O Wisest Vox, All-Knowing Vox, Silent Vox

The mysterious oracle of Dartmouth lias not spoken in five years.

The time: about five years ago. The place: the west entrance to Baker Library, ground floor, just before you walk into the Reserve Room and the Orozco murals.

Three students with bright eyes and grins on their faces are reading a bulletin board. Below the board is a discreet box attached to the wall. It is labeled "Suggestions." Pinned to the board are dozens of queries, all handwritten, about 90 percent of them from undergraduates. Usually they're on small ira scraps of paper: a bit of torn envelope, the back of a receipt. Almost invariably they are unsigned or pseudonymous. Attached to each is a typed answer with the typed signature "Vox." No one knows who Vox is, though clearly he or she works in Baker.

Some of the queries are directly about the library. They can be strictly business, like one that complains about selfish students who claim a specially comfortable chair in the Tower Room by dropping a sweater and two books on it, and then go away for six hours. The student wants to know how long you have to wait before you move the books and take die chair for yourself. It's signed "Envious WindowSeat Watcher."

"How much nerve do you have?" Vox asks in return. And then it makes a suggestion. If the sweater-owner has been really selfish, "Move in, pack up their stuff, and take it down to Lost and Found.

They'll get the message." Some are historical, like the one that asks, "Were students thrown out of the Reserve Corridor while Orozco painted his murals? Or was it even the Reserve Corridor at the time?"

To which Vox answered, "It was the Reserve Corridor at the time and it was open to students and others while Orozco worked."

But many of the questions are about the College in general. "O Vox most wise," a student asks. "Why is the South so poorly represented among students at the College?" Vox checked with Holly Sateia, an administrator who then worked in Admissions, and reported that many southerners fear the New Hampshire winter.

"Dear Vox," asks another. "Why is 1770 written on some of the college crests instead of 1769?" (Answer: In 1958 the Trustees decided to change the date on the seal from 1770 actually open for business to 1769, received charter.)

Still another, awed by the vast sea of chairs at Commencement, wants to know just how many folding chairs the College owns. (Answer in 1990: 8,900.) Another wants to know why Dartmouth once suspended the entire class of 1885. (The entire class had been rowdy.)

But half of the questions are neither about the library nor about Dartmouth in general. "All-knowing Vox," one asks. "Are there large variations in the alcoholic content of popular brands of beer?" Moderate variation, Vox replies, and lists alcoholic content for nine popular brands. It ranges from 4.1 percent to five percent.

Another student wants to know how to get in to a session of the Supreme Court. Vox answers that you can just show up for one of the 100 to 150 seats available each day the court is in session. Vox also tells how to learn when it's in session, and even supplies a Supreme Court phone number. And a third student, apparently quite serious, asks, "What is the meaning of life?" Vox gives a serious answer. "I don't know that the meaning of life is the same for everyone. You'll have to find it for yourself."

No students gather now. The bulletin board is bare, and has been since 1991. One of the last queries to go up read, "Dear Vox, What's the story? Where are all your witty answers & stuff? We miss you! Love, Us."

There's a story. And it's a sad one. The higher-ups in Baker decided that the Vox board wasn't worth employee time. Myself, I think the higher-ups are badly mistaken. That board was the best P.R. Baker ever had. And it was truly a part of education. It was one of the things that distinguished Dartmouth from a hundred impersonal state universities.

Dear Vox, come back.