My dad was a member of the Class of 1965. My grandfather was a member of the Class of 1939. My uncle is a member of the Class of 1971. There is no doubt that I would not have gotten into Dartmouth if it weren’t for this family connection and I have occasionally felt an inferiority complex. It is not, however, the inevitable look of subtle condescension I get from people when they hear that I’m a “legacy” that most bothers me about the label. Since freshman fall, I’ve felt guilty about one thing in particular: I’ve never actually been close with this very connection that undoubtedly brought me to Hanover in the first place.Read More
“What are you taking this term?” is a staple of small-talk exchanges at Dartmouth. You hear in the library, on the green, in basements. I could keep naming campus locations, but I think you get the idea. No matter who you are, this conversation has been a part of your life here.
Ingrained in the fabric of this simple exchange is the concept of “the third class” or, as some call it, “the layup:” a class that is assumed to require less time and effort than others. A carefree flick of the wrist to tip the ball into the basket, rather than a concentrated three-point shot.Read More
My mother met my father once before their wedding on February 3rd 1991. I have often thought about their first encounter, painted a vivid picture in my mind, one that explored the vectors of their thoughts, apprehensions and attraction. My father had heard that my mother was an eligible young college-educated woman and glimpsed a picture circulating around my extended family. With my 3 year old cousin in tow, (possibly to relieve tension) my father makes his way into my grandfather’s parlor in India hesitantly. After a brief stint with tea and snacks, he and my mother are ushered into a room together where they attempt a conversation. I have always imagined my father to be the one to instigate the conversation. My mother was at one point the epitome of demure; she now is completely comfortable with yelling my name across a BJ-size parking lot. My father does not interrogate her, rather he broaches the subject of her aspirations and whether she would be interested in relocating to the United States.Read More