A Little Medicine
IT'S fall again and the freshmen on campus can't help but remind me of my first days in Hanover. I came up with my parents for my freshman trip and, whether out of fear or an attack of unromantic virus, contracted a severe case of the flu. Or so I thought at the time. Well, God didn't place Jewish mothers on this earth for nought, and thus was I hauled off to Mary Hitchcock. Undoubtedly the first member of the class of'81 to cross the portals of the emergency room, this act, to the day, remains my sole accomplishment of distinction at Dartmouth.
Being evening of a slow summer, it was my great good fortune to fall prey to a bepimpled intern, who, stroking his chin in as distinguished a manner as he could muster, pronounced my condition as one surely laden with the incipient signs of mononucleosis. After much ado, I begged a bottle of codeine-laced cough syiiup and was subsequently hustled off to bed with orders to remain there until the verdict returned from the lab in two days. Mom and Dad left after breakfast on the following morning, committing their first brave act of parental detachment with their admonition against foolish endangerments of one's health. Making a short story shorter, I, in the true spirit of the reckless Dartmouth man, went on my trip despite its cliff-hanging risks. (I think my trip was designed for sub-novice hikers and recently re-ambulated cripples; its numerical designation was something like 3.14). The diagnosed disease never appeared and from what my codeine-warped memory can make out, I had a terrific time. My tripmates called me "Mono."
Looking back over my years here, I realize that my major ingestions can be listed succinctly: a little codeine, a little bit more beer, some book learning, some good times. There have been times of indigestion, too I've coughed up my share of wide-eyed high hopes. But even if I wanted to, I really couldn't sum up three years so easily; far too much of what one takes away from Dartmouth sinks into the skin when one isn't looking. There's too much that can't be put into words (at least not yet), an ineffable substance that so many Dartmouth alumni share, the stuff of fellowship. Or, perhaps it's something much less noble, something as vulgar as the psychologists' herding instinct.
Whatever it is, for me it has created an instant bond, a curious ability to communicate with those who share its sense of union, this common heritage. Perhaps this feeling is old hat for many of you who look back on years of association with Dartmouth, but it is unsettling for one whose loyalties are young. Indeed, from my pen these are odd words, for I am an unsentimental fool who has neither claimed nor felt an abiding love of the College.
Unfortunately, even stranger yet is that this spirit mysterious, potent, uninvited, undeniable should so often fail to improve the quality of the ties within the Dartmouth community when we convene to discuss our future and our present. And it does fail; I know few who will deny that the warmth of "Men of Dartmouth" cools considerably in the face of such divisive issues as coeducation, a college symbol, investments in South Africa. To put it bluntly, there is a systemic "communications gap" among the various constituencies of the College. We are all too happy to share spirit but not at all willing to share insight or knowledge.
I hesitate to discuss the problem in such a bloodless fashion, knowing, as I do, that it subsumes many issues of a more passionate nature. Perhaps, however, that's all for the better. In any event, the argument: Students, from what I have perceived, have the clearest perspective on what it is really like to be a student at Dartmouth, to live and study here now. (Case in point: Many of the trustees were shocked to discover how strongly students felt about the admissions quota on women. But that is only too understandable one had to experience the social situation to appreciate its awkwardness.) Unfortunately, this knowledge is shortlived; we spend one year settling in to college life, two years living it, and one year preparing to leave it.
Alumni, on another hand, boast expert knowledge of the College from a postgraduation vantage point. Not only do they boast it, however; to a degree unparalleled in the nation they contribute, in both spirit and dollars, to a vibrant relationship with the College. Of the groups of Dartmouth, it is the alumni, I think, who most appreciate that indefinable ethos I wrote of earlier. Their perspective grants a sympathetic awareness of the living, maturing Dartmouth.
On still another hand, the trustees, in that they bear the ultimate responsibility for the survival of the College, enjoy the most comprehensive perspective on Dartmouth an institution with a long and proud and, sometimes, not so proud history. If students see the College from a vantage of three years plus one, and alumni see it from 20 years past and 20 years present, then the trustees must see it from our one year present, 200 years past, and 200 years future. Each group can lay claim to a unique vision, each vision is essential to our well-being.
The conclusion, I imagine, is obvious. Cooperation is such a simple concept that one often wonders why it fails to multiply and prosper. Indeed, this entire argument runs the risk of simon-simplicity. But one image keeps invading my head; one recalls those school-day transparencies whose several layers showed the chronological growth of the United States the 13 colonies, then the Louisiana Purchase, Mexico, California, and so on. Similarly, each perspective of Hanover the specific present, the specific past, the general past and present, and the conceptual future could be laid one on the other, thus combined to create a vision truer to Dartmouth than any individual view could possibly be.
This analysis, I know, is an indulgence. I never have managed to remember that there is a time and place for everything, that my atavistic stirrings of idealism should be confined to dusky walks in the meadow, to sleepless nights when the stars shine out, to convocations and matriculations and graduations. But, with the indelicacy an accomplished fact, I might as well indulge a little more, turn my words to action: Some Saturday soon, knock on my door. We can sit down on my porch across from the stadium there's usually some cider in the fridge and we can talk about Dartmouth, what it means, all that stuff of fellowship. We might even debate the question of the appropriate point-spread for the Harvard game. We'll discuss my diagnosis.
