And everyone is always moving,
rushing from one half-hearted conversation to the next,
from an inkling of contemplation to the plethora of modern frivolities
ransacking the brilliance of our world—
going and going as if there were really somewhere to be,
somewhere more real than now.

In reckless abandonment the present is left
to rot with the already decaying past.

There is a catastrophic flaw in our thinking.
We are all chasing elusive moments, vividly concocted in our minds,
and we scurry desperately to create them, to make real.

It’s as though the realness of our emotions forces us to thrust ourselves
into extremes in order to find peace.
Depression, violence, anger, passionate romance, dizzying achievement.
In them we find ourselves superficially drawn closer
to the expectations we plant and allow to grow in our minds.

But we are all running an impossible race.
There cannot be a perfect translation of thought into action,
just as these words are an imperfect expression of my meandering musings.

But I am more at one with the present as I depress each key and type the letters
that obediently align as I attempt to define my reality at this moment.

But how long is a moment?
Is it defined by something other than time?
Is it free from the shackles of that colorless oppressor?
Is it the soft yellow light of this room?
Is it the smooth, light oil feeling of these familiar keys?
Or is a moment this entire project, this work, this soothing pastime?

Can a moment fit in between a “yes” and a “no”? A “maybe” and a “sure”?

Are moments the incomplete concentrations of sensory receptions
that can be separated, organized and then mysteriously transformed into a life?

To read my own words is an oddly comfortable meeting
with an old, wise friend. How funny it seems, now,
to allow my eyes to dance over the prophetic words
that I spilled in a tizzy of dissatisfaction ages ago.

To forget the power of language is to submit to the disorder of life
with its unpredictability which mocks the nauseating predictability of it all—sometimes.

I may never know him.
Why does that make my heart swell in union with a tide of reluctant tears—
tears that can still be easily held back
by seawalls of rationalizations and distractions?

The breathing, beating, crying, lusting, snoring,
wheezing creature lying beside me is the Greatest Paradox.
The source of emotions that send all my ideas swirling
in a desperate attempt to charm, provoke, anger, evade.
In between slow rhythmic exhales and comforting readjustments,
I wonder if this moment, this place, was waiting for me.

I love lists and plans. The scribbled out, coffee-stained ones are the best.
But this wasn’t on a list. And I’ve never been one for going it unscripted.

Why are some memories with you so vivid. so simple—frustratingly so,
yet warm and sharp with the clarity of freshly dried window?
Could a life without you ever be this bright?

I wonder if another could fill that space on a sofa,
in that seat, on the left side of the bed… Of course,
but a place in my heart has been permanently taken.

I don’t think I signed any release papers or closed a contract.
Just like that, you moved into a spot I’d never had a chance to arrange,
or neurotically rearrange, sporadically polish,
or even steal a quick glance into.

His buddies were always willing to play wingman for him since they met freshman year at New York University. It surprised girls to know Landon’s shy, southern charm and clunky glasses could make friends with the likes of Neil Doogat, a well known athlete and ladies’ man. Landon was always the odd ball of the group, but knew that’s what the guys loved about him. Sure, they teased him every now and then, but that made him “one of the guys.” He gained some confidence and a new look because of it.

“Go over there and talk to her, Man. You know you want to,” said Doogat, as he lightly jabbed his friend’s arm.

The other two men chuckled. With his free hand, Landon held the spot where he had been prodded, and took a final sip from his champagne flute with the other.

“She’s so beautiful,” he said to them, but more to himself. “Why is she standing there alone?”

Doogat chimed in, “Maybe because twenty-five year old guys like you don’t have the balls to ask her out! Come on, Man. You ask us here every night just so you can talk to her. When are you gonna do it?”

“Hey, she doesn’t have a drink,” Landon added.

“Oh really?” They all laughed.

Landon stared trance-like at the feminine figure before him.

“You talk our ears off all the time about this girl and what you want to say to her, well now here’s your chance. Did I not teach you anything? Go for it.”

After a moment, Landon regained awareness. “What? The last time I took your advice it didn’t end so well.”

Landon was referring to their sophomore year at NYU, when he had asked for Doogat’s opinion on how to get a date with the pretty red head down the hall. Doogat had told him about the tested and true pick up lines his father used to teach him. Supposedly they were original and witty and girls loved that shit. Landon wasn’t quite sure if those lines Doogat told him would work, but he was willing to try. One afternoon, Landon had seen the red head in the hall and was not about to miss an opportunity.

She had been busy fussing with her key in the door when Landon went up to her.

“Hi,” he croaked.

The red head had looked at him blankly. “Yes?”

“I’m Landon.” Silence. “I’ve seen you around and just wanted to introduce myself.”

“Ok.”

She had finally unlocked her door and was about to open it when Landon added, “by the way, can I ask you something?” He had stood still wringing his hands.

“What?” the girl barked.

That was it, time to show her what he was made of. Landon had put on a smooth voice as he asked, “Are your parents retarded, ‘cause you are something special!” He had ended with a bright grin.

“Ugh, you jerk!” The door to the red head’s dorm had slammed in Landon’s face.

Since that encounter, he had made sure to keep far away and was always weary of taking Doogat’s “advice.”

“Sorry about that, Dude. That was pretty funny though.” The guys laughed.

Landon gave a crooked smile and straightened his posture. “Ha. Ha. Just watch a master at work.” He turned around to face the woman as he took a deep breath. When one of the servers came by holding a try of champagne filled glasses, Landon quickly placed his on top and took a full one. “Thanks.” Landon took one more deep breath and leisurely walked forward. He held the glass a little tighter with each step in fear of letting it slip from his moist palm. Okay…just give her the drink and start a simple conversation…no biggie. He stopped a few steps behind the woman, but he was close enough to get a whiff of strawberries from her hair. He cleared his throat before he said, “Uh, excuse me.”

The woman flinched faintly and quickly turned around. “Yes?”

Landon’s sparkling blue eyes widen upon looking at her as his heart began to beat faster. “Oh, sorry if I scared you; I just saw you standing here and…” Landon stiffly extended his arm toward the woman’s face. In a pitch higher than his usual voice, Landon asked, “Would you like a drink?”

The woman puckered her lips as she turned her glance from Landon to the alcoholic beverage in front of her. He withdrew his arm once he noticed the slightly disgusted look on her tanned face. “No, thank you,” she finally answered. “I don’t drink.”

Way to go, Dumb-ass! He ran a jittery hand through his short, sandy-blonde locks. “Well, that’s fine. I’ll just set it down right here.” He walked up to the painting, squatted and placed the glass under the art frame onto the blue-and-black tiled floor. Landon stole a glance back at his group of friends. He noticed Doogat give him the thumbs up before he turned his interest back to the woman.

The woman’s attention was nowhere near Landon. She was already fixated on the painting in front of her.

She smells really good. Mmm…strawberries.

The woman’s attention remained on the artwork. Her gaze was immersed in the depth of the chocolate brown lines and warm reds and oranges. He was immersed in tracing the outline of her forehead, down to her pointed-nose, high cheekbones, and luscious plum lips. Damn, she’s beautiful…Nice lips…Ugh! I’m staring too much, Landon caught himself. He straightened his posture, which had become less erect as he stood there. Why is she so quiet? Ha, maybe she’s shy, how cute…Wait, why am I so quiet? What the Hell is wrong with me? Say something.

Once Landon became aware of his spell-bound gaze and the need to speak, the woman did so first, “I take it you’re in love with this piece as well?”

“Uh, yeah, nice work,” Landon responded with a nod. He gave a half smile as he shifted his weight to one foot and back again.

“I figured, you know, since you’re still standing here…,” she said while her dark, brown eyes scanned Landon up and down. “What do you like about it?”

“I enjoy her use of dark lines on the side here,” he pointed.

The woman puckered her lips again. “The artist is a man.”
Damn. “That’s what I meant, sorry.” The black slacks of Landon’s suit stuck to the skin of his perspiring thighs. He cleared his throat loudly as his fingers grazed the side of his leg in an effort to scratch an annoying itch. Why did he have to go and wear a black suit in this New York heat? No one cared if it was Armani, the woman certainly didn’t notice. Landon eyed her blank stare. Does she ever smile?

“So, is that all you like?” the woman asked, her mouth tight.

Landon furrowed his eyebrows in thought. He swallowed hard before he spoke, “No, um, I just like the painting in general, I guess.” He cleared his throat as he shifted his body weight from one leg to the other. The woman quickly looked away back at the canvas. After a slight pause that felt more like thirty minutes of silence, Landon asked in earnest, “What is so intriguing to you about this painting?”

The woman turned to face him as a slight smile slowly appeared. Their eyes met and Landon gave her a broader, reassuring grin. He caught a glimpse of shimmer in her brown irises before the bright specks receded into the darkness of her pupils. Her smile quickly faded and she glanced down at the floor then back to the painting after staring for a considerably long time at a woman helping an elderly man stand up from his chair. She let out a breath of frustration. “Why do you like this painting?” she demanded, ignoring his previous question.

What did he go and get himself into? Landon looked back at his group of friends. They were still talking where he left them. His eyes caught those of Doogat, who waved back. Landon gave a quick nod and smiled as he scanned the room on his way back to looking at the canvas. “Why do I like this painting?”

“Yes.”

Do I? His eyes roamed the thick, black lines that made up a surreal version of a street. The various sized circles of red, orange, and burgundy seemed out of place, but what really confused Landon was the bright light emitting from the end of the “road.” He lightly bit his bottom lip. Why do I like this painting…? He could feel his eyes glazing over. Hopefully, she couldn’t tell or didn’t care enough to notice. The woman loudly cleared her throat and this made Landon come out of his trance. He stared at her with widened eyes. She squinted at Landon with pursed lips.

“Are you okay?”

“Uh…yeah, sorry,” he answered in a low voice. Landon looked over at her normally now and exhaled slowly. Dammit, this isn’t working. Landon was contemplating telling her a joke, one of Doogat’s famous lines perhaps. Before proceeding he eyed her up and down. Nah, too cosmopolitan for that…she wants a cultured and serious man. Landon let out a slight chuckle.

“So, what do you think?” her tone a bit more forceful. Now her stiff lips and squinting eyes resembled irritation.
Wow, and here I thought she was timid. He cocked a half smile in amusement to his thought. The woman changed her expression to puzzlement as her mouth parted and eyebrows slightly raised. She took a step back. In a more docile manner she asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?” Landon caught himself.

“Oh, sorry!” He stood up straight, regaining his confident posture as his half smile returned. “It’s just that…well, you surprise me.” After making the comment, he wished he could take it back. They stared at each other in brief, awkward, silence. Landon cleared his throat as he walked up to the image and bent down to look closer at the tiny, white placard that detailed the artist’s name, Carlos Manzono, title of the painting, Misconceptions, and a short description of the medium used, oil on canvas.. “You know, I remember reading some facts about this artist—” Landon stood up and leaned casually against the wall on one side of the painting as he continued, “—Carlos Manzono. He painted this piece nearly on his death bed, well like three months before he died of lung cancer.” Landon’s smirk was visible. He was pleased with himself.

The woman glanced at him blankly, and then returned her concentration on the canvas. “I know.”

His smile faded. “Oh…okay…well, did you know—”

“I know!” she caught him off sharply.
Landon was a bit taken aback by the impulse. His eyes shifted to the floor.

The woman’s face eased in tension as she breathed out deeply. “Sorry,” she cried. She took a step toward Landon and looked up at him ruefully. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t need a bunch of facts.” She looked intently into Landon’s glinting, blue eyes while he stared back at her with a surprised look. “I know you don’t know me, so yes, this is extremely awkward, but it’s very important to me; I just need an answer.” She pointed at the artwork. “Seriously, what do you think of it? Why do you like it?”

Landon stopped leaning on the wall. He slowly stood in front of the painting again. He looked it up and down without a thought in his mind. His teeth clenched together as he slid his jaw back and forth. What’s wrong? Doogat would’ve had her on his arm by now…” In a monotone voice he finally answered, “I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?”

“Well, shouldn’t you know what you think of something?” They glare at each other for a moment neither person budging to look away.

“Of course you should!” he declared angrily. His surprisingly loud reaction made Landon scan the gallery to make sure they didn’t have an audience. Ugh, what is wrong with this lady, why does she care so much? “I just don’t get it,” he added in a whisper. The two stand in silence as the woman waits for Landon to carry on. Ah, screw it. He continued, using hand gestures liberally in emphasizing his point, “There are different sized circles in different colors everywhere with only two defined lines. I mean, seriously, what is that? The bright light on the dark background…why all the contrast? It seems to me the artist was just confused, had no idea what he wanted in this painting, so just jumbled it all together for people like you and me to rack our brains analyzing something that doesn’t exist.” Landon took a moment to catch his breath. He lightly bit his bottom lip wondering why he actually told her what he thought. He braced himself for the backlash.

The woman stared back with her head slightly tilted to one side. The glimmer of light that ebbed and flowed earlier as she stared at the painting was now directed at him. “Thank you for being honest. I needed to hear that.” Her face lightened with each word. She ended with a slight smile.

Oh my gosh honesty actually worked. Damn, women are confusing. “Um…yea, of course.” This moment of silence felt peaceful. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why not, I practically forced you.” she joked. They both gave a nervous chuckle.

“Why do you care so much, about this work of art?”
The woman’s light-hearted expression quickly changed back to dim as she shifted eye contact toward the image.

Landon looked on concerned. “Never mind, you don’t need to answer.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s just…”

Landon peered closer at the woman. Shit, is she crying?

She looked up at Landon with moisten irises as she continued, “He was my father. He was my father and I don’t know what it means.” A light stream of tears trickled down her rosy cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she frantically wiped her eyes as she looked the other way.

Wow. Landon opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. After a moment he asked, “Do you want a tissue or something? I–”

The woman shook her head, “No, no, I’m fine. Sorry about that. Ha, I just still get so emotional when I look at this thing.” She paused, looked back at the art, and with a large breath out continued, “It’s stupid. I’ve stared at this almost every day for two weeks now, and I can’t…I can’t…I just can’t understand what the hell it means. Before his death all his artwork spoke to me, because that’s how he expressed himself.” She vigorously wiped her eyes with the palm of her hands. “His art always spoke to me, it meant something, but now he’s gone and I can’t hear him. These are his last words and I don’t know what he’s saying!”

Wow, I’m officially the biggest jerk on the planet. With his face full of concern, Landon stepped closer. He hesitantly placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself; I’m sure no matter what it means he loved you.” Landon fished in his pocket and took out a crumpled napkin. “Here, it’s clean.”

“Thank you.” The woman took the white cloth to dab her cheeks and the corner of her eyes. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry. This is so embarrassing,” she cried. “I promise this isn’t some sick ploy to get your attention,” she added playfully, a light smile crossing her face.

Landon’s eyes widened. He laughed nervously. “Oh no, I didn’t think that at all.” There was a slight pause. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind…”

“Haha, you’re cute.” The two couldn’t stop staring and smiling at each other. The woman extended a hand. “I’m Alma by the way.”

“I’m Landon, nice to meet you.”

Moyo received her MA from Harvard and her PhD at Oxford. She has worked on hedge funds and macroeconomics for eight years at Goldman Sachs. Hailing from Zambia, she has seen first-hand the effects of the band-aid of aid. Others such as New York University economist William Easterly also agree with Moyo, yet her argument is still up and coming. For years, more aid has been the only way to go. Surprisingly, the man who has backed billions of dollars in Western aid to Africa is none other than Moyo’s former mentor and lecturer: Jeffrey Sachs.

Who is Jeffrey Sachs? Raised in Detroit, Sachs received his BA, MA, and PhD all from Harvard, and was appointed the special advisor to Secretary-General Kofi Annan on the 8 Millennium Development Goals (MDGs) and from 2002 to 2006 he was the director of the UN Millennium Project. Sachs currently also serves as special advisor to the current UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon. He’s been named as one of Time Magazine’s “100 Most Influential People in the World” twice, once in 2004 and again in 2005.

Despite Sachs’ impressive education, he still believes that the only way to end extreme poverty, (defined by living below a $1 a day, as 70 percent of the billion people in Africa are) is through donations in the form of billions of dollars from Western governments. He wants to raise worldwide aid from $65 billion a year in 2002 to $195 billion in the 2015. In his New York Times bestseller The End of Poverty, he cites India and China as examples of aid success stories; in the span of two decades (70’s and 80’s), 300 million people in China alone were lifted out of extreme poverty. However he fails to realize that China received little economic aid packages from national governments when it was making the shift from a communist economic framework to capitalist. A major internal land reform was the primary force that lifted thousands of Chinese peasants from the communes into the middle class. Africa instead has received billions of dollars in external aid, yet since 1970 the continent has actually grown poorer. While the rest of the world, for the most part, has grown richer, the GDPs for African nations continue to lag behind.

In a 2009 article in the Huffington Post, Moyo responded to one of Sach’s Huffington Post articles continuing the ongoing dialogue regarding foreign aid. According to Moyo, when Sachs was her lecturer at Harvard he made the statement: “the path to long-term development would only be achieved through private sector involvement and free market solutions.” Nonetheless, Sachs still pushes foreign aid. William Easterly, in his book review of The End of Poverty in the Washington Post and his subsequent book White Man’s Burden, argued that nations stuck in a “poverty trap” can escape without the massive scaling up of government-to-government aid. He offered statistical evidence that many emerging markets in Asia, i.e. China, Singapore and South Korea, have gained momentum without the help of billions of dollars of aid. There is an inherent bigotry in Sach’s approach to ‘helpless Africans.’ Moyo feels that “Mr. Sachs’s development approach was made for countries such as Russia, Poland and Bolivia, whereas the aid- dependency approach, with no accompanying job creation, was reserved for Africa.” Instead of allowing elected officials to represent Africa nations, seven of which have said they don’t need a continuous flow of aid, Sachs and his celebrity friends Bono and Angelina Jolie dictate what Africa needs during UN and G8 conferences.

On the weekend of April 17th, the Dartmouth Great Issues Scholars and yours truly went to YaleUniversity for the 7th Annual Unite for Sight Conference on Global Health and Innovation. Conference sessions were held in a host of different fields, such as: the non-profit sector, philanthropy, medicine, public service, microfinance, human right advocacy, and health policy. There were a number of keynote speakers, including Sachs himself. The Great Issues Scholars had already had lunch with Moyo, heard her talk, and obtained signed copies of her book. That weekend we heard the argument from the other side—Jeff Sachs.

Sachs began his talk by pointing out that it has been a decade since “We the Peoples,” the creation of the Millennium Development Goals: eight commitments against global issues like poverty, treatable disease, discrimination against women, and illiteracy. In 2000, Secretary-General Annan and Sachs challenged the world to achieve these goals by 2015. With only five years left, is the world any closer to ending problems like poverty and hunger? Sachs felt that advances made in technology such as cell phones, the improvement of primary health delivery, new HIV/AIDS medicines, and new finance and business models were helping the whole world work toward achieving the MDGs. Sachs also believed that if the richest one billion in the world each gave $30 year, in one year $30 billion could be put towards the MDGs. Ten cents on each $100 could go to funding health services for the third world.

Sachs remains dedicated to aid because he feels that since African governments have so little to budget, spending on one sector means not having enough to allocate to another sector like, say, healthcare. Because of this, supposedly an African government lacks the ability to improve their entire nation. He sees no window for microfinance and he wishes to quadruple world aid and pad the World Fund. According to Sachs, the UN should also open another global fund and pump troubled economies, such as that of the US, for more money that will be ineffectively used and will contribute to the conditions that necessitate aid in the first place. Sachs says donor countries don’t give enough, and although he makes a good point that the US spends too much on military funding, he wants to press world leaders into passively dumping aid on Africa instead of actively seeking investments in Africa.

For the final question in the Q&A period after the talk, I asked Sachs about his thoughts on Moyo’s position and those of other intellectuals who say aid isn’t working. Sachs became quite spirited, to say the least, and lashed out at Moyo, referring to her as “that Goldman Sachs employee.” One Great Issue Scholar remarked afterward “I thought he was going to jump off the stage and throttle you.” Sachs defense of aid was constituted almost entirely by what Moyo calls the “emotional argument for aid”; his position was mainly ‘Children are dying!’ Indeed, Sachs did mention how he has been to Africa and has seen children suffering and dying but he offered no economic or logical argument for why aid would work just as well as or better than microfinance or investments in the private sector. He offered no rebuttal to the poor track record of aid and offered no end date for aid. He did not even address Moyo’s most powerful argument: that bucket loads of aid may actually be contributing to the continued destitution of the African continent. In a nutshell, Sachs said there are horrible problems in Africa, so don’t criticize aid; just send more money.

The Unite for Sight Conference was, for the most part, a pro-aid community, and Sachs answer was met by applause. Yet it was obvious that introducing the opposing argument was troubling not only Sachs but to the audience. After Sachs left the podium, his wife Sonia Ehrlich-Sachs, MD came up to talk on the Millennium Villages’ progress on the MDGs in Africa. Dr. Sachs wasn’t as charismatic as her husband and her presentation relied more on its power point instead of effective speaking. Those who questioned her wanted to know if the facts and figures she had up on the screen translated into actual lasting improvement on the ground or in the nation’s government. One questioner wanted to know if this was enough evidence to justify that aid was working, especially for “the other side of the debate.”

Now this isn’t meant to villainize Jeff Sachs. Sachs’s privileged position does not prevent him from taking a deep-seated interest in those in need. However, I think his benevolent character prevents him from seeing that there are other, better ways to help Africa. Moyo doesn’t want the West to ignore the needs of Africa, but she feels that continuing to catch all the fish for Africa will keep it in continuous poverty and is not a sustainable economic course for the West, and the US in particular. As Daniel Quinn describes in his book Ishmael, feeding a group of starving people will only allow them to thrive enough to raise the next generation, and unless these children are taught to feed themselves, they will have no choice but to demand even more.

We cannot hold the Continent’s hand forever and then blindly hope that African governments will suddenly become less corrupt and the common people will magically become entrepreneurs and hedge fund managers. And there are signs that others in the aid community think so too. Although Unite for Sight was pro-aid, it appeared from this conference that the not-for-profit sector is in a transitional stage. More and more people want to empower Africa through investments, loans and business models.

The first keynote speaker of the conference, Jacqueline Novogratz, founder and CEO of the Acumen Fund, gave a presentation entitled “Patient Capital for an Impatient World.” The Acumen Fund supports entrepreneurs in Kenya and other parts of eastern Africa who start projects to alleviate poverty. One entrepreneur started a housing project in the slums of Nairobi, offering small, clean houses with indoor plumbing to people living in tin shanties. Most importantly, these houses are not handouts—they aren’t free, but are offered at reduced loans that once paid off are used to build more houses. Novogratz notes that the fact that houses are not free is key because it gives people a sense of dignity rather than shame at being the recipient of hand-outs.

Innovation in aiding Africa doesn’t stop there. Scott Hilstrom, Co-founder and CEO of the HealthStore Foundation helps create local franchises to dispense much needed medicines as an alternative to the many companies selling counterfeit medicine. HealthStore’s franchises not only have local Africans as business owners and mangers, but also provide the needed oversight to prevent the dispensing of fake pills. Ted London, PhD from the Ross School of Business at the University of Michigan, believes in empowering the people and hidden assets at “The Base of Pyramid” (BoP) through nurturing innovators and encouraging social enterprise balanced with traditional enterprise. The new business model for developing economies involves a development community, a private sector and most importantly, interdependence.

Andrew Wok is the CEO of Root Cause, which according to its website is a research and consulting firm dedicated to “mobilizing the non-profit, public and business sectors work together in a new social impact market.” Wok argues that after trillions of dollars have been poured into poor communities, there has not been a corresponding amount of social progress in return. He wants to create a social impact market that nurtures relationships between non-profits, embraces citizens on the ground as public innovators, and engages Western governments as well as local government. Billy Shore of Share Our Strength, a national organization committed to fighting hunger in the US, spoke on achieving global health through small community wealth. The culture of the non-profits must be recast to capture untapped wealth and aspiring entrepreneurs. How the aid community works right now is “good, but not good enough” he says. Shari Barenbach, President and CEO of the Calvert Foundation, also believes in investment at the “base of the pyramid” instead of handouts. Her foundation works to maximize the flow of capital to developing nations through mainstream investments. Allen Hammond, co-founder and chairman of Healthpoint Services sees the need for hybrid profit/non-profit models. In poverty stricken communities, the poor either pay exorbitant amounts for simple things like sanitary napkins from crooked merchants or they receive free medicine, food and other goods and services from the NGOs. However, due to shame, pride or social stigma, they will avoid the NGOs and will continue to pay exorbitant amounts or go without. It is not immoral to charge a small fee for medicine or clean water if a poor community will buy those goods.

Kevin Starr MD, affiliated with the Mulago Foundation for tactical philanthropy, pushed for an overhaul of the entire way the non-for profit sector does business. Instead of focusing on sad anecdotes to attract donors, NGOs need to start thinking like a capitalist business. He offers the microfinance non-profit Kiva as a good example of a successful NGO that is run well and helps poor communities through loans. Moyo is an avid supporter of Kiva.

The bureaucracies of NGOs right now are for the most part flabby and ineffective. They must start thinking about results in impact rather than profits, and the scalability of their projects and efforts. You can’t have an NGO delivering aid but only 25% of its aid recipients actually climbing out of poverty. A successful intervention in a poor community must be replicable, scalable, and engaging to the local and later national government. Most importantly, the efforts of an NGO must have a staying power so that when the NGO eventually leaves, the community will not revert back to poverty. Aid is like war; there has to be a way to get out once the intervention is over. As the eloquent Dr. Starr put it, “What happens when the donor dollar is gone?”

The face of the aid community is changing, and fortunately Sachs was the only person I heard at the Unite for Sight Conference advocating for billions more in aid. Sachs has done great work drawing attention to global hunger and poverty with the Millennium Villages and the Millennium Development Goals, but he’s stuck in the old way of helping the poor, through free handouts. Although handouts in the billions may alleviate a problem temporarily, they offer no lasting change and do not strike at the root of sustained extreme poverty: lack of investments, capital or participation in global bond markets. Moyo, Starr, Wok, Hammond, Easterly and others are the faces of a new era for aid that will hopefully bring about the end of the current aid situation. “I think Moyo and Sachs desire the same things,” commented Amy Newcomb, director of the Great Issues Scholars program, “but they’re going about it differently.” While Sachs’s vision sees no end in sight for poverty in Africa, Moyo offers a way to systematically revamp Africa’s economy. Sachs would do well to end his long rivalry with Moyo and join in efforts to move Africa beyond aid.

A Love/Hate Relationship

May-Lieng Karageorge

My freshman year, a friend told me that one of his goals at Dartmouth was to explore as many cultural spaces as possible. While that sounds like a pretty clichèd endeavor, it’s still something many of us fail to do—getting out of our comfort zones and choosing to deal with people who aren’t like us, ones who challenge our views, expand our horizons, or just plain get on our damn nerves with their inanity. The following are two experiences that have shaped my time at Dartmouth: one gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside, and the other involves a love/hate relationship that gives me fuzzy feelings, too, but also makes me want to stab myself in the eye.

Sorority Gal

Let’s start with the space that caused me to cross the love-hate line so many times. In the name of exploring various cultural spaces, I accepted an open bid to my sorority during sophomore spring to see what mainstream Dartmouth was raving about. Some of my closest friends were already in the house, so I figured this was a good way to spend time with them. What I didn’t realize about joining a house was that while, yes, I would get an opportunity to spend time with my amazing friends and meet more amazing girls (both of which I’ve done and am grateful for), I would also be stuck as a “sister” to some crazy psychos, drama queens, and annoying whiners.

Let me first make a disclaimer. The aforementioned groups of people, plus tools, d-bags, etc., exist everywhere at Dartmouth. The difference between finding them at say, Novack, and finding them in your sorority, though, is that in the former situation, you can get the hell out of there real quick. But alas, in the latter, you’re bound to have to deal with them again and again. During meetings, for example, you have to endure some annoying sister’s TMI and graphic account of her sexual encounters. During sisterhood trips, you can barely avoid being part of some other sister’s self-induced boy drama. At formal or an open party, inevitably someone will—in all her drunken glory—break the fuck down and wail about how much life sucks for her and can someone please give her a hug. Projectile vomit. Sigh. You can’t even escape them in cyberspace. Stupid, time-wasting house blitzes galore. While other people are better about laughing all these people off, and better at selectively checking house blitzes that won’t waste one’s time, I guess I am not so gifted.

The second reason that I’m not well-suited for a sorority has to do with the structure of the Greek system. Because of the gendered dichotomy of the system, the space becomes sexualized, and its participants are socialized to look at the opposite gender as a limited resource we must fight over. This is sad on two fronts. Firstly, the idea that there are a limited number of eligible guys on campus often makes girls settle, instead of really looking for guys who are not only f-me hot, but know how to respect and make sweet love to a girl. Secondly, not only do they settle, but they’ll cut other females (figuratively speaking, not in a literal shank-fest way—although it has often come close to that) for these losers. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to stab myself in the eye when I heard girls, not so much in my sorority but within the system at large, fight over this douchebag or that woman-beater. Because of the sexualized nature of the Greek system, it’s also hard to establish platonic friendships with guys because every time you start hanging out with a guy a little too often, people immediately assume you’re hooking up, making shit awkward for everyone. Thanks a lot.

The last reason sororities and I are not a good match is simply because I’m too poor for it. I hope I don’t have to explain at length why the Greek system is classist by default (summary of main reason: high cost of dues/slush funds + doing house hours to afford dues = a huge time suck). Even as a member of the house with the cheapest dues and the most comprehensive financial aid system, I still do not find being in a house affordable. I often times end up spending so much time doing house hours to afford dues that I barely have extra time to spend at the house. Even if you’re set on the dues front, there are still so many extra expenses: buying shirts for this big weekend and that big event, that overpriced Jockwear gear, formal attire, hosting Wine & Cheese, paying extra for a sisterhood trip to Montreal, etc. Yes, I realize these things are optional, but they’re an option everyone else has the privilege of partaking in without an extra thought, creating the false illusion that paying dues will give you the complete “Greek Life package,” when in reality there are tons of hidden expenses not all of us can afford. Looking back, I don’t think the financial sacrifices I had to make to be in a house were worth it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure sororities can be absolutely heavenly for other girls, and mine has been a source of a lot of great memories as well. It’s been a huge internal struggle deciding whether to depledge, or stick around. I chose to stick around because of the tremendous respect and love I have for the majority of my sisters. I just wish I could have met and gotten to know them without taking part in such a challenging and flawed system. Catering Wench

At the end of every spring, I stay on campus to work for Commencement and Reunions (C&R). It’s good money, and a good excuse to partake in Senior Week debauchery. Money, booze, and boys aside, working C&R has been one of my favorite experiences at Dartmouth because of the co-workers I met and befriended.

There are several C&R jobs, each with its own perks and disadvantages. I work Catering, which is probably the most labor-intensive of all the C&R jobs; depending on your schedule, you can end up working 17-hour days. I’d go home sore as fuck, my feet aching and smelly, big sweat stains on my armpits. Love it.

You see, there’s something about working a shitty job that makes for great bonds and a sense of camaraderie, despite the fact that the C&R staff is an eclectic assortment. My co-workers aren’t just poor kids who need to work to pay for tuition and books. There are athletes looking for a productive way to spend interim periods, shopaholics desperate to pay off their credit card bills, and work-addicts that just can’t stay idle at home, even though they already have a baller internship lined up for the summer.

Despite the diverse composition of the staff, we get along so well because we bond mainly through sharing and respecting one another’s backgrounds and views: one girl’s pride in being a West Virginian and her love of muscle cars; a co-worker’s worries about getting into medical school and living up to his family’s pristine achievements; a white Southerner’s struggles with having minority friends who assume that he’s privileged, despite the fact that he’s a first-generation student who comes from a low socioeconomic class.

We exchange stories of the good ass-whoopings we got as little kids, dysfunctional families, and other hilarious growing up tales. One co-worker described how his education was a product of a lucky accident. He was originally the family shepherd, but one day, when he was eight, he fell asleep while shepherding and lost all of his family’s sheep. Useless as a source of labor, his parents enrolled him in school. Now he’s thriving at Dartmouth. Another co-worker explained the common practice of having multiple wives in Afghanistan, and then jokingly expressed his wish of having 27 wives. That led to many politically-incorrect jokes about cows and wives (you had to be there). I felt at home sharing my stories of growing up in Indonesia, and my views as a multiracial, first-generation student at Dartmouth. Of course, there were negative e
ncounters. Like the time I overheard a student manager saying that the reason he had an Asian girlfriend was because “Asian girls are submissive.” Or another time when a co-worker mistook a friend’s comment as racist and tried to start a fight.

Yet, through the mini-tiffs and disagreements, we—save for a few bona fide jerks—are mostly a tight group who work together, rage together, and have awesome discussions together. I would not have met most of these people through my normal interactions, and that’s why I love being a Catering wench. We’ve learned so much from one another, and that at least makes us a little less ignorant than before.

Smiles and Empathy

Molly Bode

The simplest piece of advice I could give on how to live a happy life at Dartmouth would be to try to live off-campus for at least one term, if not all of senior year. Secondly, realize the importance of your friendships and interactions with others. Living off campus has all sorts of obvious perks: kitchens, nooks & crannies, basements, big beds, microwaves, living rooms, and the opportunity to live and socialize with friends. More importantly, off-campus living gives you enough distance to let you put your on-campus experience as well as your entire four (or so) years here into perspective. This distance, physical and otherwise, engenders a certain peace of mind. It lets you step back and appreciate the beauty of this place—the simple dancing of maple leaves takes precedence over the trivial nuances that can make people question their self-worth and ability to survive at Dartmouth.

I employ the term “survive” because I believe most students find that the beauty of the place belies a natural struggle. This struggle is a collective experience we all encounter at Dartmouth at some point, but nonetheless we let fear or skittishness keep us from sharing our inner turmoil. We certainly know how to put up a confident facade. The influences of others and the fast pace of Dartmouth life can make these personal struggles harder to face. It is important that we take the time to step back into our own personal spaces. My room this past year has become my sanctuary. Though sometimes (most times) you can hardly see the floor of my room, it is always a place where I can reflect on things that are happening in my life. It helps me foster my friendships and relationships with people and realize what is truly important in my life. So try to live off-campus, or at least find your own haven, so that you can appreciate Dartmouth more and feel more personally centered. That haven can be your room, a place of reflection, an activity, or anything that just lets you put the bigger picture together and improves your personal happiness.

Living off-campus has also allowed me to grow close to seven incredible friends, and has helped me improve all of my interactions with others. These seven guys and gals I’ve lived with have transformed my experience, and while we may not all have been the best of friends to start, living together brings a closeness that I do not think can be imitated. It is something that I will miss dearly when I leave—I will not forget the late night conversations on the porch and the roof, or even the fun we have constantly battling with our clogged drains and messy house. At Dartmouth, I have found that there are different levels of friendships, ranging from the friends that you know you will grow old with (and unclog drains with) and will always be close with, to the acquaintances that you greet walking across the green.

Living off-campus and being a senior has reinvigorated my love and respect for the people here, and I feel more enthusiastic when I walk onto campus and see everyone. My piece of advice to you is that, regardless of how close you are with your friends or with people that you have just met, it is incredibly important to acknowledge all of these people in your life—even if it is just to say “hey” or give a smile and nod. And if you do have the time (it doesn’t take much), get to know as many of them as you can. This past year, I’ve sat down and had meals with the most incredible people, often just by chance. In the end, it is the relationships with people, and a certain social aptitude, that you will bring away with you from college. I would advise you to make room for the unexpected interactions, like a walk up Balch Hill, and to plan time with the people that you care about. It can be a hard task to juggle, but if you can find this balance, then I believe you will improve your happiness. While the article from The Atlantic I was pondering about on the roof does not discuss this balance, it does point out that relationships with other people and warm connections lead to happiness and to a good life as we age. I think that it is these connections that lead to happiness at Dartmouth, and I hope that you can find them.

My last piece of advice is to have empathy. I have always tried to be conscious and understanding of others’ circumstances, but living in close quarters with people makes the importance of having empathy even more apparent. You never know what is really going on in someone else’s life, and just realizing that can make a world of difference. If Dartmouth had just a bit more empathy then there would hardly be any issues of respect on our campus. Simply sit down and talk to one another. I believe this is where respect comes from, and if you have empathy in your everyday interactions and communications with people then life is better on both ends.

That’s all I really have to say—it is fitting that as I finish this piece I am running off to have a sit-down dinner with my 9P ladies.

Gender Neutral Bathrooms

Kris Gebhard

However, I doubt any alums get as misty-eyed about their freshman bowel movements. Bathrooms are less politically contested than fraternities, and gender neutralizing them is within the power of students and the administration. Given the benefits we’ll reap from neutralized space, the suggestion seems logical—but I’ve heard from many students that gender-neutral bathrooms give them the heebie-jeebies.

Before we start bowing down to the mystical porcelain god, let’s try to tamp down on the panic, and note that bathrooms have been gender-neutralized at many other schools (Grinnell, Wesleyan, Oberlin, NYU, UCLA, and Reed, to name a few). It is not abnormal for human beings to share bathrooms with the opposite sex. (The most obvious example is a home bathroom.) At Dartmouth, most of us have had gender-neutral bathroom experiences—on DOC trips, while sharing hotels on trips or tours, and, let’s not forget, the (multi-stall) bathrooms at Greek houses.

Of course, the broader Dartmouth campus was not always sex-integrated, whereas nowadays it is possible for the sexes to mingle in class, the library, and (god forbid) Food Court. So, why are bathrooms a sticking point? Why do they remain sex-segregated spaces? Do integrated bathrooms make your skin crawl? Clearly there’s some kind of hard knot at the center of our gender relations at Dartmouth that needs to be massaged away.

Currently, men’s and women’s bathrooms are equal but separate, and therefore occupy specific ground in social hierarchies at Dartmouth. Our campus is essentially split into three varieties of public space with regards to gender segregation: fraternities (along with their sidekicks, sororities), general academic/social space, and bathrooms. Academic and eating spaces are integrated and structurally power-neutral. The vast majority of frat space (social space) is integrated (anyone is generally allowed entrance), but owned by men. Bathrooms are sex-segregated but equal. Are we afraid that the dynamic created by men and women in the same bathroom would be more like dynamics at AD and Chi Gam than at Novack and Collis?

Indulge me in a thought experiment: If bathrooms at Dartmouth were run like Greek houses, there would be two men’s rooms for every women’s. Most women’s rooms wouldn’t be allowed to have paper products, and half would be located off campus. Groups without physical plants would have to urinate in their trash cans or shit on the golf course. Thus, it’s understandable that many people are afraid a switch to gender-neutral restrooms would specifically harm women. They argue that a “safe space” for “women” would be “taken over” by “harmful male-female aggression patterns” that exist in “Dartmouth” “at large.” This is also known as the “What if she sees a penis?” argument.

Interestingly enough, the hypotheticals that plague the gender-neutral bathroom discussion actually occur daily at fraternities. In a gender-neutral bathroom, it is unlikely that someone will grab you from behind and start grinding on you with a hard-on. It is also interesting that the (unlikely) sight of a (typically flaccid) penis used for urination is so ostensibly scarring, when I saw three cases of public urination in frats with people of all genders present last Thursday alone. In fact, a lot of what you see at frats is men urinating all over everything—you get to see A LOT of dick.

Why are we afraid to pull our pants down in a stall next to someone (where they won’t be able to see us!) and conduct our biological functions with members of the opposite sex potentially present next door? What is the underlying message when the “last remaining safe space” for women is a ten-foot room in which people boot and change their tampons? Safe space from what? The Greek system? In this view, we are attempting to quarantine sexism to certain biological-function oriented spaces (frat basements), so that it is manageable.

This argument promotes not only the fallacy that sexism can be contained to frat basements, but it also relies on the assumption that women’s bathrooms are safe spaces. As the Transgender Law Center’s guidebook to gender-neutral bathrooms points out: “Putting a sign that says ‘women’ on the door of a bathroom does not stop people who want to harm women from entering…If someone did intend to assault a woman in a bathroom, they would certainly know where to look.” Arguing that gender-segregated bathrooms are safe spaces for women not only perpetrates the myth that if victims are separated from aggressors, they will be safe, but forces all men into the role of aggressor. This is a parlor trick, a shell game, essentially. It reduces us to our biology and ignores the myriad of ways in which women harm other women.

Conversely, gender-neutral bathrooms hold all people accountable and responsible for being respectful of each other. If gender-neutral bathrooms seem threatening simply because they are a location for humans, including women and men, to perform bodily functions beside one another, what does this attitude imply about a Greek space that is owned by men, reifies “masculinity,” and yet addresses the same biological realities in an integrated setting? Frankly, we are far too used to making exceptions for the Greek system. A male throwing up in a trash can outside a classroom is deemed inappropriate, but a brother throwing up in Tri-Kap’s trash can is excused because he owns the space. But if we are out trying to have a good time Friday night, we all have to put up with his vomit just the same.

Whether we are frequenting the frats, walking around in our clothes, or eating and studying in Novack or FoCo, we all put up with sexism that is engendered by male-dominated socialization patterns. It can be frustrating, but we find ways of coping. We engage with friends (of all genders) who say troubling things and challenge each other’s assumptions. I think we are all better off for engaging with each other in gender-neutral spaces rather than making enemies of all men or victims of all women. Defending sex-segregated bathrooms as safer than gender-neutral bathrooms contributes to a campus discourse that has one set of expectations for frats, and another set of (much more respectable) expectations for all other public spaces on campus. It is high time we raise our expectations in ALL spaces.

I suggest a three-year plan to transition to gender-neutral bathrooms, starting with academic buildings and working towards dorms. Some spaces such as the Library and Collis already have several single-stall gender-neutral bathrooms. This summer, I advise re-signing unisex bathrooms with a picture of a toilet, and make the first floor multi-stall bathrooms of every academic building gender-neutral. Next year, neutralize the remaining multi-stall bathrooms so that there are about half gender-neutral, half sex-segregated bathrooms. Build two-wall stalls around urinals to provide more privacy. The following year, neutralize all bathrooms in academic buildings. Neutralize bathrooms on residence hall floors where only one bathroom is present (these floors are currently all-male or all-female) and give residents a choice on housing forms to live on a floor with gender neutral bathrooms or sex-segregated bathrooms. We could fo
llow a model similar to Grinell’s, in which residents can elect to neutralize their bathrooms through an anonymous, unanimous ballot, or create our own model. Dartmouth is already blessed with many single stall bathrooms, in Collis, the Library, and newer dorms for those who prefer complete privacy. Any new building projects could include multi-stall bathrooms with more privacy—walls that extend to the ceiling, for example.

There is no space on campus that puts more structural pressure on us to conform to the gender binary than bathrooms. The “Men” and “Women” signs on the doors cause us to police gender conformity in ways that are simply silly and unhealthy. We need spaces that hold everyone accountable for disrespectful behavior, and we need to learn from each other how to be respectful of our bodies and bodily functions. Gender-neutral bathrooms normalize inter-personal relations based on personhood rather than biological sex. They’re more comfortable for queer-identified folks, and safer for transgender people. Ultimately, they’re safer for everybody. What are we waiting for?

Case Hathaway-Zepeda

By my junior year, our volunteer base had expanded to include about seven students. That fall, we ran a business class at the prison and sold crocheted headbands during the winter in a few local stores. The women reflected their deep concern for children and families when they voted unanimously to have the proceeds donated to the Upper Valley Haven. Prison Project began to expand: we formed poetry groups, dance classes, and crochet workshops; played volleyball, and filmed over 50 women reading bedtime stories to their children. In the spring of 2008, Prison Project, representing Dartmouth, was nominated for and won a state service award. These past three terms we have had a record number of volunteers, to the point that we can’t even accommodate all of them during our weekly visits.

Prison Project has really shaped my Dartmouth experience, informing the way I interact with people, create my art, and choose to live. Initially, as a Studio Art major, I thought that the work I was doing was solely about the women in prison. These past two terms, however, I’ve come to realize that I make “art” to communicate feelings. My pieces are an expression of how I relate to the women in the prison, and how I have slowly come to acknowledge my depression. In each piece, nonetheless, there is hope despite the darkness, which is open for the viewer to interpret.

After my four years at Dartmouth, I finally realized that you should just do what you want. If you have a passion, follow it vehemently; immerse yourself in it. If you’re not sure what you’re passionate about or what makes you happy, try everything with all of your heart and explore. The opportunities at Dartmouth are boundless. The College can sometimes be restrictive, but see these moments as catalysts for creative action. Be here, experience Dartmouth, question it, love it, hate it, but ABOVE ALL, leave it in a better state than when you first set foot on campus. Speak up and do what you want, and what you think is right—it probably is, and eventually people will hear you. I can’t imagine my life without Dartmouth and everything it has given me. I hope that every student feels this way upon graduation and then goes above and beyond their greatest dreams with confident determination.

Sharing Stories

Scott Limbard

And then we’re gone, off to do a great many different things. At that point, we’ll all probably have a romanticized memory of this spring, coupled with the idea that the end came too quickly. I’m guessing that we’ll all feel a kind of regret that we couldn’t extend our last term indefinitely. In any event, hopefully this summer there’ll be better things to do than sitting around thinking about Dartmouth. (It’ll just feel like an off-term anyways.)

I’d like to suggest a new summer pastime that doesn’t involve dreaming about the glory days. I call it the story game. (Yes, the title needs work.) I promise this game will change your life if you participate in good spirit—going at it sarcastically will only make it seem petty and superficial (which, if that happens, it might actually be). Anyway, by continuing to read this article, you are hereby obligated to play this game at least once in the next two days. Consider it a challenge.

Like the title, the game itself is quite simple. You need at least two people. Person A asks Person B: “Tell me a story about [insert topic here].” Person B then tells a story about that topic. Simple, right? A couple clarifications: the topic can be an object (a fire hydrant, a food, etc.), a time (winter, last year, etc.), or pretty much anything. It just needs to be general. The story doesn’t have to be funny. It doesn’t have to be exciting or inspiring. It just needs to be true. (Of course, there’s never anything wrong with hearing a funny, exciting, inspiring story. That’s just a pretty high bar to set for this game, which would quickly make it difficult to participate.)

At this point, I imagine this game sounds really boring. (Ah, ye of little faith.) Truthfully though, that thought isn’t totally off-base: playing the story game isn’t as consistently exciting as some other things (think: base jumping, chipotle tabasco sauce, Sheba, etc.) However, the point of the story game isn’t to get the adrenaline pumping. The point is to fill an otherwise unscheduled moment in your life with a bit of fun. (Incidentally, it’s also a great way to get to know other people better. Plus one point!)

I taught the story game to three friends of mine at the beginning of this term. One of them, Person A, asked me to tell her a story about a bike helmet. (Random? Yes, but those are the rules.) As it turns out, I have very bland stories about bike helmets. Once, the purple plastic shell covering my helmet’s protective foam part separated while I was riding. It floated away in the wind, twirling around as I kept speeding down the road, I had a good deal of trouble finding it. That’s pretty much my whole story. Not that great, yeah? True, BUT, my telling that short story prompted my friend to remember a GREAT bike helmet story from his early elementary school years! (After biking halfway to school, my friend learned from a crossing guard that he had forgotten his helmet. Realizing his mistake, he broke down and started to cry because he had ridden all that way without his helmet [scary], and then because he was going to be late for school [because he obviously had to go back home to get the helmet]. After walking his bike back home, his mom gave him a ride to school so he wouldn’t be late. Fantastic story—very endearing.

So, you see, the story game can bring you to unexpected destinations. Now, remember: you’re obligated. Do it. Two days. Think back to the last time you met someone and within two hours had asked him/her to tell you a random story about his/her life. If you have already done this, congratulations. If you haven’t, give it a shot!

Now, to those non-graduating members of the Dartmouth student body: you get to use this fantastic pastime in the company of people you already know. (In fact, try asking your best friend first: that’s the easiest way to start playing the game.) For those of you heading in completely new directions, you can use the story game to get to know totally new people! I wish you the best of luck, and I predict this game will serve you well.

Though my specific advice is to play this game, the real message I’d like to convey concerns the bigger idea of making the most of Dartmouth. Think for a moment about the opportunities available to you here. Realize that you may never again be surrounded by such a high concentration of amazingly fantastic people as you are now. Take advantage of this good fortune, however you see fit! Today is the time to reach out, try something new, and savor the results. Friendships made here can last a lifetime.

Experiences on the Crew Team

Sharon Dauson

There are 38,000 undergraduate students at Penn State. The school fields 27 varsity teams. (I choose Penn State as the example only because I am from Pittsburgh and most of my high school friends are Nittany Lions.) Dartmouth, by contrast, has a student body of roughly 4,000, and supports 31 varsity teams. In 2007, Penn State set a record by selling out the entire student section of the football stadium (22,000 tickets) within 59 minutes of tickets becoming available. The Nittany Lions average over 100,000 fans per home game. I don’t have statistics on Dartmouth football attendance, but I am fairly certain student tickets are free and that there are more people on Collis porch than at Memorial Stadium on any given Saturday. My point is not to argue that Dartmouth students are awful fans or to complain about the football team. Rather, I think this illustrates that the purpose of athletics at Dartmouth, and in the Ivy League in general, is drastically different than that of other Division I schools across the nation.

Star high school football players are recruited to Penn State, where they receive huge scholarships and fame in exchange for entertaining the masses. Penn State football players are athletes and they aspire to play professionally. By contrast, football players are recruited to Dartmouth to receive an exceptional education alongside the opportunity to play a sport they love. They entertain no one. Dartmouth football players are students who aspire to be doctors, lawyers, consultants, and (until recently) bankers.

Athletics are important to the Dartmouth community because they are considered a component of the well-rounded Dartmouth Man (or Woman). The final line of the first verse of Dartmouth’s Alma Mater captures the ideal of physical strength and athletic achievement as a dimension of the ideal Dartmouth student: “With the granite of New Hampshire in their muscles and their brains.”

Richard Hovey, who was in the Dartmouth class of‘85 and wrote the Alma Mater in‘94, placed physical achievement (granite in their muscles) on the same level of scholarly achievement (granite in their brains). The Dartmouth Athletic Department operates under the assumption that playing football will make Dartmouth men better doctors, lawyers, consultants and bankers.

One in four Dartmouth students are varsity athletes. Unlike athletes at big Division I schools, Dartmouth’s student athletes receive no athletic scholarships, and Dartmouth is seldom a stepping-stone to professional sports. Once recruited, there is nothing that compels our athletes to continue to play their sports. At some point during all Dartmouth athletes’ four years, they must ask themselves why they do it.

As a member of Dartmouth’s women’s crew team, I have asked myself this question multiple times since arriving here, and have been asked by my few non-rowing friends many more times. I am going to attempt to outline the pros and cons of being a Division I varsity athlete, especially when money and fame aren’t in the cards.

The number one reason I row is for love of the sport. Many people have the chance to fall in love with a sport growing up. Few have the skill required to continue in high school, and it is the fortunate few who get the opportunity to play the sport they love at the collegiate level. It is easy to forget it, in the midst of intense training and stressful competition, but sports are fun. As a Dartmouth rower I have the unique opportunity to train on a Division I team and race against the fastest rowers in the country.

I also row for my teammates. My best friends in the world are the women I met on the team. Through shared experiences and suffering that no one else could comprehend, I have formed bonds that will last forever. I have shared the feeling of absolute jubilation, utter exhaustion, total despair, and uncontrollable exhilaration with my teammates. I have seen them, and they have seen me, at my absolute highs and lows. The bonds formed through sports can rarely be duplicated. The down side to this, of course, is that you cannot choose your teammates. Being on a sports team forces you to spend exhaustive amounts of time with some people you would not otherwise choose to hang out with.

Even from the first day of pre-season practice my freshman year, I felt like part of a community. Freshman fall, there were twenty upperclassmen who said, “Hello” to me in Collis. When I didn’t know where my Hinman Box was, there were people I felt comfortable asking. When I didn’t know what classes to take, when I did not understand what the difference between a 10 and 10a was, I had a network of Dartmouth women who cared and wanted to help. United by the love of a common sport, I entered Dartmouth already a part of a small, tight-knit community. When sophomore fall came around, I felt no need to join a sorority. I understand the appeal of Greek houses, and I am sure if I was not on a team, I would have rushed. But as it was, I was already part of a “sisterhood.” In addition to being part of a community on campus, rowing for Dartmouth has made me part of a larger Dartmouth athletic tradition—the experience of rowing for Dartmouth is one shared by a select number of Dartmouth alumnae that span the world and transcend generations.

Having at least two hours of practice a day, every day, forces me to be on top of everything. I simply don’t have the time to drink heavily or get behind on work. Unfortunately, there are many hours a day spent at practice that could be better spent studying. In general, I would say that if I wasn’t rowing I would probably spend these extra hours doing something frivolous, but there are days when those extra two hours could have left me feeling better prepared for an exam.

Unfortunately, in choosing to row, I have also chosen not to do a plethora of other things. I have sacrificed Green Key Weekends, DOC trips, FSPs, LSAs, crazy internships, spring break trips to the Bahamas, Friday night dance parties, leisurely meals with friends, skiing phys-ed, and sun bathing on the Green. Most of the time, a love of the sport makes this sacrifice easy, but occasionally I wonder as to the other directions my Dartmouth experience could have followed.

Today I rowed on the Connecticut River for what is likely to be my last time as a Dartmouth undergraduate. As I rowed past the land marks that I have passed a thousand times, it occurred to me that when I recall my years at Dartmouth fifty years from now, I am not going to remember where my classes were (or for that matter what classes I took). I won’t remember who sat behind me or in front of me in my freshman seminar (in fact I already forget). I am certain, however, that I will still know how long it takes to row from the Organic Farm to the Ledyard Bridge. I will recall what the sunrise on the Connecticut looks like in the spring. I will still remember the women who sat behind and in front of me in the boat. For better or worse, being a varsity athlete has defined my Dartmouth experience.

Sam Kohn

I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about what would be the best way to open a piece such as this, and the only truly acceptable way to do so would be to share that Dartmouth has taught me to approach writing with caution. The process itself is the purest expression, an epitome if you will, of the Western concept of “legitimate” thinking. That is, written materials are granted an importance that is not extended to the spoken word. In our day and age, everything must be written down to be remembered. But the emphasis on the printed word abstracts the spoken relationship that exists between people.

With that in mind, I have only a short reflection of my time at Dartmouth. I challenge everyone reading this article to stop, even for thirty seconds, to reconsider their Dartmouth experience. Perhaps each of us could learn and take away from our own experiences that yes, we have learned a tremendous amount during our years at Dartmouth. More importantly, each of our educational experiences here has shown us how much more we have to learn. We have gotten ahead because of the opportunities Dartmouth has offered us but also because of the sacrifices others have made on our behalf. More importantly, we need to remember that when we get ahead, somebody else gets left behind. Yes, the friends and acquaintances we’ve made at Dartmouth will remain important parts of our lives. Many will go on to assume powerful and influential positions. More importantly, we need to realize that the future leaders who will graduate from Dartmouth are the same in almost every aspect as the poor and neglected in the United States and worldwide—but we have the ability to lift one another up, no matter what the circumstances. And we’ll all make choices in our lives that challenge us beyond any struggle we thought possible. Accept these challenges, and stand strong—remember to not fear those we might classify as “mistakes.” There are none.

In closing, even though our Dartmouth education will teach each of us more than we could have ever hoped to learn about the world, we must never turn down an opportunity to learn. All knowledge is worth having, and we all have knowledge to share. Paramount to everything Dartmouth has taught us is the fact that we have so much to learn from others and to offer to others. As we move into an ever-increasing impersonal era, always remember the value of sharing knowledge with another. At a baseline, it’s the best we can offer one another. In fact, it’s all we can offer one another.