This Is Why I Always Write My Name On My Night

By Joseph Rago | Monday, April 26, 2004

The College ain't what it used to be—at least, according to Amie Sugarman '07. During the winter, Ms. Sugarman wrote a frantic opinion piece in the pages of the Daily Dartmouth in which she sought to discredit the "safety myth" on the Hanover Plain. Her jacket had been stolen during a fraternity party; she purchased a new one, which was subsequently stolen as well from another fraternity party. Ms. Sugarman was the victim here, and no one was taking action—not Safety and Security, not the administration, and definitely not her fellow classmates. They had organized themselves into bands of burglars, smugglers, safecrackers, and highway-robbers; and they were lying in wait, ready to snatch Ms. Sugarman's belongings—or anyone else's—as soon as they had the chance. All this "evidence of burglary and duplicity on campus," deduced from two "stolen" overcoats.

As it turned out, her things hadn't been shanghaied at all. In a hilarious letter to the editor a few days later, it came out that Ms. Sugarman had simply neglected to bring her coat home with her after a night spent carousing in the fraternities. Luckily, she had written her name on the tag and the coat was returned. The only thing worse for wear was Ms. Sugarman's dignity.

This is the exact reason I always write my name on my night—in the event that I lose it, it can be returned to me with minimal effort.

For some, getting the night back is considerably more difficult. It requires marching, chanting, and vigilance by candlelight. Activists at the College recently staged the Take Back the Night march, an annual demonstration against sexual violence. Sexual violence is a serious issue and it merits—and deserves—serious conversation. Notwithstanding, the demonstration was a little unseemly. Cardboard placards are hardly the most auspicious forum for discussing these types of things. The leaders screeched into megaphones and paraded up and down Webster Avenue banging pots and pans. The 'Powerful Chants!' that were distributed to participants were even more unseemly. "Hey hey, ho ho / Patriarchy has got to go!" or "We have the power / We have the right / The streets are ours / Take back the night!" Listen, if you guys want "the streets" that much, you can have them.

The organizers also distributed the 'Battle Hymn of Women,' an opinionated tune that goes, in part, "It is we who've done your cooking, done your cleaning, kept your rules / We have kept the system running but we're laying down our tools... / You think that you can buy us off with crummy wedding rings / Our anger eats into us, we no longer bow to kings... / We have broken through our shackles, now we sing a battle song / Move on over or we'll move on over you." It was a little unseemly too, since nearly half of the demonstrators were men, most of them fraternity brothers, showing their support for efforts to prevent assaults against women.

Nights at the College don't need to be taken back from the Greeks, or from a cabal of patriarchal slave-masters, or from Ms. Sugarman's den of thieves and corsairs, but from those in charge of the College itself. I recently attended a performance by the Kinsey Sicks. I doubt you've heard of them, unless you're into the gay cabaret scene. They're four men who enjoy dressing themselves as women and singing songs about the experience. They style themselves individually as Trixie, Winnie, Rachael, and, uh, Trampolina. Together, they bill themselves as "America's Favorite Dragappella Beautyshop Quartet." How droll.

For the musicale, the Kinsey Sicks cut fashionable figures, attired in all the frills and spangles that one might expect from an act that stakes its reputation on being outrageous and over-the-top. They pulled on wigs and spackled themselves with garish cosmetics; they cinched their waists and slipped into sumptuous dresses and filled out their chests; they wore heels with thigh-high stockings and topped off the ensemble with garters. Then, the cross-dressers spent the show promenading about the stage, swishing their skirts and twirling effeminately. These guys could out-gay any other gay performing arts group in the country, and that's saying a lot.

I'd advise women with delicate nerves and men with faint constitutions to turn their attention elsewhere, as what follows is unpleasant and off-color. The Kinsey Sicks are vulgar, tawdry, and lewd. I myself often display the same tendencies—however, I'm seldom discussing gay sex in excruciating detail when I'm vulgar, tawdry, or lewd, and I'm never—ever—clothed as a woman when I behave in such a fashion. The performers sang songs and exchanged explicit banter that I'd care to forget. Still, an example is called for. One show-stopper, performed by Trampolina (on her knees), concerned administering fellatio to James Wright, of all people. It was titled, 'I Will Swallow Him.'

The production drew to a close with the Kinsey Sicks braying out heartfelt thanks to Dartmouth's "administration" for being so "supportive" and a standing ovation (at least in some quarters). Some people must have found the performance delightfully outrageous, and others provocative, and others empowering. I found it gross, certainly. As for their touted sassiness and reputed edge, it wasn't fazing, just disgusting. I'm a hard guy to offend. If a bunch of grown men—one of whom used to be a corporate attorney—want to make their living pretending to be grim, grotesque women (or vice versa), then it is their right. Let's just say it wasn't the ideal way to start my evening.

What the hell happened to nights at the College? Amie Sugarman is right: they ain't what they used to be. But despite the administration's best efforts to turn this place into some bath-house in the howling wilderness (at the cost of Jim Wright's dignity), you can still find nights here that don't involve protesting, demonstrating, or dressing in drag. They're found up and down Webster Avenue and in Dartmouth's other fraternities and sororities. Like Ms. Sugarman's "stolen" jackets, you just have to know the right place to look—remembering, of course, to label your nights clearly and legibly with your name.

This Is Why I Always Write My Name On My Night

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