So I don’t want to give away any institutional secrets here, but since Janet Reitman already told the world that we feed our freshmen green eggs and ham on Trips – which by the way, is adorable and NOT hazing, thank you very much Rolling Stone – I figured it’s okay to talk about what I am about to talk about. It’s something that’s at the very heart of Dartmouth.

Music. Dartmouth is collectively obsessed with gussying us up in its finest hand-me-down leotards and ’80s printed shirts while we dance to the rewritten lyrics of One Direction songs. And it’s never announced, never expected. Instead, you are lured to mandatory meetings under false pretenses and slapped in the face with animal-covered onesies, guys wearing neon leggings and Enrique Iglesias.

After the Dimensions show it should have been obvious that my trip leaders were just trolling when they told us to bring pens and paper but no, I took notes on the contents of the first aid packs anyway. Good job, me!

And honestly, it’s a little concerning that our safety talk doesn’t actually ever address safety but rather how your trip leaders and you are Never Ever Ever Doing Drugs Together, but that’s just Dartmouth. How has nobody died on Trips yet? Regardless, it’s beside the point.

The point is that these songs, they are burned into your memory forever. Some friends of a friend visited this summer and we all taught them the dance to Waka Waka because we still remember it. Ask any Dartmouth student about the first time they felt like they were a part of the school and they will tell you that it’s the first time they heard Enrique – in your heart, in your soul, no, you can’t escape Dartmouth.

Well, maybe not. But this school isn’t like Hogwarts plus Disneyland. It’s more like one big giant musical that doesn’t stop. It’s like all of Dartmouth’s great loves – itself, flair, a cappella, choreographed dancing got together and birthed a multicolored, musical baby.

Dartmouth has never been a place where people are embarrassed to be embarrassed. Girls wriggling on the floor of FFB? Must be taps, or pledge term. Guys wearing jorts so short you can see their underwear poking out of the legs are not an uncommon sight around here.  So it makes sense that we’re what we are. We are the all-singing, all-dancing gems of America.