BY ADAM DALVA

In print | January 24, 2008

Swarthmore’s winter break initially seems to be a Zerzura of epic proportions that is collapsed into with the knowledge that the first thing you will see in the morning isn’t a flickering computer screen with a non-essay that hasn’t written itself over night.

However, after the recuperative period ends, the over-long break can often devolve into a stupefying sequence of family events and meeting the children of various high school friends that leaves us unprepared for the escalation that will come as soon as Add/Drop ends and professors “mysteriously” add additional assignments to their syllabi.

For many this January, the terrifying new world of writer’s strike reality television further eradicated whatever academic momentum we managed to build over the first semester in an Incident II-ish calamity with Hulk Hogan, the fierce Christian and Dr. Drew taking the place of mighty Xenu’s propaganda. (The last time I made an LRH related joke, I received a letter from the head of Philadelphia’s chapter that made me feel like Dana Jacobsen. Please don’t Dead Agent me!!)

This malaise of inaction is further complicated by the immediate difficulties facing the four returning classes. For freshmen, the dream-like academic joy ride is over and the regrets have just started, sophomores must somehow assign an identity to their directionless, slumping lives, juniors have to either deal with a housing crisis so great that it makes the sub-prime loan scandal seem more soothing than build-a-bear or gnash their teeth with jealousy while hearing about how drunken laid-back study abroad was, and sophomores AND juniors have to rush now that the dating freshman joy ride has officially begun with the dissolution of high-school relationships over winter break. However, these crises, traumatic as they may seem, are nothing compared to the plights afflicting the senior class, who have now officially entered the Terrordome.

The wonderful Carmen Miranda’s “Cuanto La Gusta” came to mind frequently upon my return to campus, and not just because I have always wanted to be that obnoxious guy who uses song lyrics in a newspaper column to snobbishly fill space and boost social value.

We gotta get goin’, where are we goin’, what are we gonna do? We’re on our way to somewhere, the three of us and you. The Eli Manning-esque drive towards departure has started, and with the collegiate lifespan coming to an end, seniors are basically doing their Swarthmore bucket-lists, careening through academic old age with reckless abandon and hoping to accomplish as much as possible. From unrequited crushes to unfulfilled gym requirements to unchecked purity score answers, this newfound urgency leaves me terrified that the pub nites this semester might resemble a game of sardines where panic sweat, nostalgic tears, spilled beer and frantically spawning seniors merge on the ground to create potent biological weaponry. This is probably where at least 50 percent of the Swat-Box phenomenon begins, as terrified introverts realize that they may never have the chance to meet a person again and latch on to the nearest available breeder. Hell, I’m even looking forward to returning to the frats, although that feeling may evaporate once the mysterious accuser on the Jolt declares unconditional war. (By the way, did anyone else notice that Reseebaby’s Robespierre-like hold over the forum seems to have come to an end? All we need now is an Arthur Chu post advocating new liquor policies and the biznasty can recommence.)

He told me that it’s very close to nowhere. If that’s the case, that’s the place we want to go. The urgency that we feel is heightened by the fact that, for many of us, the end of the year remains undefined. The haziness about the future grows ever more apparent with the “What will you do next year’”s that have come to resemble Chinese water torture. You know they’re coming, but unless you’re Jack Bauer, each verbal drop is disquieting and can only lead to madness.

This fear of leaving the bubble is intensified by the satisfied expressions and general nonchalance of responsible/soulless students who have already determined career paths and walk around campus with the smug security of a Slomin Shield sign.

Just as these pressures amassed to the point where I couldn’t imagine leaving and was contemplating becoming the new Willets cat, some person behind me loudly said “Oh, that is SO Swarthmore.” Honestly, I have no idea what this ubiquitous expression means, and its large-scale ramifications are mind-boggling. I live in constant fear that one day, I may witness two students water sliding through grape juice while jointly reciting Monty Python, fencing and self-flagellating only to hear an “Oh, that is SO Swarthmore” ring out behind me and realize that I have once again been defined by the insane action of others. Carmen Miranda returned to mind. How can we go, we haven’t got a dime? But we’re goin’ and we’re gonna have a happy time!

Adam is a senior. You can reach him at adalva1@swarthmore.edu.

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