I remember it like it was yesterday. I was in Dewick during my freshman orientation week, and I was feeling pretty seasoned. The head−start that I had on some of my classmates from Wilderness pre−Orientation had bestowed me with what felt like a lifetime's worth of knowledge, and I was anxious to share my new−found wisdom with a classmate I saw contemplating the coffee choices. "Sometimes they put out French vanilla," I suggested eagerly. "It's really good." The girl rolled her eyes. "I'm a senior," she scoffed before briskly walking away. I was taken aback — this girl was nothing like the students I'd met throughout the week, thirsty for friendship and willing to feign interest about my hometown, dorm and anticipated major.
In the years since, I've come to attribute the incident to my own over−developed sense of importance, and the reality that a) they almost always put out French vanilla coffee and b) it's utterly gag−inducing by the time you reach your first all−nighter.
Even so, I think the girl's attitude represents a complex that is quite pervasive at Tufts, a sort of territoriality and inclination to cling to comfortably defined boundaries.
After the initial months of Facebook−friending and handshaking, social dynamics become firmly planted. Overwhelmingly, these circles are based on shared activities and space: athletic teams, ethnic groupings, Greek life, freshman housing. A large part of this, I'm certain, is because of the hyper−achieving lifestyle we're so immersed in at Tufts. Let's face it: By the time we're halfway through our college career, so many of our relationships are based primarily on convenience. Were they not, sacrifices would have to be made elsewhere. But there's a fine line between embracing natural proclivities and hindering ourselves. I fear we often find ourselves on the wrong side of this line.
As much as I believe this is true for many demanding schools, I think a part stems from a certain self−consciousness and insecurity that is uniquely Tufts. As a university with too many students for an intimate community but not enough for the camaraderie felt at larger schools, an academic excellence shadowed by a lagging name recognition, and two of the most world's most prestigious universities within walking distance, we have a bit of a chip on our collective shoulders.
Unfortunately, I think that has permeated into the way that we operate socially. In trying to establish our niche in a competitive environment, our defense mechanisms are perpetually firing. We are hesitant to welcome new faces in fear that it makes our already existing social life seem scant. We glance down when we pass someone we barely know because waving might seem overly eager. We stick to the same parties on the weekends because venturing elsewhere makes us vulnerable. Our endeavors to prove ourselves are largely self−defeating — the more our student body is described as "cliquey" and "isolating," the more we prolong an image of an upper−middle−class university tinged with bitter Ivy League envy.
Perhaps I am simply superimposing my own shortcomings on Tufts, and that my own (admittedly narrow) social life does not mirror the experience of the majority of my peers. But in many conversations with classmates, I've heard countless echoes of similar sentiments.
Prominent Tufts alumnus Simon Rosenberg (A '85) recently said at a campus event that Tufts is right on the cusp of cementing its place among the nation's top academic institutions, giving current students the momentous opportunity to fuse our own characteristics with the identity of the school, thus shaping its future trajectory. As the freshman class watches the rest of us to learn the intricacies of major requirements and the mysteriously limited operating hours of SIS, I suggest we take a page out of their social playbook. It's a move that would do wonders for our prospective identity, and make the "Tufts burden" a thing of the past.
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