Neff's So Dartmouth

By Brendan Neff | Friday, May 13, 2005

A new campus phenomenon has recently penetrated my extremely dense social consciousness. I am not talking about something that can be observed merely by the occasional scan of the Daily Dartmouth, but something far more fundamental and sinister. It is the propensity of the Dartmouth student towards self-glorification and shameless self-promotion. This trend can be observed in the spread of Facebook groups, "self-calls," self-defenestration, and self-glorifying comic strips. Student Assembly elections are further evidence of this trend and are emblematic of the self-serving nature of the body in general. Our elected student representatives, while a good case study in conceit, are not the most egregious example of our self-call culture. The most miserable manifestation of this sad phenomenon can be found every Friday, on the tables of the Hopkins Center and in the hearts and minds of the Dartmouth student. I'm talking, of course, about Friday afternoon's definitive pre-hangout pastime: reading "Steph's So Dartmouth," the weekly Daily D column from Stephanie Herbert '06.

I could spend a lot of words deconstructing each article and critiquing its main points, but, if you are reading this, you were probably attracted by the eye-catching title and already know what I'm talking about. In a relatively short period of time, "Steph's So Dartmouth" has gone from obscurity to ubiquity and catapulted its author into the ranks of the campus icons. How could this have happened? Other campus celebrities put in hard time hanging out and being sweet. These select few are recognized for their merit and hard work. We don't care where just anyone is going to law school, only luminaries like Student Assembly President Julia Hildreth '05. But she's Julia Hildreth for God's sake!

When did such brazen arrogance become tolerated at Dartmouth? It has taken me a long time to formulate an answer to this question and even longer to accept its validity. As a third generation Dartmouth student, I was put on this earth with a single purpose: to go to Dartmouth College. How could a column of meandering sorority-speak constitute a basis for notoriety at this hallowed institution? Both of my parents went here, as did my granddad. My father, though a Chi Heorot in his college days, is certainly not a self-professed sweet guy. My granddad was so Old School as to defy belief. As a navy captain in World War II, he used to trade his men's ice cream rations for British gin. I cannot conceive of him wearing a "hard-guy" tee-shirt. Nor can I imagine my mother chastising an "awk rando" for wearing a birth control patch on her arm. Something has gone completely wrong. It was not always like this.

The answer to this conundrum is as obvious as it is tragic. Dartmouth, widely regarded as the most Old School of the Ivy League, has become undeniably New School. The egotism and self-absorption of this ethos have come to pervade campus life. Certainly there are elements of resistance on campus, but their ranks have gradually diminished. Among the Greeks, there are now few houses that can legitimately claim to be Old School. Many fraternities, infiltrated by DJ dance parties and excessive formals, have tolerated the failure of their Old Traditions. Even on the rugby team, once the most Old School of institutions, the balance of power has slowly swung to favor New-Schoolery. "Steph's So Dartmouth" is merely a symptom of this sad cultural shift. She has ingeniously exploited a cultural niche everyone knew existed but with which nobody wanted to engage. I vainly struggled with this concept for a long time. But everything is all right. The struggle is finished. I have won victory over myself. I love "Steph's So Dartmouth."

Seriously, Steph and I aren't really all that different. First of all, there's our names: Steph and Neff. They rhyme. Steph is a Tri Delt, I am a Phi Delt. These names also rhyme. Coincidence? I think not. In her column last week Steph revealed that her middle name was "Classy Drunk." My middle name is McLain. Clearly, these are both tremendous middle names. Steph often laments that she is awkwardly tall. I look extremely awkward with my shirt off. Plus, we both like to hang out on the first floor of Berry Library. It is impossible to deny the significance of these similarities. I mean, we're practically the same person. I feel completely justified in joining Steph in the ranks of campus polemicists. There is room at the top for another "So Dartmouth."

All I need now is an inherently obvious aspect of campus life on which to give some brilliant and self-important insight. As it is Sunday night and I am sitting in the library feeling blue, I have decided to deliver a lecture on one of my favorite topics: The Sunday Night Blues. You always knew these existed but just didn't have a catchy name for them. They are an emotional state affecting everyone at Dartmouth with varying degrees of intensity. They tend to strike me with a severity directly proportional to the degree which I have soiled myself the prior weekend. This usually means embarrassing myself in front of a pretty girl and subsequently trying to wash away my ensuing awkwardness with a number of oat sodas. It almost always involves lying, swearing, stealing, and drinking. On Sunday, embarrassment resulting from these unsavory behaviors combines with dehydration, no sleep the night before, and the specter of a whole week's worth of work. This Sunday, the blues have hit me particularly hard.

The only cure for the Sunday Night Blues is excessive mental procrastination. For me, this usually means doing nothing. The ideal "do-nothing" scene usually involves one's comrades, preferably in a similar state of desolation and grimness. Couches, music, and a central location are also helpful. As I am completely alone in the library, however, this path is closed to me. Luckily, this weekend happens to be Green Key. This allows me to fantasize about how much fun I'm going to have in only a few days' time. I can let my mind wander: It's going to be awesome. Soulive is playing at the Block Party on Friday afternoon. Three campus bands are opening for them. Webster Avenue is going to be completely closed off. It's going to be sunny and warm. All the girls will be wearing tank tops and short skirts. They're all going to want to talk to me. I'll be a sweet-guy. I'm awesome...

As you can tell, I have been completely indoctrinated into the self-call culture that I profess to hate. This article is one big, thinly veiled self-call. Call me a hypocrite. Call me New School. I'm on the path to campus celebrity, and I don't even care. I already have a group on thefacebook.com completely dedicated to me. How many can say that? Not very many, that's for sure. It's only a matter of time when, like Steph before me, everyone will be saying "OMG, He's Sooo Dartmouth!" God, I hope nobody reads this.

Neff's So Dartmouth

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