Road Trip

"It's either Route 106, 602, or 210," asserted my companion while accelerating into the fast lane. "Right," I said uncertainly, and made a note on my yellow legal pad. Barrelling along 1-295, in search of the New Jersey Turnpike, Stuart and 1 had plenty of time to discuss the topic at hand: the Big Green in exile.

Having spent a summer moving within a colony of fellow undergraduates in Washington, D.C., I was prepared to consider the people and attitudes back in Hanover in a relatively objective light. Likewise, Stuart's year of graduate school in Chicago had sharpened his own perceptions toward Mother Dartmouth. Besides, 1 needed a topic for this column, and it looked like it might be a while before we found the right exit.

The conversation began with an analysis of what seems to be a common feeling among many Dartmouth students: a negative reaction to what in these pages has been termed "Jerkism." Destruction of private property, slandering of minorities, and a rabid often masquerade as keeping a watch lest the old traditions fail.

Though my chauffeur and I sympathized in a strong dislike of such behavior, we also felt uncomfortable with the righteous indignation of scathing editorials and letters in The Dartmouth. Instead of changing the attitudes of the offending Neanderthals, such invective usually served only to prompt irreverent gaffaws from fraternity basements.

"Hey Charlie, ain't 'dis one rich?" offered my friend in imitation. Breaking off his act, he swerved to miss a parked truck and shot me a nervous glance. "Right," I said and made another note.

So the issue was not simply good guys/bad guys. The question became how to confront "Jerkism" and have a positive effect without leaving yourself an easy target perched on a holier-than-thou pedestal. To begin with, we examined the difference in reacting to Dartmouth as a current student and reacting as an off-term student returning for a visit, which we had done two weeks earlier. Does one indeed cast a more critical eye on the campus from the vantage point of living in the "real" or "normal" world for a while?

Many would give a resounding "yes." Dartmouth students I talked with in Washington often mentioned the artificial, protected atmosphere back in Hanover, an atmosphere shielded from concerns like crime, unemployment, poverty, and the environment. "It's important to be concerned with the world about you," explained one sophomore. "People at school are often just too insensitive. They'd rather indulge in their Ivy League silliness, when in fact they could become involved now with things like Upper Valley services, environmental concerns, politics. ..."

A city like the capital often shakes one into a new awareness of other people, alternate life styles, and cultural opportunities. Returning to Dartmouth can be a dismaying experience if it points up the extraordinary pressure toward conformity. "Just look at the clothes," continued the same student. "Everyone wants to have the same look, to fit in. The result is they follow the same conservative mold without ever questioning why they're there in the first place, or where they should be going."

As I related this last sentence to Stuart, he nodded and agreed. "You're right. I don't know where we should be going, but I think it's the Fort Dix exit." Handing me a roadmap, he returned to the original topic by countering the suggestion that increased distance from Dartmouth allows increased criticism. "Instead of perceiving the situation differently, I think we just react differently to it. On a visit, we can totally reject what we don't like and just get out of town. If we're taking classes, there has to be some further attempt to cope."

To escape from the generalities that threatened to consume us, we considered a specific incident of coping. Delving back through the years, Stuart dredged up the memory of a weekend visit as a junior to the Green Key chariot races. Having just returned from a productive job in the Big Apple, he found the habit of drenching one's opponent with every conceivable kind of muck a curious custom.

"But that's not what bothered me" he explained. "Worse than all that nonsense was the way the women felt obligated to stand by, laughing and giggling as if it were all great. Two years before, these same women had first complied with what was expected of them just to get along under the Dartmouth pressure to conform. After all this time they were doing the same thing - acting how the men wanted them to."

Conformity is one method of coping with oppressive attitudes, but it sacrifices personal integrity to a "can't beat 'em, join 'em" mentality. Fortunately, today it's easier for one to find a subgroup of like personalities wherein one's psyche can survive. But the problem remains how to deal with the raucous masses.

As noted above, a total rejection of "Jerkism" while on campus involves a type of hypocrisy. By our very presence, we passively endorse some forms of insensitive behavior, if not actively participating ourselves in moments of weakness. Everyone has a benign "Wah-Hoo-Wah" somewhere inside. Choosing to remain at Dartmouth includes with it an obligation to understand and contend with even unpleasant portions of that body. Thus, the unease felt towards overly earnest condemnation.

Tension results from these two opposing forces. One side demands the lambasting of rowdies and drunks. The other side pulls for keeping a hysterical note out of your voice as you consider said rowdies as people and not just "Dartmouth animals." Perhaps the only solution is humorous resignation - a tendency to laugh at the ridiculous about us instead of crying, which won't do anyone much good.

That doesn't mean a voice may never be raised in protest, but rather that the voice should attempt to comprehend more than just simple indignation, thereby building its own credibility. "Proselytize gently," Stuart concluded with a wise nod. I paraphrased to clarify: "You mean a humorous rebuke or a serious question at the right moment stands a better chance of opening someone's mind than flaming newsprint ever could?"

"That's it!" he cried. "I've got it?" I queried. "No, no. That's the exit - Route 206." Cutting off a Volvo, he careened down the ramp and through a stop sign. "Right," I said, and made another note.

A senior from Dallas, Texas, Tim Taylor isone of this year's undergraduate editorsand Whitney Campbell interns. He is anEnglish major and during terms off campus has been a writer for the Washington Post and D, a Dallas monthly magazine.