I honestly have never considered if I would send my kid to Dartmouth, mostly because I'm not sure how having children fits into my life plan to turn into a pile of caffeine.
I did at least encourage my sister to come here, which not only qualifies me to write this column, but also makes my sister the first member of the Class of 2013 to be called out in The Mirror. Hi Maura!
My parents have asked me to watch out for my sister (boys, if you make her cry, I will kick your ass) and also to share some of the wisdom that I have learned during my three years at the College.
I'm sure my parents had happy visions of me compiling guides like "Best Places to Study on Saturday Morning," or "How to Write A Thesis in all Three of Your Majors," but this is not exactly information to which I am privy.
I was, however, willing to share with her some trade secrets I have gathered (but only with my blood relatives, as we've established that putting such info on the wall in Novack is not OK), and I thus spent a nice chunk of procrastination time composing a lengthy Facebook message to my sister.
Lesson one: That nice boy does not actually have an awesome record collection in his room upstairs.
I had the presence of mind to read the composition over before I sent it (apparently some people do this to their papers, weird), but proofreading turned out to be a poor choice. Upon realizing that yes, these bizarre behaviors are the key to survival at Dartmouth, I mildly freaked out and, as is my custom, and had an existential crisis in the 1902 room at 4 a.m.
Why did I come to this messed-up place at all, let alone unleash its problems on a younger sibling? Should anyone be encouraged to spend four years at an institution where "How to get that AD-urine-smoke smell out of your hair" is totally essential information? Have my coping strategies turned me into a social leper outside of the Dartmouth bubble? Am I okay with my sister booting in places where I have booted?
Faced with these horrible questions, I did what I had to do: went to Lou's and got pancakes. And gazing into their syrupy, buttery goodness, I came to a sugar-fueled conclusion. Sure, Dartmouth is messed up. But guess what? LIFE is messed up. The Dartmouth bubble might not be such a bad place to learn about it.
We drink too much, the gender relations are a joke, and it's totally normal to pull a Red Bull -- and quesadilla -- fueled all-nighter. But our issues are on the surface.
We self call about how screwed up we are ALL the time. (Oh, you got so wasted last night? Yes, PLEASE tell me about it. I am fascinated.)
As much as it weirds me out that my sister will be a freshman girl (Boys, I'm not kidding, I have a black belt), at least the problems will be in her face, and I can warn her about them. I would hate for her to have gone somewhere where the serious issues are less obvious, or even worse, where they play beruit.
Plus, now I can steal her ID and pretend that I'm not a sketchy alum for an extra three years. Hellooooo '16s!
