by the linguistic and geographical and social limits of an institution - any institution.

"Do you think it'd be different at any other school?" my roommate asked me.
"No," I said. "I don't."

vegetarian@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 00:43:00 +0000

About halfway through my freshman fall, I became a vegetarian. I sat down one day with a group of friends at Homeplate (one of the dining areas on campus that, thanks to a series of complex and unnavigable renovations has recently been transformed into some sort of hidden Narnia behind Food Court), my plate heavy with roast beef and mashed potatoes, like those of so many other people around me. I began to cut into the first piece, a deep, red liquid spilling out over the white ceramic.

"What is that?" I asked my friend sitting next to me.
"...blood?" he said.

In that moment, I realized that I was eating an animal. Not Animals, captial-A, abstraction, but a specific animal, an individual, a living creature - just like me. I quietly finished my mashed potatoes.

And that's what I've been doing ever since - quietly finishing my mashed potatoes. I was never an outspoken vegetarian; when people asked me about my choice, I skirted the question; I wasn't sure why, I just knew how I felt. But recently, I've decided to become more outspoken about not eating meat. I realized that every time I got a meal with someone, I was witnessing them making a choice about food - we were participating in a ritualistic cultural act together; we were each other's audiences, both of our meals and our conversations.

"Can we go to FoCo for dinner tonight?" my friend asked.
"Why?" I countered. "Do they have anything good?"
"They have tuna!"
Much in the manner of someone who throws red paint on people wearing fur, I responded "Do you know how many dolphins died to make that tuna possible?"
Needless to say, we went to FoCo, and she got the tuna.

Yet I remained undeterred - I wanted people to be informed about their food choices; I wanted them to know what I knew about factory farms, about animal cruelty, about sustainable agriculture. A fresh can of paint in my hand, I persisted.

"Hey, how are you? I haven't seen you in ages!" I had run into an acquaintance in FoCo.
"I'm good, I'm good... just about to order a chicken sandwich..." he said inconsequentially.
I thought for a moment. "Can I tell you something about your chicken?"
"Er... I guess?"
"Seriously, tell me if you don't want to know. I don't have to tell you." And I meant it - I didn't want to ruin his dinner without his permission.
"No, go ahead."
I grinned. "Your chicken is 11% feces-infected water!" I stated proudly.
"It's what?"
And I told him about USDA regulations, and how in fact it's encouraged to contaminate chickens like that during slaughter, and on and on until I could tell I had gotten my point across. I apologized for spoiling his chicken sandwich and wished him a good dinner.
A few minutes later, I was sitting down with my friends; I heard someone call my name.
"Alexis!" I turned. "I got a veggie burger!"

Chicken Sandwich Boy had gotten a veggie burger. I had convinced someone, even for just one meal, to choose not to eat meat. The feeling still sticks with me - I felt that if I could make one change like that, I could make a thousand changes like that. If I made a thousand changes, that might add up to one big change, like a factory farm going out of business. Even if it only mattered to Chicken Sandwich Boy and me, I made a difference.

And it struck me that that difference couldn't have happened anywhere - at Dartmouth, people are willing to listen. Even if the vast majority of my friends currently and will continue to eat meat, they're still interested in other perspectives, other approaches to what seems like an almost intuitive thing. In talking to my friends about vegetarianism, I've come to realize a new dimension to my friendships at Dartmouth: classrooms are a wonderful forum for sharing ideas, but so are dining halls, dorm rooms, and the Green. I can't say with certainty that this pervasive intellectual curiosity - the need-to-know-why - is particular to Dartmouth; the only certainty that I have is that at Dartmouth, that curiosity is met with encouragement, with eager ears, open arms, and a critical eye. Dear Old Dartmouthians not only genuinely care about each other; we are sincerely interested in each other's ideas, passions, and pipe dreams. Which is why I can eat a veggie sandwich while my best friend sits across the table eating a tuna steak, and we can still have an amazing conversation.

away(from)dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 07:04:00 +0000

We smiled knowingly at each other as he began pushing the shopping cart. I jumped on the front; he pushed faster. A familiar song from our childhood played hazily from the speaker system: we sing to each other. (There are no other PriceChopper customers in sight to judge us.) We go down aisle after aisle, picking up boxes of cookies, putting them back, taking three more of a different brand; we get peanut butter, chocolate, cheese, hummus; we fill our cart knowing we will eat like Snack Food Kings through finals period. At the checkout counter we try to convince the cashier to give us all of the leftover baguettes for free -- he counters with the reasonable point that he could lose his job. As we drove home through the dull New Hampshire dark, I said, "Thanks so much for this. It was really nice to get away from Hanover for a little while."

Away-from-Hanover, in this case, meant a 20-minute trek to a prep school 20 minutes south of Dartmouth to see my friend's high school play. They were performing "Sweeny Todd"; he needed a car, and I needed a break -- and so we went. The closer we got to the school, the more reminiscent he became: "Look at the view!" he cried. "There is no view..." I said, looking off into the black trees. "No, it's coming up! Wait for it.... wait for it... NOW!" and, sure enough, a sloping campus revealed itself from amidst the trees, shining and warm on the hillside.

As we walked into the theatre, I felt immediately out of place. Everyone else was, for those familiar with uniforms, in "Friday Dress" -- suits for men, dresses for women. I was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and snowboots. And yet, I was almost glad to stand out; I was not only a play-watcher, I was a people-watcher, borne back into the world of high school theatre once again, witnessing the glimmering eagerness of being-out-on-a-school-night, of classmates in costume, of mingling with teachers under the equalizing gaze of the proscenium. During intermission, I smiled nostalgically at the over-tight dresses of the girls, at the ill-fitting suits of the boys: at the performative insecurity of high school. When the show ended, the actors poured out into the auditorium, not even changing out of their costumes before rushing into the open arms of friends and family.

And I remembered my days in high school spent rehearsing; my nights eating Subway for dinner on the way home; the chilling anticipation of before each show and the kindness of teachers in assigning less homework over opening weekend. I remembered the communal joy of being a part of a production, of traveling to other schools, treading the fine line of support and scoping-out-the-competition. But most of all, I remembered the divided life of high school: time between home and classes, friends you only see during the day, family dinners at night, homework done at the kitchen counter or at your father's desk. It all felt so utterly different from Dartmouth -- from the 24-hour day, from all-nighters and everything unsupervised.

I found myself struck by the notion that as much as high school can try to prepare you for college, it never will. And perhaps that's why it was so nice to get away from Dartmouth for an evening (to wander raucously through supermarket aisles; to take the long way home) -- because sometimes it's important to reflect on how life worked before college. And so I say to you, dear readers: treasure your time in high school while it lasts. Rejoice in the simple wonder of plays, of lunch periods, of the library that you hardly use. Embrace the measured freedom of staying out past curfew, of getting your license, of dressing up for dances. Each of those things -- and a thousand more -- is precious in its own right; and from the moment you graduate, you'll only be able to watch them as I watched the audience during intermission: from a point of detached reflection, punctuated by fleeting moments of recollection.

And another thing, readers: find those moments, once you're away from home, that bring you back to the simpler joys of schooldays. In the words of Ferris Bueller, the greatest high-schooler of our era: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." As much as I love Dartmouth, it's not the only thing I want to see when I look around. See beyond, dear readers; give yourself a moment to reflect in broad-scope every so often; consider not only where you are, but where you came from, and, if you're brave enough, where you are going. Love the moment that surrounds you, not without context, but because of all the moments before and after it, too. And college will be but one moment in a string of beautiful moments -- don't try so hard to create memories that you find yourself always standing one step ahead of time, looking back on it and wondering after its worth; stand firmly, look around, remember and expect, but be here now.

hazy@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 03:39:00 +0000

I'm sure, loyal readers, that in your insatiable quest for knowledge about Dartmouth, you've stumbled upon the tried-and-true tradition of the Big Weekend. One for every term, they stand as both a beacon of pride and celebration and a hazy abyss of incomplete assignments and partially-recalled memories. Whether out of respect for tradition or pure rationalism, classes are cancelled on the Friday of each of these weekends, and the campus is left with nothing other than a vague schedule and its own debaucherous devices. For fall there is Homecoming; for spring, Green Key; for winter: Carnival. And this Winter Carnival, I vowed, would be The Best Carnival Ever.

I've worked hard this term, readers, taking three major classes and trying my hardest to figure out what on earth I should be involved in on campus. I watched my friends sink happily back into the overstuffed armchair of Greek life, while I chose to remain (mostly) unaffiliated. I saw upperclassmen I admire pursue research, find internships, and plan for life post-graduation (in what I presume to be The Real World Out There). And I, chugging happily along, decided that what I needed, more than anything, was one glorious, exhausting, unparalleled Big Weekend. What I got was a concussion.

At around midnight on Friday night -- just as my Carnival festivities were getting underway -- I fell face first into, what else but, the floor, from about two feet up. I didn't realize anything was wrong until the next morning when, in a valiant attempt to get breakfast at the Hop, I couldn't seem to keep the ground from moving beneath my feet. Each time someone engaged me in conversation, I found myself at not a loss for words, but a loss for any thoughts at all. When I tried to read, my dull headache flared and my vision blurred. My head felt, for lack of any other fitting metaphor, like it was filled with Brillo pads -- and what else could I expect, given that this would now be not my first, but my fourth concussion? And so, I spent the rest of my Carnival weekend in bed, dividing my time between staring at the ceiling, sleeping, and eating Frosted Flakes.

Over the past week, I've slowly improved, but there have been moments where I've felt nothing short of terrible. Not because of the headaches or the wooziness, but because of the overwhelming frustration at my inability to read a book, to navigate Collis, to go to class, to stay awake for more than a few hours at a time. This post has taken me ages to write because where there used to be a seamless interchange between my ideas and the sentences on the page, there's now a screen, a filter that keeps me from expressing myself as quickly and as fluidly as I'm normally able to.

If you'll forgive the quality of this post for a final paragraph, I'll tell you what I've learned: it takes a lot to be at Dartmouth. By this I don't mean: it takes hard work to be academically successful at Dartmouth; it takes brilliant interpersonal skills to be socially successful at Dartmouth; or, it takes drive and commitment to be extracurricularly successful at Dartmouth. I mean, simply, that being, existing day-to-day, in such a busy, complex, fast-paced, ever-changing place like Dartmouth, takes a lot of energy -- energy which, post-concussion, I don't seem to have. Over the past week I've come to appreciate so much the high level of mental functioning Dartmouth requires of me every day, regardless of the context. If I ever come to doubt the rigor or intensity of my experience here, I hope I can look back on this hazy, headachey time and be thankful for all that Dartmouth has asked of me, and all I've been able to give.

love@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 01:23:00 +0000

Walking back to my dorm just now, Iron & Wine singing sweetly in my ears, their guitar strings tangled up in the barren treetops, I couldn't help but smile. I knew I wanted to write to you, but I'm not sure I have any grand and sweeping revelation to share; merely a moment of happiness, of having dinner with friends you run into, of hearing a good song, of knowing you have a hockey game later; of walking down the slushy path of Massachusetts Row and all-of-a-sudden emerging onto Tuck Mall, looking down the snowlit hill towards the mountains, trying to count the number of paths that some anonymous person in the early-morning wrought through the snow and how many people after them followed in their unsigned footsteps.

You know how I say over and over that Dartmouth is incredible? I was all wrong, readers. I thought that for something to be incredible, it had to be perfect; that I had to like every single aspect of Dartmouth for it to be an amazing place. But somehow in the time between Collis and Fahey I realized: I don't have to love everything about Dartmouth. In fact, there are quite a few things about Dartmouth that I don't like (that, perhaps, given the chance, I would change; although I don't know if there are such chances to be had) - and, dear readers, there are going to be things about the schools that each one of you go to that you won't like, either.

But I think that might be tied up in loving something: perhaps before I was just in love with Dartmouth, blind or deliberately ignorant of its faults and failings, embracing it for all that it was and wasn't so that I might doubly ensure my happiness. Now, though, now I think I could love it here - even in the dead of winter (when the high temperature for the day is five degrees and over everything there sits a few feet of snow), even though I have more work this term than I've ever had before, even given all of the weird and nonsensical subtleties about Dartmouth that no one in Real Life could possibly understand.

For whenever people ask me how my term is going, I always reply, "Great!" - and it's always sincere (I feel a twinge of guilt if I answer with anything else). Because it is. Because slowly but surely, even if I haven't found exactly what I want to do, or exactly what I love, I know I'm on my way. With each new grey day I feel hewn out a bit more my place here; my place amidst that which I would change and that which I hope always stays the same; my place amidst my fellow sons and daughters of this bleak and snowy New Hampshire town; my place at Dartmouth, good and bad alike.

(a favor)

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 21:23:00 +0000

Ah, loyal blog-followers. How are you this lazy Friday afternoon? As much as I love to wander off along the paths that lead far away from the topic at hand, this time I promise to keep to the highway and get to the point. I can't help but notice that for the majority of my recent posts, the number of 'unhelpful's has outweighed the 'helpful's. Of course I appreciate the feedback, but since it's been consistently rather negative, I was hoping to ask a favor from you: next time you click the 'unhelpful' button, leave me a few words of advice.

I write for you - to help you understand some of the, as they say, ups and downs and ins and outs not only of life at Dartmouth, but of the college experience in general. If I'm not fulfilling that, or if what I'm writing about isn't what you're interested in reading, then let me know how I can better inform (entertain, amuse, bewilder, distract) you.

Too much to ask? I hope not! Critique away, dear followers, and happy reading.

home@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 00:13:00 +0000

Usually it's something that strikes me as soon as I press my nose to the glass of the car window to see the still, ancient water of the Connecticut River gazing expectantly up at me, or as I heave my suitcase from the underbelly of the bus, my feet firmly on New Hampshire ground after whatever endless time away. This time, it took a day, perhaps a night or two; it wasn't the same sudden rush, the same feeling of instant and boundless freedom, it was slow, careful, dawning; something that only strikes you as different after it has settled in completely, like waking up to new snow. Perhaps it was because last term was so tumultuous that I was unwilling to let myself be immediately overwhelmed by that I'm-at-Dartmouth-now feeling, or perhaps Dartmouth simply wasn't as overwhelming anymore.

But after waking up in my new room, two days after moving in, I knew that it wasn't that I had lost faith in Dartmouth, or that it wasn't as incredible a place as I thought it was - it was home. Not the new home that you move into, still alight with the thrill of the neighborhood, the decorating, the creating-a-space, but the old home, the home that has become familiar, navigable, one which seems incomplete without you and you incomplete without it. I wasn't thrilled to be back at Dartmouth because it is no longer new to me (although of course every day little revelations present themselves), I was relieved to be back at Dartmouth because its place in my life has shifted - although I belong to Dartmouth, it has begun to belong to me, too.

The shift is not so simple, though - what about my home 'back home'? Where does it fall in this dynamic, given that it held its ground solely for the fact that Dartmouth was still fresh, revelatory, astonishing? Home was comfortable, warm and worn, there at the end-of-the-day; Dartmouth was out-there, beyond, waiting for my return, a deviation from reality, a treat, a reward. Now, after spending time in Maryland over winter break, I realized that it was not 'back home' that would always be there, for 'back home' is something we outgrow, something that remains the same as we grow up; it is home-cooked meals, newly-washed sheets, reruns on TV, time with family; it is a series of traditions that persists, and in its persistence serves to reflect our unrelenting difference. I realized that it was not 'back home' to which I could always return, it was Dartmouth.

Dartmouth is, in its own way, ageless - its traditions existed long before us, and will continue long after we let go its ivory hands for the last time. We are a part of it for four years, for a series of fleeting forays, and yet our time is unique; our time is our own. Dartmouth is waking up to new snow, it is going outside and running through it, making tracks and angels and men, all the while knowing another snowfall is bound to come.

invincible@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 05:04:00 +0000

Well, blog-followers, it's the new year. We've made it through the first four minutes, with so many more four-minute intervals to go. I hope that none of you are reading this tonight, that you're all out cavorting and making resolutions and standing alongside the highway yelling at cars (or maybe that was my last new year's?). And beyond that, I hope that your new year is full of surprises, changes, joy, happiness, luck, adventure, and peace.

I can hear the fireworks going off from the city, though I can't see them through my window. I can't help but ignore how nervous I am writing this entry - you all usually give me such positive and encouraging feedback, and I truly mean it when I tell each and every one of you that those comments are the reason I keep writing. But, a few days ago, thanks to the wonders of the internet, someone anonymously said that my blog was poorly written. Others chimed in with negative feedback, not limited to my writing. I was completely caught off-guard - my family wanted to spend a pleasant afternoon with me; I only wanted to sulk, to hold a looking-glass up to my insecurities and try to patch them up by picking at them further. I have always taken comfort in my writing; through all of the extracurricular activities and hobbies into which my parents pushed me, writing has always made more sense than anything else. To hear that someone, anyone, didn't see that in my words, or couldn't at least respect my effort and my passion, cut me to the core.

I felt, dear blog-followers, like an idiot. All along I had thought that I was a great writer; that this blog was mere practice for the books, essays, criticism I would write later; that the comments I got on my English papers were a more important source of self-esteem and self-worth than any sort of great social success. And yet, there I was, staring dumbfounded at those simple words, "poorly-written blog," and the subsequent flippant remarks that followed, wondering where I had gone wrong.

It took a day or two before I began to realize that I hadn't gone wrong at all - that as much as I could resent myself for thinking I was or ever could be something greater than I am, or others for doubting me, nothing would change. Regardless of how sincerely and earnestly I try, nothing I do will ever be met with universal appeal. And those few (or many!) who don't agree, who disregard, who don't understand, who write off... they will always be there. And I will always be here. And if I let those few (or many!) keep me from being here, then I've lost - I'm lost.

When you live not for others, but for yourself; when you conduct yourself in a manner with which you are comfortable above all else; when you take risks for the personal reward; when you succeed and share your success with no one; this is perhaps when it is most difficult to receive uninvited criticism. But from that vantage point within yourself, it is also perhaps easiest then to brush that criticism aside - if you are for you, then nevermind when others expect anything else.

So: may you keep this rambly, nervous advice in mind as you make your way through all the decisions, dilemmas, debaucheries, and delights that this new year will invariably bring. May you meet them all smiling.

finals@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 21:04:00 +0000

I remember last term around this time, blogging spiritedly about how difficult my finals period was, and how happy I was for it to be over, how I had fallen asleep almost instantly on my best friend's floor - it was all so romanticized, glossed and therefore glossy, but not deliberately, per se; that was my Dartmouth: an idealized everything, a finals period that was made that much better by my thinking it was challenging.

Well, my dear and devoted readers (to whom I feel the need to apologize each and every time I post for not posting often enough), this finals period was different. As I walked to Collis at 1:00 this afternoon, it struck me that this was the first time in five days - five days, mind you - that I had been awake when the sun was up. I had not, with the exception of biking blearily back to my dorm from breakfast at 8:00 am, been outside during the day.

I wish that I could explain this finals period to you day-by-day, but each day is a blur, sliding seamlessly into the next, the day bumping elbows with the night before one, after bristling with the impoliteness of the gesture, lets the other pass, a stranger into a crowded movie theatre, lost amongst a thousand twinkling stars. I can recall snippets, though, and perhaps those are my favorites to recall anyway:

...sitting at a study carrel on the fourth floor of the library, looking wearily over to my friend sitting next to me and climbing defeated into his lap to sleep for some indefinite amount of time, waking up only to see that the sun, from some invisible angle, had thought to light up the sky as though from under the earth itself, a faint and dimly-pulsing blue irradiating through the windows and illuminating my unfinished paper...

...waking up yesterday at 5:00 pm, struck by the inexplicable fear that for whatever reason, I no longer existed - I simply wasn't - and imploring someone to come talk to me once I had made the long and repetitive trek to the library in order to reassure me that I was, in fact, still alive and existing as a social creature, despite the fact of my newfound nocturnal nature; him meeting my perplexed and beaten gaze and saying plainly 'give up! sometimes you just can't write a good paper,' and me taking this as a dare, as a challenge to finish, to be done, at least; writing five pages in the next hour and a half, jamming my headphones in my ears and blasting an old Cake album to which I swiveled and danced in my chair as I added my final citations, knowing I was done - done, done, done, at last! - and wandering downstairs to disrupt one of the quietest parts of the library with a deliberately loud and hysterical conversation about, of all things, pudding...

...my best friend attempting to make me tea, a small gesture to return the favor of my buying her her favorite snacks; she inadvertently dumping the majority of a pitcher of half-and-half into my cup, turning my deep-brown tea a sickening white color; me taking her by the scruff of her neck and giving her well-deserved nougies; she running away laughing without another word...

...a two-hour conversation about the Dartmouth-y-ness of Dartmouth; the good, the bad, the inexplicable, the terrible and wonderful and strange things it had done to us, whether we could possibly manage to love it after all-this-time...

...wandering down to the second floor at 4:30 am to find my best friend tinkering with Computer Science-y things, and asking him to open Lou's with me (in Dartmouth-speak, this means going to Lou's, a diner in town, as soon as it opens, which happened to be 6:00 am); we had promised each other all term, and never did anything about it, but something about the prospect of French toast at the end of an all-nighter seemed too iconic and delicious to pass up; biking down main street trying to cast our friends as the characters in Harry Potter; nearly passing out face-down in our plates of scrambled eggs in our unmitigated exhaustion; sitting at the Top of the Hop and writing the final sentences of a paper on film-as-simulacrum...

...sitting in Robinson Hall at 3:00 am, all of us staring blankly at one another, or at our computer screens; for a moment, eyes meeting, a pause, and then the next logical step of 'Feliz Navidad' being played on full volume, singing along in horrendous accents through the entire thing, and subsequently returning to our work with hardly another word...

Staying up until dawn for five nights in a row is a beautiful thing, however horrifying and reality-bending and, at times, unnecessary, it may be - but I couldn't have done it if not for these moments, these people who I adore for their ability to appear at just-the-right-moment, to provide distraction or reassurance or even just tea and cookies; to be there for me. As the light fades (so early!) over the glimmering Christmas lights strung deliberately upon the Hanover trees to look so-haphazard, I think: only one more final to go. Only one more paper to write. Only a few more days until I go home. I wish I could make this last longer.

rambling@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 08:27:00 +0000

It's 3:27 am, that blurry line between Friday night and Saturday morning. I should probably not be writing a post right now. If anything, I should be sleeping, or writing the paper that was due for my English class a week ago, or convincing myself that lamenting the fact that EBAs is closed won't make it any less closed (if you come here, you'll understand).

But, as the term is drawing to a close, and as I can't seem to find inspiration to do much of anything during the day, I suppose: why not. Why not, indeed? The theme of this term, if I might be so bold to say so. But, truly, the inspiration for this post comes from a conversation:

"How are you doing?" She asked so earnestly.
"I'm alright..." I answered, ambivalent.
"Just alright?"
"No," I paused. "You know what, I'm great. It's like it's the middle of the Great Depression and I happened to go to a really good party. That's how I feel."
She laughed and touched my arm sympathetically.

Almost every day someone says to me something along the lines of, "Alexis, your life is ridiculous." And I always laugh and take it as a compliment, whether or not it was intended that way. But it's true- this term my life has been ridiculous. And most of the moments of joy I've had are just like going to a really good party in the midst of a really bad time. It's not Dartmouth's fault; it's not anyone's fault- not even mine, although sometimes I have a hard time convincing myself. Dartmouth is strange in that for all of the obstacles its thrown in my path this term, its given me just has many hands to help me over them. At my moments of disillusionment with the people or attitudes of Dartmouth, I happen to run into someone who proves me wrong.

I think that this post is fast losing its coherency. I'm too exhausted to draw a general conclusion about Dartmouth from this post- perhaps only to say that I don't think there are general conclusions to be drawn. I've felt terrifically lost this term, and although I've found my way to a few footholds, I don't see any cohesiveness to them. All I know is that it's 3:54 in the morning, and I just spent the night dancing to a cover version of the Ghostbusters theme song. My life is, indeed, ridiculous.

adventures@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 02:39:00 +0000

"So," he dared me to answer, "what's the greatest adventure you've been on all term?"
I paused. Words, which so often enter uninvited and without knocking through the door of my consciousness, would not come.
"Well..." I began, with that typical, meaningless word.
I wracked my brain -- had I really gone through so much of the term without going on an adventure? Last year was all adventures! And yet, in that short and confining space of pause, I kept coming back to conversations: in my room, on the Green, in Collis, in class, on walks, in the elevator.
My tone changed: "I've had a lot of incredible conversations this term. They're the most adventurous things I've done!" I laughed, hardly believing that I, fearless conversationalist, self-described people-meeting enthusiast, could think conversations to be befitting of the category of adventure.

And yet, the late nights, the long breakfasts, the getting-to-know, the re-learning, the exchanging of stories, the slow peeling-back of layers that hide The Things Not To Share Yet... what could be more worthy of being called adventure than these? This has been one of my main points of concern this term, the thought that lingers a bit too long, the truth I would rather not believe; that is, what do my connections with people truly mean?

My friend described it well when he said, "You have so many friends, and yet I think you believe that all of those relationships are superficial. You say hello to people so eagerly, and it's so nice and typical-Alexis, but I can't help but wonder: what's behind that?"

What is behind that? Even in this charged writing, this internet-equivalent of a friendly-Collis-hello, there must be something at the core (or, as we say in Comp Lit, at the end of the signifying chain). One of the most difficult realizations for me this term was that, at times, even in what would seem on paper to be the most sincere and heartfelt interactions there was, in truth, nothing there. I was rehearsing a play whose lines changed with each encounter, but whose essential structure remained the same; I was walking through a schema which had only inadvertently retained meaning as a result of its continued repetition. And, in truth, I was sickened by myself, disgusted that such a profound believer in authenticity could behave so inauthentically, just for the sake of experience -- and that's all it could be: experience for experience's sake.

So, there are two conclusions to which I would like to lead you: first, be careful. Be careful, for the habits you adopt, by the very fact of them becoming habits, can fast become empty gestures. Do not be afraid to refill them, to take them out of habituation and set them spinning into spontaneity. Cast off your schemas, and risk finding a little truth. Second, truth is the key to adventure. The conversations to which my thoughts kept turning were those that were the most truthful, the most resistant to habituation or categorization. Opening yourself up to people -- that is, giving and receiving truth -- is the greatest adventure I can think of.

I need not say, as I do in conclusion of every post, it seems, that Dartmouth is a wonderful place for adventure. I will instead say that Dartmouth is a dangerous place for habits; that is, in a place that is otherwise so chaotic and fast-paced, we (the royal we!) find ourselves categorizing those few things over which we can have control (which, in fact, we shouldn't control at all): namely, interactions, interjections, conversations, interpersonalizations. In a place that's free and open enough for adventure, dare to be brave enough to always be adventuring.

dreaming@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 01:01:00 +0000

These past few weeks have been without a doubt the most difficult of the term. Midterms, moving across campus (it's a long story.), losing friends, missing home -- I could handle everything on its own, but together, things kept bursting from the seams that I had taken so much time to stitch. Running around Baker Beach, dragging my best friend by the arm, spinning in circles, screaming to the stars; sitting on the Green and watching as the sun let go its hold on the daytime sky with fiery fingers slipping and catching amongst the leaf-forgotten trees; the hopeless hours in the library, or the extra time spent over lunch, work thrown away in favor of conversation; the first and last cigarette smoked hopelessly and absentmindedly under a tree at four in the morning, the night pulsing thick with muffled music. These were the moments from which I yearned to extract meaning, and from which meaning would not come. These were the moments I remember, not for their being, but for their should-have-been. These were the moments that I had taught myself to appreciate, the Important Things that became banalized so quickly.

And yet, this morning was different: the light curled on the edges of the leaves scattered yellow-and-orange about the ground, and the sun shone hesitatingly through the clouds and brushed the sheer white of my curtains, lighting up the string of prayer flags that looped under the top windowpane. I woke up terrified. As silly as it sounds: I had a dream that I had been kicked out of Dartmouth and that I had to transfer to the University of Alabama. My mind had taken me through the elaborate and specific instances of moving out and moving in, of navigating a strange and unwelcoming library, of seeking friends and finding strangers, of pursuing passions only to have them ignored. I can recall a sense of longing that was overwhelmingly present throughout the dream, the continuous 'when can I get back to Dartmouth?', 'Dartmouth will take me back, right?' Upon waking up, before I had quite come to grips with my familiar surroundings, that longing still lingered.

As I went through that tried-and-true schema of my morning routine, a sense of calm unlike any I had felt all term trickled through me. I was here. I was here in my room, in a building, in a cluster, at a college in New Hampshire unlike any other college in the world. At the risk of falling back on clichés, I'll say this: in the face of my newfound (and strangely found) appreciation for Dartmouth, all of my worries seemed a bit more manageable -- and, in the best cases, insignificant.

Now this is not to say, of course, that if you find yourself at the University of Alabama you have consequentially landed yourself in the middle of an existential crisis -- on the contrary. Whatever college you go to, appreciate it. Take a moment, when you're feeling overwhelmed, underwhelmed, or perhaps not enough of anything at all, to reflect on the things that are important to you about the community of which you are a part. Take pride and find solace in your ability to be a contributing individual within that community, a person among a hundred or a thousand other people who makes the place you live what it is. For me, to think about Dartmouth in that way is both thrilling and calming, like that quiet fire that burns in your chest right before something great is about to happen.

back@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 05:17:00 +0000

I think there's been too much space between posts. Too much time has passed to be able to go back, and with fierce authenticity re-present each Important Event as it occurred in its entirety - render it meaningful in retrospect, draw a broader conclusion about the past when I'm so focused-looking forward. Strange, to think that I wrote the previous post while I was still at home. And now, sitting here in my dorm eating a box of cookies, pajama'd and crosslegged, circling the possibility of going to bed sometime before 4 am (a first for this week), I know that I'm writing this post from home, too.

My friends who are freshmen ('14s- hooray!) have been recently expressing to me feelings of homesickness.
"I don't know, I miss my friends, I miss my hometown," she said.
I counter with, "Well, my friends and I have drifted apart, and I like this place much better than my home town."
"You don't understand- I've lived in the same house since I was little and- "
"So have I." I cut her off, more for me than for her.

What is it, then, that keeps me from feeling homesick? Because, at the end of the day, I have everything I love right here. My parents are a phonecall away, my best friends are a bikeride down the block, the sun rises so beautifully outside my window every morning. Knowing these things makes me realize: feeling at home is not necessarily feeling happy as much as it is feeling content - satisfied, but just enough to want a bit more; safe, but just enough to risk pushing the bounds a bit further; happy, but just as much with the possibility as with the fact.

Yes, I am no longer a freshman, searching frantically for a foothold, or resigned to not-knowing, or waiting for opportunities to present themselves; I no longer so easily believe the stereotypes presented to me, no longer consider homework all-important, no longer linger at the threshold of Food Court with a look of terror splashed across my brimming cheeks. But yes, too, that I am a sophomore; I am of the youngest class of upperclassmen, the youngest to be able to do what the oldest does, the least experienced to be presented with the most experiences, I am the 1,094th of 1,094 of my peers to stand at the threshold of leadership, of responsibility, of knowing, changing, growing, labeling, erasing, destroying, and creating. Last year it was my chance to stand in awe of of what lay before me; now, it is my turn to change what others see before them.

Home - that grey, white-walled homage to childhood in Maryland. Home - the endless, rolling, fiery hills, ignited by autumn, tumbling across New England; the proud, defiant brick and the obdurate, pensive glass that give me place; the thousands of smiles and hands, waved and raised, bikes, peddled and parked, the affectionate embraces of friendship, the sound of music with your eyes closed; these great testaments to possibility; this small college on the hill.

summer@home

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 22:33:00 +0000

Well, readers, I've been a terrible reciprocator. You, checking my blog for updates; me, reclined on my couch making my bleary way through seasons upon seasons of Showtime dramadies. I suppose my lack of blogging comes from two things: one, a lack of content, and two, a lack of desire to face that lack of content. In other words, I haven't had anything to say, which, for a writer, is the most terrifying feeling of all. But as summer draws to a close and the inevitable nostalgia of leaving home sets in, a few ideas have come to mind. After this post, I promise more to come about details of my adventures outside of Dartmouth, but for now, some thoughts on summer:

By the end of spring term, I was fairly excited to go home and see my childhood friends. I drove to their houses, to parks, to playgrounds and restaurants and theatres, and we talked and laughed, struggling to relate about college, but unheroically falling back to the only thing we had in common any more: other people. As summer wore on, I found myself more and more often involved in conversations about people we went to high school with, their personal lives, their own private dramas that somehow still seemed to be on display. My efforts to steer conversations back into the present, or even the future, were mostly ignored.

Eventually, and I suppose I should've seen it coming, I became one of those staged, relatable people - one of these conversation-fillers who is talked about in their absence, reviewed and scrutinized, in an attempt at what, I don't know. As this gradually unfolded, I began to hear what my friends truly had started to think of me. "You've changed so much since going to college, Alexis." The same refrain, over and over; the adjectives "selfish," "unpleasant", and "egotistical" sprinkled in for good measure.

As much as it hurt that the people I'd considered my friends since the age of six decided that they were better off without me, I was also strangely relieved. I realized it was because I had learned something about friendship at Dartmouth that I never managed to pick up at home: friends are people on whom you can rely and who can rely on you; those with whom you have a mutual trust and understanding that there is something of value not only in each of you as individuals, but something greater created by your friendship; those who will love you in all moods, who don't judge you, but support you. All of these things are true about the wonderful people I consider my friends at Dartmouth, but true about only a handful of people at home. It dawned on me that my childhood friends seemed better suited to be acquaintances, since I'd never really trusted them enough to be anything more.

This is not to say that once you leave home, you should leave your friends behind - true friendships will endure through college and beyond, regardless of when they were formed. But it is to say that a natural drifting-apart, or the realization that your friendships weren't what you thought they were, is conducive to positive growth. You will be presented with so many opportunities at Dartmouth to expand and change who you are as a person - for better and for worse. It's up to you to choose which of those to take advantage of, and what friends you might gain and let go in the process.

home(from)dartmouth, part III

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 15:55:00 +0000

This morning, just as every morning I've been home, I've woken up to sunlight streaming through my open windows, lighting up the pale blue of my sheets, illuminating bright patches of grey carpet, catching hold of the folds and shadows cast by my yet-unpacked suitcases. It's peaceful, I think -- there's no difference between you and the day, no moment of deciding to let the world's stage present itself upon drawing back the heavy curtains; just you, slowly waking, the sun softly shining as it does over everything.

I got used to waking up this way at Dartmouth -- it was so hot in May that it was impossible to shut your window and live through the night. So, everyone kept their windows perpetually open; since the sun never shined directly through mine, I kept the shade up, too. And just as every morning I would awake to the warmth of the sun on my face, every night I fell asleep shrouded in the orange glow of a distant streetlamp, the inconsistent hum of traffic and the periodic shouts of frat-goers punctuating the night's silence.

Waking up in your own room is like waking up in your own world, one that slowly expands as you begin your day. First your room as you get ready, then your dorm building as you walk outside, then the strange, ever-changing sidewalk-world that blurs past on your bike, then the frisbee-throwing, sun-tanning Green, the chatty, moved-outdoors dining halls, the saying-hello, the thin, icy air of the library, the view from the windows to the people moving infinitesimally below... and as the day ends, so the world closes again; folding in to smaller and smaller spheres until the sidewalk is a ribbon fluttering behind your bicycle as you fly arms-outstretched through the warm, ruddy evening, and the light from the windows above means that soon, again it will be only you and the hum of the traffic as you sleep.

The strange thing about being home is that your world is fixed: you are not a part of every place you go -- you are a visitor. Stepping outside doesn't mean stepping into a place where you can find someone you know, link arms with and go on a walk; going to a public place doesn't mean that everyone is aware of the common, unifying culture, like walking into the library or a dining hall. Being home is like a series of tiny trips into other people's worlds; only a part of your own, but a welcome guest elsewhere. Being at Dartmouth was always being welcome; it was knowing that every place was yours, in part, because if you didn't share it in name, you shared it in spirit. We operated under a culture that was understood -- one that allowed you to always feel like a part of something, like your actions were a reflection upon the other members of this unique, communal world.

Which means, I think, that the thing I miss most about Dartmouth is the feeling of waking up and knowing that I'm surrounded by friends. That whenever I wanted during the day, I could find someone to keep me company, to eat a meal with, to study with -- and that here, at home, that's not necessarily true. So now I have to learn a different kind of self-sufficiency; I have to re-integrate into this world where I'm a guest in those of others; I have to remember how to be a part of a different kind of family than the one I lived so happily with for the last nine months.

reflections(on)dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 01:44:00 +0000

It's been a while since I've written, hasn't it, my faithful followers? I've learned in this past month and a half perhaps more than I had during all of my time at Dartmouth before then. And, if you'll lend me your patience, I'll keep you company this summer with more tales of my adventures. First, I suppose I should tell you what I'll be doing this summer. Most of my friends are working steady jobs, going on FSPs or LSAs, staying at Dartmouth, or holding internships. I'm going on road trips and taking tickets at concerts. I'm planning on having the Jack Kerouac summer I've always wanted.

In this past month or so, I've realized a lot of things about life. Namely, that we're in it -- yes, people call college an idealized version of the 'real world', a bubble, etc. But when it comes down to it, we are the vanguard; we are on the very cusp of experience; we, perhaps more than anyone else, have control over everything and anything that we want to do. I know I've written this time and again, but I believe it now in a new way: we can be anyone; we can do anything. I was supposed to spend this summer in Michigan with my best friend -- but, as I know now, best friends, and the plans you make with them, come and go. At the end of April I was forced into a sort of freedom I didn't think I was ready for, but that I realize now I sorely needed. I couldn't imagine my experience at Dartmouth continuing without the person I loved most in the world by my side; now I see that I should've listened to my own advice: Dartmouth is what you make it. It's not any one person, or any one track; it's a combination of disparate experiences that you have to unite into a meaningful narrative.

From the end of April until finals week, I didn't do homework. This is not an exaggeration -- with the exception of writing one paper, I literally did not study. I wanted to, sort of, and I tried to, sort of, but in the end, my backpack stayed in my room and swimsuit stayed on my back. Each day seemed more beautiful than the last: watching the sun piercing through the guitar-shaped clouds as I laid on my back on the Green, feeling the cool, teal water slipping over my fingers each time I dipped my paddle into the Connecticut, walking down Main Street at five in the morning with bags full of chips and candy in my hands, doing cartwheels on the Green by the light of the endless illuminated blanket of stars; dancing from sunset until the early hours of morning; sitting on a roof and eating dinner as the people below went about their lives in a whole other world; getting to know all the people I wish I'd known, and meeting all the new ones I never thought I would. I can't remember feeling more happy and free than in those days when spending time with exciting, interesting new people was more important than going to class or sitting in the library; when the answer to every invitation was a resounding "Yes!" no matter what time of day or night; when I realized that when I thought I was most lost, I was surrounded by people I loved all along.

This of course meant that come finals time, I faced an insurmountable challenge. I didn't get more than three hours of sleep in a night (and most of those hours happened between 5 and 8 am) for over a week -- all I did was work, making up for the incredible amount of time I had spent neglecting assignments that had accumulated more rapidly than I thought possible. I remember one night, standing outside my dorm at three in the morning after someone had pulled the fire alarm; I was surrounded by shivering hallmates in pajamas, and yet I was wide awake in my street clothes, only halfway through the six essays I had to write for my Physics class due at noon the next day. I remember setting up in the library at 8 pm, the night before my Psychology final, not having studied at all before then, and wandering back to my dorm when the library closed, trying to keep my eyes open and learn thirteen more chapters of material before 8 am.

And yet, I don't know which choice to advocate for -- of course I could've thrown all of my negative energy into studying and done well in all my classes, and continued on my way as I have always done; but for some reason, for the first time that I can remember, that just didn't seem like the right thing to do. I needed that time away from the responsibilities of school and more time immersed in the joy of other people and the gorgeous outdoors. So now, here I sit on the leather couch in my house in Maryland, trying to think of some grand, unifying statement that could make this all make sense. Only the good ones say yes; don't be afraid if everything changes; embrace the possibility of not-knowing; don't spend time on anything that isn't worth remembering. And just because things aren't the same, doesn't mean that they were worse the way they were before -- you'd never be here if you weren't there first. So, spend your summer well: take time to do the things you love, with the people you love, because coming to Dartmouth will be one of those times where everything changes.

dimensions@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 04:03:00 +0000

Well, you found us out: Dartmouth is, in fact, a musical. To all of the prospies that came and slept on our floors, ate at our tables and explored our home, thank you for letting us share Dartmouth with you. And a bit of extra thanks to those of you who tentatively approached me with the words, "You write a blog, don't you?" It was so good to know you considered me in your experience of Dartmouth.

We the lucky ones -- the already matriculated -- got to see the Dimensions Show a few days before your arrival, before the majority of my close friends disappeared into bespectacled, confused, shy personas, only to emerge two days later as quite the opposite. Watching the Dimensions show from the other side of the commitment date was deeply reassuring. I remember my experience of Dimensions: I established a group of close friends early on (who, strangely enough, already seemed to know each other rather well) and spent the majority of my time with them, save wandering the campus with a breathless mix of hesitance and curiosity and fighting my way through lines at the dining halls, mortified by my lack of savvy. When I sat down in Alumni Hall (there were less of us last year) next to my new friends, I was warned, "This is going to be so boring!" And a long speech began, and suddenly, music began to blare and all of my new friends tore off their clothes to reveal green-soaked garments and sang to us about how terribly gullible we all were.

I sat, my knees tucked up to my chest, wondering why a college would go through so much trouble to write silly parody songs about food, roommates, and the prevalence of alcohol -- Dartmouth isn't really like this, I remember thinking. No college is like this, and certainly no college students are this excited to be going to school together. I appreciated the intense creativity and passion of the performers, but I couldn't reconcile it with its apparent implausibility. But this year, watching my fellow freshmen dance and scream and wear their cut-offs and ski gear with pride, I realized -- it wasn't fake, people actually love Dartmouth this much.

And it's true: although the world presented in the Dimensions show is one without social pressures or time constraints, in essence, it is our Dartmouth -- the home we've come to love, the place where anything is possible, the school that provides every possible opportunity to its intelligent, creative, compassionate students. When you crossed the Green and were met with yells of "Come to Dartmouth!" they were sincere. One of the most wonderful things about the Dartmouth experience is that it's so much better when it's shared: we want you to come to Dartmouth because we know how happy anyone can be here, and we want to share that possibility with you. Dartmouth is more than a name, more than a part of a league -- although it is those things (and, unfortunately, those are the only things some people will see), it's so far beyond that. It's unpretentious, welcoming, vibrant, fascinating, and surprising -- it's our home, and we want it to be yours, too.

balance@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 17:26:00 +0000

I had my first test in Psychology today (that's right, blog followers, I'm taking two science classes!), and I was nervous. Like, didn't-eat-breakfast nervous. I haven't really taken that many tests at Dartmouth, and the ones I have taken have been very conceptual, rather than based on the memorization of specific facts. This test was different than any I'd taken in a few years -- 50 questions, multiple choice, four 40-page chapters' worth of material. I spent last night pouring over pages and pages of notes, shuffling through a stack of note cards three inches thick, saying definitions out loud as Physical Graffiti spilled from my speakers.

Much to my surprise, I knew most of the definitions on the cards the first time around; I could name the nine different types of neurotransmitters, the six different subcortical structures, and the three keys to the scientific method. Thank you, Theatre Gods, for teaching me to memorize! I still felt like I hadn't done enough, even though there was no way I could study past 2 am for a test at 10.

Sitting in the lecture hall, I waited for my test to be passed out and marveled at the scantron, that 1950s relic, that was handed to me. I started filling out my answers -- I had an hour, so I knew I could take my time. Within ten minutes I was finished. I looked around. No one had turned in their test yet. I did my test again. Still no one. Finally, two people stood up and I followed them down to the podium to place my test in the gaping, cardboard mouth of the Office Depot box.

As I left the room, I was stricken by that typical oh-god-I-finished-first feeling of doubt, but after double-checking the questions I could still remember over lunch, I felt good. I took my first college science test and I felt good. I studied hard, I knew the material, and I tried my best. I've heard that the curve averages most everyone out to a B, but even so, I think I'll be proud of my grade.

As the afternoon wore on, and my stomach grumbled with the longing for a two o'clock snack, I made my way to my French class. My professor was sifting through students' essays, pointing to the author of each and tearing their work apart, honing in on flaws, both grammatical and interpretive. "There is no author!" she cried, her French-Romanian accent trembling. "Why do you insist there is? There is only the poetical voice!" I knew that, I thought to myself. I never once mentioned "the author" in my essay -- I was safe. But I was also safe because I hadn't turned in an essay the day it was due. It could be flawless, but it was still sitting in my backpack, waiting to be slipped onto her desk, two days late. In my fixation on studying for my Psych test, I had neglected all of my French homework. I had assumed that since I was good at French, I didn't have to try as hard. But that's not true -- no matter what subject you're pursuing, whether for your major or purely out of interest, you have to try your best. Although Dartmouth is a wonderful, welcoming, and forgiving place, we're here to learn -- I'm here to learn. I just have to figure out how to balance first.

admission(to)dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 19:18:00 +0000

So. Here it is, isn't it? April 1st, the big day, the make-or-break moment; the email, the letter, the link; the decision. The decision. You want to come to Dartmouth -- does Dartmouth want you? Are you good enough? Why did you get in? Why didn't you? What will you do now? The questions I asked myself; the questions you should, perhaps, try to avoid.

Dartmouth wasn't my top choice. It wasn't my last choice. I honestly thought I wouldn't care whether or not I got in; and when I went to visit, I honestly didn't care whether or not I went. I was waitlisted at nearly every school I applied to, and rejected from the rest, save Dartmouth and two "safeties." And by the time I got my admissions letter from Dartmouth, I was so down about the ambivalent and negative responses I'd gotten from everywhere else that I felt rejected no matter what happened. I thought that because I didn't get in to my first choice, they didn't want me; because I didn't get in to my father's alma mater, I wasn't good enough. But after countless hours of discussion and deliberation, I signed my commitment letter, and slowly it dawned on me -- I was committed. Dartmouth was my school. Dartmouth would be my home. Dartmouth wanted me! And slowly but surely, as the summer unfolded, I became more and more proud of Dartmouth -- I started to find and remember things that I liked about it; started looking at dorms and classes and activities, until a school I didn't give a second thought to became a school I couldn't wait to attend.

Which means this: Dartmouth is not an objective place. If you ask every person on campus what Dartmouth means, I bet you'll get as many answers as there are students. It's more than the tired phrase, "College is what you make it" -- it's that Dartmouth, or any college, while burdened with stereotypes and an overarching identity, really isn't anything in particular. You'll find something you love (hopefully lots of things!) no matter where you go. College, more than anything, is a time for you to go exploring until you find what you love -- granted, that might be easier at some places than at others, but nowhere is it impossible.

Don't consider your admissions letter from Dartmouth in terms of personal validation. You sent in paper, grades, and maybe a video of yourself playing a sport or an instrument. But that's not you -- you're more than essays and marks and activities; but admissions offices don't get to see that. If a school sends you a rejection, it's not you they're rejecting, but the "you" that they've created from a couple of pieces of paper. And when you're accepted, that means that, for better or for worse, the "you" that the admissions office sees seems like a good fit for that particular school's environment. It's hard to get beyond blaming yourself (or blaming the school, for that matter) for a rejection, but it's not fair to place that burden anywhere. Focus as much as you can on the positives of the college process -- getting a chance to express yourself, show your interests and accomplishments, having the opportunity to try for something that means a lot to you -- because no other process will ever be quite like it.

If you get in to Dartmouth today, you're going to have an amazing four years. If you don't get into Dartmouth, you're still going to have an amazing four years. If you get into Dartmouth and all the other schools you wanted to, don't push Dartmouth aside -- give it a chance, because it's a wonderful place. Picking a college is like picking who you want to be: do you want to choose a place where you can continue along your path from high school, or where you can be someone new, stretch yourself, set yourself up to become the person you want to be in four years. Neither is the better choice -- just make sure you're choosing not only what you want now, but what you're going to want when you're older, when home is in a different state, when your family becomes the people who live across the hall, sit next to you in class, share a table at the dining hall.

My promise to you, anonymous blog-readers, is that if you want to be happy in college, you'll be happy. Wherever you go. And if, for some reason, you're not, there are other schools, and other years for exploring. But for now, make the most of what you have -- because it could be incredible.

home(from)dartmouth, part II

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 16:16:00 +0000

I stared at the white linen tablecloth and idly turned my fork in my hand.
"What's wrong?" my mother inquired.
"Nothing... no, nothing." She looked at me. "Really, I'm fine, I just miss my friends."

I went on vacation to the Caribbean with my family this Spring Break. It was meant to be a sort of "last hurrah," the family vacation to culminate eighteen years of family vacations -- my parents' last chance to take me somewhere before I was a full-fledged adult, apartment and all. We've been going to the Caribbean since I wasn't yet a year old (in fact, there are pictures of my very pregnant mother standing ankle-deep in the Atlantic Ocean). My house is decorated with countless artifacts from our trips; our common vocabulary filled with references to the places we been, the adventures we took; when I was little, the voices of my mother and me would fill the house with Caribbean songs. We've always had a wonderful time on our excursions, just the three of us.

And yet, this time, it felt different. I wanted more than just the Three Monroes. I missed eating meals with different people, the passing hello's and lingering conversations that you can't help but fall into walking across campus or through a dining hall. I missed talking until 3:00 am, going out and dancing, the little adventures that happen every day.

Coming back to campus after break was just what I'd hoped it'd be: wonderful. I was set to arrive at around 12:45 on Sunday; my best friend told me he wasn't getting in until 10:00 that night. And yet, as the bus pulled into the stop by the green, there he was, sitting at the bus station, grinning for having fooled me so well. I ran into everyone I wanted to see, and everyone seemed positively thrilled to be back. I ate with people I knew and people I'd just met; I talked to everyone; I felt perfectly at home every time I turned my doorknob from the hallway.

But by the end of Winter Term, it was easy to take those things for granted; to wish for a meal with my family or my house in Maryland. It takes each to appreciate the other: Dartmouth is an incredible place, but incredible can become the norm if you don't step back and spend some time away every once in a while. Continuing a tradition with my family (something that never changes) but approaching it in a new way showed me how much I'd changed. But that's what's supposed to happen -- you'll change at Dartmouth. You'll find that you like and even need new things, and that it becomes easy to let go of old habits and necessities. And this change doesn't stay within the boundaries of campus -- it stays with you wherever you go. But, because it's Dartmouth, it'll always be a change for the better.

finals@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 16:11:00 +0000

It was 4:00 pm on Friday when I returned to my dorm, Boloco burrito in hand. I hadn't showered or been back to my room in at least two days. I was wearing a combination of my clothes and my best friend's -- I had been sleeping on his futon, since his dorm is a quick walk from the library. I had eaten all my meals while doing work. All of my breaks consisted of getting more food or walking down a flight of stairs to the bathroom. I had been at this for three days, and finally, the worst of it was over. I relished unwrapping that burrito; grinned as I clicked "play" on Hulu and The Office began; I started to sing as I stepped into the warm water of the shower. Over the past three days, I had written two twelve-page papers, and I was exhausted.

Finals at Dartmouth seem to sneak up on you -- you're in class, you're eating lunch with your friends, and all of a sudden, the term is over, and there's no more class, and your friends are going home. Giving in to studying for finals means overcoming the denial that you'll have to leave Dartmouth, even for just a few weeks; that the term is ending, and some of your friends won't come back until the fall; that, like it or not, you're going to have to study. A lot.

There's a good amount of variation with finals: some are tests, some are papers, some are presentations. Since I took English, Comparative Literature, and French, I had three papers. I've always been a struck-by-inspiration writer: I don't like to start writing unless I feel like I really have something to write about; unless the form of my paper has already miraculously appeared, all laid-out, in my head. But, alas, there's no time to wait for the Muses when 50% of your grade depends on a well-researched paper on the melancholy of John Keats (a topic of my choosing, which, in retrospect, appears to indicate a desire towards some sort of abstract self-flagellation).

For my English paper, I checked out books. I carried them in a stack that nearly reached my chin, and read them as fast as I could, taking notes and marking page numbers. I organized quotes; I outlined; I wrote. I wrote from 5:00 pm on Thursday to 4:00 pm on Friday, going to bed at 3:30 am and waking up at 8. I edited, cited, and listened to Queen with my headphones on (fat-bottomed girls, they make the rockin' world go round.) as I finished my two-page works cited. I biked to my professor's office, and, out-of-breath, handed him my final draft, still warm from the printer.

For my Comparative Literature paper, I thought. I thought for a long time, writing things down here and there, until, Aha!, the outline completed itself behind my eyes, and all I needed to do was realize it. I wrote five pages in an hour and a half without pause. I knew what I wanted to say -- I didn't need to pause to cite or consult other people's research. I had my thoughts, and the texts, and for my professor, that was enough. I handed him my paper after a pleasant walk to one of the cafes in town.

So, maybe sometimes there is time for the Muses, and sometimes there's time when you need to eat bagels for every meal because they're the only reliable food you can get without having to leave the library and keep writing even when you can hardly tell one word from the next. In either case, finals are an exhausting -- but doable -- challenge. They're your last chance to get something out of the classes you've taken; to prove that you've understood and internalized the material; to remind you that through all the activities, movies, clubs, parties, and hang-outs, you still have to take classes.

I finished my last final at 3:30 am on Saturday night (Sunday morning?). I sent it in, danced around my room, and stayed up the rest of the night with my friends in celebration.

classes@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 22:07:00 +0000

No matter what time of year, no matter how early I've gone to bed, no matter how gorgeous the day, 8:45 always seems like a terrifically early time to wake up. Last night, sitting in my dorm with my two best friends, classes seemed a very distant thing; something that, if you don't think about, won't happen right away. But there was the sound of my alarm nonetheless, and there I was laying in bed and staring at the ceiling.

I thought I had a class at 10:00 (at Dartmouth, we call them 10's, but don't let that fool you: classes at 12:30 are called 12's, and there's no 1.) called American Drama, a mid-level English class that I couldn't wait to begin. But something compelled me to check my schedule one final time before I ran out the door, and much to my surprise, my former 10 had been switched to a 12, thus conflicting with another class: Physics 1.

I was sitting on the kitchen counter in the commons last night, watching the water boil in my spinning ceramic bowl through the glass of the microwave. My friend, seeing my unbroken gaze, hopped up on the counter next to me, placed a loving arm about my shoulders and said as though explaining to a child, "Alexis, this is science!" We laughed, but there was some truth to the joke: I've never been good at science; I don't even really understand how water boils beyond the fact of a boiling point. And so, whether to quell the jokes (it's only invited more), prove myself (hopefully), or expand my interest (so far, so good), I decided to take Understanding the Universe: Physics through the Ages. As the department affectionately calls it, "Physics for Poets"; as my friends affectionately call it, "Baby Physics."

And so, at 12:30 (after biking furiously across campus in an attempt to attend Introductory Psychology, a 10 that I had discovered online at 9:55 this morning), I walked up the steps of Wilder Hall, a building I've never been inside located in a section of campus I've never been to, passing students I didn't recognize, and, of course, got lost on the way to the classroom. I found it, and sat down as one of two professors began explaining the goal of the course. As I scanned the syllabus -- discoveries and milieus of Aristotle, Newton, Kepler, Einstein -- I thought of my father, who loves physics almost as much as he loves history, or perhaps the other way around. I thought of my friends, who think of me as someone who fits in on the stage, or in the English library. (When I told my best friend I was going to the class, he paused, and burst out laughing. "What?" I asked him. "I just can't imagine you in a science classroom," he answered between chuckles.) I thought of how, if I did well in the class, if I followed something I was interested in that wasn't typical, how proud they would all be -- how proud I would be.

The only minor setback came when I went to Wheelock Books, the second-story bookstore where everyone gets their supplies for classes. I passed the shelf stocked with the books required for American Drama. A whole shelf. A whole, floor to ceiling shelf of books for one class. Plays by Williams, Hughes, Mamet... I looked on them lovingly, imagining how wonderful it would be to own all of those books, to buy them all at once, to have them, to flip through their pages and underline words and write in their margins -- I looked at the dull, heavy Physics book in my hands. I'll always have the joy of reading plays, I thought, but what luck to be able to learn the physics of how the curtain falls!

And so, a lesson about Dartmouth: although my friends tease me about my niche ("What can you do with a Comparative Literature major -- be a barista at Starbucks?") I know they also appreciate me for it, and for trying to go beyond it. College is the only time in your life when you're presented with a list of things you can learn, with no restrictions or restraints, and you're encouraged to follow your interest and find your passion. Coming in to Dartmouth, you don't have to declare a major or take core classes: you have distributive requirements designed to make students step outside their comfort zone and explore the different kinds of knowledge that this incredible institution has to offer. Dartmouth is about learning, not about fashioning a career; it's about taking advantage of a million opportunities, not just honing one skill; most of all, it's about taking pride in following your passion.

longday@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 17:15:00 +0000

The wallpaper in the Poetry Room fascinated me -- I searched for its pattern, the point of its repetition, but could find none; only an endless, four-cornered scene of an Italian harbor. My books were open on my lap, but my eyes wandered the room, hoping for some order in the infinitude of detail surrounding me. Someone walking by in the hall caught my glance. He stopped; we smiled; he walked in and sat down, one leg slung over the other.

"How's it going?" I was glad to see him.
I paused, weighing how I wanted to steer the conversation. "This week has been absolutely awful," I gave in.
He looked genuinely concerned. "Why? What happened?"

I began to tell him about dropping out of a play, about my friends, about school -- I never had to try before, I said, and now all of a sudden being smart isn't enough.

"Of course," he said, "but it's still hard, I mean, to think that people who work hard can do better than you even if you're smarter. But there are some people, man... okay, so I'm writing this article on this conspiracy theory on who shot JFK..."

He launched into a description of his article -- he was working on it with a friend -- and how they were going to contact the New York Times, the Huffington Post, anyone who would pick up their piece, because it was this amazing breakthrough that only they had thought of... we talked until we both had to go; before we did, he assured me that my week wouldn't get better, but that I would. I was still fascinated by the wallpaper, but I was more content to be surrounded by its disorder.

It's possible to have terrible days at Dartmouth -- they'll happen wherever you go -- and it's not a reflection on the place, but on those arbitrary and unfortunate circumstances that seem to crop up every once in a while. But here, there's a safeguard against bad days: good people. Running into someone in the dining hall or the library and taking the time to stay and talk for a while can make all the difference, because people here genuinely care about each other, and that sincerity is enough to shine a bright spot onto a dark day. The generosity and care that people show -- from best friends to strangers -- is something I haven't seen anywhere else; something that truly gives me a reason to be proud of my college.

yes@dartmouth

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 19:49:00 +0000

Today is absolutely beautiful. It's strange how when it's always grey and snowy outside, you forget that it can be clear and golden and warm and peaceful. I'm sitting in Rauner Library (arguably one of the most beautiful study-spots on campus -- glass-encased 5-story stacks? C'mon.) thinking about all of the things I could write about, and wondering why I haven't put any of them down. I suppose it's because this entry was meant to come first.

As I crossed Baker Beach (the grassy clearing in front of the library) this afternoon, scarf in hand, gloves off, the sun warm on my cheeks, I realized I hadn't had a break in as long as I can remember. There have been little things, of course -- nights in or out with friends, meals, performances -- but there's always that looming feeling of more work to be done, meetings to be attended, errands to be run. All of it seems strangely manageable today, from this angle, sitting here under a desk lamp, its light miniscule and inconsequential against the streaming glare of the French windows along the walls. Perhaps, I think, I can do it, perhaps all of this work will be done, and I won't be, as my parents loved to say, playing catch-up.

Perhaps one of the most difficult things to do here is to say no; no, I have to study; no, I have to wake up early; no, I need time to myself. 'Yes' seems the most obvious answer -- we live in a community built on and fostered by yes's: big, loud, booming yes's that give way to groups forming, friendships growing, trips taken, memories made. But in this ever-yesing world, does anything really get done to its fullest? Do we devote enough time, enough care to each thing that we sincerely follow through on our 'yes', rather than just completing it as quickly as possible to move on to another affirmation?

Yes, I'm going to study tonight. Yes, I'm going to go to meetings. Yes, I'm going to go to a party. Yes, I am able to because I believe I am able to, because I'm surrounded by people who believe in themselves and in each other, in each other's capabilities, and thus hold each other to incredibly high standards. But a 'no', every once and a while, for your own good, makes the yes's all the more meaningful.

hockey@dartmouth, part II

noreply@blogger.com (barefoot) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 07:19:00 +0000

I held the whiteboard up to everyone sitting around the table. Faint marks from a nearly-inkless pen indicated the basic layout of a hockey rink while little abstract X's and O's occupied the space, guarding an asymmetrical goal. I began again in my explanation of the offsides rule -- I had been trying to explain the game for twenty minutes now, a continuous deluge of terminology, tips, and try-not-to's, but all I'd been met with so far were blank faces. My best friend put his hand on my knee to keep me from continuing. "Slow down," he said. "It's too much information, they're overwhelmed. They just want to have a good time out there." He was right. I set down the whiteboard and faced the team.

"You know what, guys? All of that stuff I just talked about," I gestured to the discarded whiteboard, "is all just technicality. All you need to remember is keep your stick on the ice and protect the net. And have a great time, God! We'll be fine." I smiled reassuringly, and they, sweet team that they are, mustered the courage to smile back.

Our dressing process seemed utterly suited to our team: everything was old, used, mismatched, occasionally broken, but still, with a bit of tape in the right places, essentially useful. I wore two right-legged shinpads that had long since lost their velcro, taped to my bare calves, their thin foam dating back to, without exaggeration, the 1970s. The rest of the team was in similar garb, most of them equipped with left-handed sticks, despite the fact that everyone was right-handed; our goalie, having never skated or been in the net before in any sport, struggled with his unwieldy, ill-fitting pads -- he fell to his knees and his teammate knelt gingerly beside him, meticulously fastening all of the old, weary buckles around his nervous legs.

The moment we stepped onto the ice, the absurdity of our habit was forgotten -- or, rather, embraced to such a degree that it became defining of our team. As the other team raced in tight circles around the net, warming up, our team tumbled and tripped its way to the bench, thoroughly intimidated by the opposition. We set up at the face-off circle. The puck dropped. The clock started. We played.

Within the first two minutes, the other team had scored -- within another two, they did it again. The game unfolded almost entirely in our zone, our goalie falling and diving, a thrilling, valiant attempt to salvage the game. Our players threw themselves before the net, or sent the puck hurtling out of the zone just to arrest the play for a few seconds, or skated with all their strength until they could do nothing but return to the bench, spent.

As the final buzzer sounded, I looked up at the scoreboard. 13-0. I looked at my team. A great yell rose up from the bench, sticks clattered against boards -- I watched as the our players skated towards one another and into a great, absurd embrace, laughing and whooping. We had done it! We played our first game! We lost, but we tried! Fast-flowing adrenaline kept us from exhaustion.

Our goalie slowly made his way from the net. I tried to wipe the worried look from my face before he raised his eyes to mine: "You did a great job, buddy," I offered. He looked up at me and grinned. "Let's do it again!"