Burn, Baby, Burn

By Daniel F. Linsalata | Friday, April 21, 2006

In the three-and-a-half century history of American higher education, myriad traditions have entrenched themselves amongst the ranks of students and alumni at every college and university. Most, however, have gone by the wayside, falling victim to either apathy or decree. The death of hallowed traditions inevitably causes discontent among those who most valued them, but sometimes those mourners look back and understand that they were on the wrong side of history, and the institution that was once so dear to them simply had to change. A personal favorite of mine falls squarely into the aforementioned category. Up through the turn of the last century, give or take a couple years, students at universities across the country would express their dislike for a campus building’s appearance by simply burning the eyesore to the ground, forcing the institution to start over from scratch. Granted, this did not happen often—students were seemingly modest enough to deem themselves poor architectural critics—but it was certainly effective. Imagine the improvements to the aesthetics of campus that could be brought about with just a few gallons of gasoline and a brief tour of the Choates, Berry Library, Bradley-Gerry, and the East Wheelock Cluster.

This scorched-earth tactic has precedents and imitators throughout history, in both defensive and offensive campaigns. Vlad Tepes, known to the West as Vlad the Impaler, used it to great effect while defending his Walachian principality against the invading Ottoman Turks in the 1400s, and Russia successfully deployed it against both Napoleon and Hitler. Following their victory in the Third Punic War, Roman soldiers razed Carthage and sowed the surrounding land with salt. Even in serene Hanover, students have attempted (and sometimes succeeded) at razing unloved buildings. The fate of College Hall—one of Dartmouth’s original academic buildings—comes to mind. Students distmantled it with ‘crow-bar, sledge, and pick ax’ in December 1789 because they found its appearence wanting. One quickly discovers, however, that such a plot becomes very expensive over time, and that perhaps a shift in strategy is necessary.

And so it is with The Dartmouth Review. In compiling articles for this issue, I have delved deep into our archives only to surface with a twenty-five year litany of scorched-earth relations with the College. Tales of my predecessors being abused, attacked, harassed, sued, and suspended make me feel as if there is not much that I can add to the storied legacy of these pages. Although lobbing bombs at the College and her administrators, faculty, and students has proven shockingly effective (and fun) for a quarter century, it allows little room for reflection upon Dartmouth’s reaction to the barrage.

Most of the Review’s critics today—or the more insightful ones, rather—decry us with claims of “irrelevancy,” instead of the accusations of “intolerance,” “hatefulness,” and generally offensive behavior that were so common two decades ago, yet a comparison of articles from the earliest years with those from as recently as last week reveals that the Review’s message, tone, mission, and tactics have changed little in a quarter century. (Don’t believe me? Pick up a copy of our new anthology and see for yourself.) What, then, could possibly be the basis for pushing the Review into the annals of irrelevance?

In the numerous messy back-and-forth clashes between the College and the Review, one party had to give. Briefly, the College gave, as Michael Ellis discusses on page 17. Dartmouth has moved noticeably rightward on the political spectrum, and at a far faster rate than her colleagues in the Ivy League and across the country. All the while, the Review has slipped silently from the margins of campus discourse into the mainstream. Members of the Dartmouth community accept the paper as a bi-weekly fact of life, to be read, discussed, and thoughtfully digested. Or simply to be destroyed and disposed in a fit silly, ignorant rage.

As we inaugurate our twenty-sixth year of the finest collegiate conservative journalism in the country, we cannot help but acknowledge the tremendous progress that the College has made in this regard. It is an acknowledgement, even, that has probably been absent for too long, burned away with everything else in the systematic firebombing of whichever administrative lunacy The Dartmouth Review had set its sights upon.

The faculty have done great things for the College, the alumni body has done great things for the College, likewise with the still-reshaping Board of Trustees, and yes, even Jim Wright, who had to decline an invitation to our Gala this week due to an unfortunate timing conflict (see page 4), has done great things for the College.

Two years after disembarking a plane in 1938, Neville Chamberlain found himself with his foot, clear up to the knee, lodged firmly in his mouth, his famous declaration of “Peace in Our Time” printed in large, block-type letters on the sole. As such, history teaches us to avoid such bold promises, but it also tells us that in burning your enemies to the ground, you yourself may become uncomfortably warm. And so as The Dartmouth Review celebrates its accomplishments and strides forward through the last quarter century, it is only fair that we grant Dartmouth herself the same recognition.

And thus, a toast, to mark the celebration: to the hope that the Review and the College can move forward together, in the same direction, for the next twenty-five years.

Burn, Baby, Burn

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