Brittany Crosby

I don’t know exactly when it began. Maybe it was when people gushed over my Dartmouth sweatshirt while I rushed through Boston’s Logan Airport to catch a bus headed for my Freshman DOC trip. Or maybe it was when my peers would mock me when I did something they deemed odd: “You’re an Ivy League student and you don’t know how to cross the street?!” (As a matter of fact, I do know how to cross the street. I just like waiting for the walk signal —besides, I try to set a good example for the children). Whether it sprang from the positive comments or the negative backlash, I may never know. But some time after matriculation, perhaps during Orientation week, I realized that being a Dartmouth student was something to be proud of. I learned the alma mater quickly, throwing my arms around the shoulders of ’09s, ’08s, ’07s, ’06s and other alums, praising the granite in our muscles and our brains.

We all remember our first crush on Hanover: the quintessential New England town, small enough that everyone knows everyone else, the congenial aura of students and townies alike. Because I didn’t get a chance to visit Dartmouth before I decided to attend (for some reason, I thought the virtual tour would suffice), my introduction to Hanover was on a warm September day, the sunlight hours still long, the air lacking the crisp bite of autumn, the campus alive as people introduced each other with a “Hey, remember me? We’re Facebook friends. I saw that your favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird and I also listen to Dave Matthews…” Oh, Hanover. It was love at first 5:45 wake up call.

But we all know the ephemerality of summer loves. By the first snowfall in October, I had lost my infatuation with Dartmouth, and wondered if I had made the right choice. The “small town feel” I had once admired became cloying, on the brink of suffocating. And heaven help me if I received one more blitz about a lost black North Face jacket. The homogeneity of Dartmouth began to surface. Sure, coming from a prosaic Coloradan town, initially everything appeared “diverse,” but I soon began to crave variety. I needed more than EBAs to provide nourishment at 2 a.m. On campus, I never felt quite comfortable or at ease, yet everyone else seemed so happy here. Was I the only miserable one? I began to question my merits. One evening, while visiting an exhibit at the Hood Museum, I was inspired to write about my internal conflict:

Silent, But Not Without Words

Inspired by the Fred Wilson Exhibit at the Hood Museum

————————————————-

I moved into the room of Daniel Webster,

Dartmouth’s favorite son.

and even when he is repeated and tangled,

he looks so sure from every angle

speaking of “a small college. And yet…”

I, as newcomer, almost forget

that there were many great people before me.

I almost forget my inadequacy.

I’m half afraid that one of the busts were made

to come to life and chide me for being so dense.

I was under the pretense that I’d leave here in four years

and there would be a portrait of me,

right over there next to Good Ol’ Danny.

But if he is Dartmouth’s favorite son,

then I am Dartmouth’s bastard baby.

I stand in jeans, holding a laptop,

mouth filled with “I don’t know” and “maybe.”

I’m always feeling inadequate,

but I still try to love her….

After more consideration, my inadequacy got the best of me. I began to feel like I did not belong here. What great accomplishments could I boast? What have I seen? What have I done? So what if I had spent two weeks in France visiting the Louvre? You spent a year in Siberia designing a more efficient heating system for a nomadic school while using your spare time to translate Anna Karenina into Farsi while teaching yourself Mandarin (for your next escapade, of course). I thought, “What am I doing here? Everyone is so awesome.” I know there’s another Brittany Crosby somewhere out there who is pretty pissed off that our applications got mixed up (and if you’re reading this now, I’m awfully sorry). I went through a period during which I wanted to transfer, wanted to go home, wanted to drop out of college and become a supermodel, wanted to do anything, absolutely anything that would make me stand out. After being a “big fish in a small pond” for such a long time, I was uncomfortable in an environment where I felt myself fading into the background.

While I was feeling bitter, I spoke to a bitter ’08 who gave me the advice I needed to hear: Find your niche. ClichÉ, yes, but for a good reason—it works! Want to tour colonial sites in Auckland? Apply for the Anthropology FSP. Want to spend 24 hours writing, casting and directing a play? Find out when the next WiReD show is. Want to study the effects of progesterone and estrogen on Japanese Medaka fish? Cool. Write a proposal and Dartmouth will fund your research. Most importantly, be passionate about something, about anything. That, I discovered, was the Dartmouth spirit.

After a lot of introspection, I discovered what I needed: Poetry. It began with some amazing ’06s in Soulscribes who handed me a microphone and a place on the stage. I had three minutes to say whatever I wanted, curse words and all, followed by applause. The experience was as refreshing as it was liberating. I became addicted to the snapping, the cheering, the liveliness of a good crowd. Poetry remained an anchor in my life particularly after my decision to become a Creative Writing major. Now, I could spend all day writing poems AND turn them in as homework. I could provoke random people and say, “It’s for the art. Yeah, I gave you a wet willy just to see your reaction. I’m going to put it in a poem.” And then there’s my English 85 class. (Hi Alex, Sam, Phil, Dai, Kimmi, Laura and Prof. Mathis!) Thank you for pushing me to explore, to express, to engage. I have finally found my niche, uniting with poetry lovers across campus. With the discovery of a network, I’ve begun to feel comfortable again.

However, I’m still unsure about what it means to be a Dartmouth student. I’ve sung about the hill wind’s spell, griped over the Dartmouth bubble and spoken to many alums who return year after year to Hanover, their second home. Each person is defined by a unique experience, which for me consists of late night conversations concerning Denzel Washington on Andres 3, sunbathing on the Green—an hour and a half away from a decent beach—and going to events just to get another free t-shirt. But we all have the salty-dog-raggin’, bonfire-runnin’, frat party dancin’ unity. We all have a common goal: to use the privilege we’re given as Dartmouth students to make a difference in the world around us. At Dartmouth, if you don’t find a spot to call home, make one. Burrow until you create a place where you belong.