Why do you want to hook up with me?

Talk of the Quad: Remembering professor Morgan

I came to Bowdoin for two reasons: the food and the professors. I wanted a place with small classes and brilliant faculty. I wanted professors who would know not only my name, but my aspirations, and who would, however slightly, let me into their world. I also wanted a place where dining halls would serve pad thai. Bowdoin was perfect.
Professor Morgan, whom I first met during Constitutional Law I in the fall of my junior year, was just the sort of professor I had in mind when I came to campus. He would arrive promptly to class at 10 a.m. in a tweed jacket, the chain of his pocket watch dangling from his breast pocket, looking as if he had just stepped out of a Spencer Tracy film.
I remember being astounded during the first few weeks of that class by the obvious breadth of his knowledge about what seemed to be the entirety of constitutional law. Having opened the textbook at the beginning of class, he would proceed to ignore it almost entirely for the next hour and a half as he told us anecdote after anecdote about Chief Justice John Marshall. I remember the look of excitement that would come to his face as he told us a particularly good story, and how he would start to laugh a sentence or two before he reached the punch line.
I didn’t speak much to Professor Morgan those first few weeks—I never had occasion to. But when he handed back our midterm test, I saw that on the back of mine he had written “see me,” with no further explanation. The next day, as I climbed the three staircases to his office at the very top of Hubbard Hall, I wondered what lay in store for me at the end of my ascent. And so when I arrived, I asked him whether I had done anything wrong.
“No, no,” he said. “I just wanted to know who you were.”
And he did want to know. For the next hour, he asked me to tell him about myself: the courses I was taking and my extracurricular activities. We talked about politics, about Bowdoin, and at the end of our conversation, he shook my hand and said, “I’m going to expect to hear from you more from now on.”
I did begin raising my hand more, and he called on me. I don’t recall ever stumping him, but I do remember his smile of vaguely exasperated pride when I would ask a particularly good question, or answer a hard one of his.
As I began to listen to him more closely, I began to see individual court cases not as disparate elements, but as chapters in a larger, fluid story. I started making the trek to his office more frequently and quickly stopped being surprised at how generous he was with his time.
Unfailingly kind and patient, he would discuss his lectures with me and the cases currently before the Supreme Court justices, whom he collectively called “The Supremes.”
Only once did he ever kick me out of his office. I had arrived at 4 p.m., and we had spoken for almost two hours. It was completely dark outside.
Professor Morgan gently rapped his knuckles against his desk and said, “I think I am going to head home soon. I can hear the sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass.” I understood myself to be dismissed for the evening.
I don’t remember all, or even most, of the cases that he had filed, encyclopedically, in his head over the course of decades, and which he valiantly attempted to impart to me. But I do remember being consistently and supportively challenged by him, being pushed to think deeply and support my positions.
From Professor Morgan I began to learn patience and nuance and the value of an obsessively detailed study guide. I began to learn how to make an argument without being argumentative, although I did not, perhaps, employ this ability as often as I should have.
Still, these are lessons I will carry with me the rest of my life. He gave me many of my proudest moments at Bowdoin and when I graduated, comfortable and largely confident in my future, it was to him that I owed much of the credit for these emotions.
When I learned that he had passed, I was amazed at all the things I didn’t know about Professor Morgan. His life outside of Bowdoin had always been an abstract concept to me. I didn’t know, for example, that he was a veteran, or a certified Maine guide. I didn’t know that he hunted or fished, although if pressed I probably could have guessed these last two.
I didn’t know these things about him. But I knew Professor Morgan. And I am glad and I am grateful to have had that opportunity.

Talk of the Quad: The waiting room

Recently, I checked the dinner menus and shrieked with delight, because the dessert offering for the evening was dirt cake. Dirt cake night is probably the most exciting night of my life, second only to the night of the Final Rose Ceremony on The Bachelor. I live for dirt cake. Seeing it on the menu is a stop, drop, and roll thing for me. So naturally, I sprinted to the nearest dining hall, bypassed the hot food line entirely, and shimmied over to the dessert bar. I was going to fill a massive, planet-sized bowl with dirt cake and eat it all. I deserved this. And that’s when my life came to a screeching halt.
There was no more dirt cake.
This was a DEFCON 1 situation, people. I blinked, pinched myself, and trembled. I checked the giant pan once more: empty. This simply couldn’t be. Dirt cake? My one true love? I fell to my knees and let out a bloodcurdling scream. My life was over. Images from my childhood flashed before my eyes. I would have to be buried under the dessert bar. I envisioned the headstone: Here lies Olivia, heart broken by dirt cake (or lack thereof).
As I writhed beneath the empty basin, it occurred to me: you know what? No. They don’t run out of dirt cake until I say they’ve run out of dirt cake. So, with a new fervor in my step, I planted my feet into the floor and began to wait. I grew roots. I would not budge. This was a stand-in, folks, and I wasn’t moving a single muscle until I was presented with a new bathtub quantity of dirt cake. My friend Faith massaged my back to keep my strength up. This was war...well maybe not war, but you know, a skirmish.
A half hour passed in this way, and then, he appeared. An angel, if you will, bearing a brand new container of dirt cake. Someone in dining services had driven to Thorne, snatched one from those greedy bastards, and driven it back for me. I had half a mind to take the entire cake back to my table, but no. I am a martyr. I stood back and smiled, arms crossed, saying, “Oh, you’re welcome. Really. No need to thank me” to every soul who scooped a dollop of glorious dessert. I filled my bowl with a heaping portion of dirt cake, even though I wasn’t hungry anymore. I was high on adrenaline and full of victory. My friend approached me as I marched back to my table, bowing to the uproarious (okay, it might have been a smattering of) applause.
“Olivia,” he said, having witnessed the whole spectacle, “I cannot believe they just brought a pan of that stuff back for you. That’s impressive. You’re the kind of girl that those things just happen to.”
I maniacally giggled, licked my spoon, and dug in.
His words didn’t really kick in until a week later, as I sat in a dull economics lecture about consumer power or something with no relevance to my life, obviously, and I got to thinking: what did he mean, that those things just happen to me? Am I some kind of special person, who has the stamina to wait for hours on end? I mean, clearly we would all put our lives on hold in the name of dirt cake, but what more did this say about me?It feels like lately all I do is wait. I wait for class to be over. I wait for the light to change on Maine Street. I wait for that one boy to text me back. I have waited at the C-Store, at the printer, and in the crowded downstairs Smith Union bathroom by the mailboxes (people, that’s my bathroom. Please find other places to do your business).
I don’t think the phrase “good things come to those who wait” is relevant anymore. Sure, it worked in the context of dirt cake, but I think it’s outdated, garbage, and a useless filler phrase that people throw around to condone laziness. And I’m sorry to say I think I’ve fallen victim to it. Not to mention that it seems to me like every time I wait around for something, it ends up being not so hot. I waited around in my house during a party, thinking some strange and attractive boy with a mysterious Scottish accent would round the bend, knock into me, and call me Lassie, but no, I ended up blow-drying pee off of someone’s sweatpants (long story).
I waited to do my laundry but the one machine we have broke, so I had to haul my basket across the quad and do it in Coleman. A few weeks later, after complaining repeatedly about my lack of socks, I stumbled upon a collection of wet socks by the Chapel. They had fallen from my basket as I lugged it back to Helmreich from my Coleman laundry trip, and they had since been nibbled on by squirrels. Maybe if I had jumped on the opportunity to do my laundry earlier, I wouldn’t be sockless and widely known as the Weird Quad Laundry Girl. All I’m saying is, they tell us that patience is a virtue and that waiting is a good thing, but when you really think about it, they’re wrong.
I don’t want to be the girl who waits anymore. I want to stop biding my time. What are we all waiting for? If Jillian on The Bachelor would only just tell Farmer Chris she loves him, (and that she’s ambidextrous to boot!), maybe she wouldn’t still be waiting to get a rose (she could really help out with the crops with both her left and right hand, I think). It’s time to finish that dirt cake, to do our laundry, to get moving, to start farming, to jump in. I don’t really know what these metaphors mean, but it will give you something to think about the next time you’re waiting.
Just kidding. Because you’re not going to wait anymore. And neither am I.
-Olivia Atwood is a member of the Class of 2017

Talk of the Quad

Why do you want to hook up with me?

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Hayley Nicholas

Contributor

January 29, 2015

It is assumed that Bowdoin students understand the social norms that are deeply embedded within the hookup culture. If they don’t, they quickly learn, like I did.

I discovered that it wasn’t okay to contact a person during the week; that’d seem too clingy or overbearing. I learned that both my hookup and myself were expected to send the first text. And that transitioning from a drunken hookup to a sober one was an entirely different story.

I feel like these standards have prevented me from being the forward and bold person that I normally am. So, I decided to run a social experiment and interview my past hookups. I wanted to see if their perception of our hookup mirrored my own.
I opened the conversation by asking why each boy had wanted to hook up with me. Boy one said, “Sex,” while Boy two told me, “That’s a tough one, but I have an answer: Because college was a new experience for me and along with that broad experience comes other small experiences, and I guess you were part of one of them.” Notice the contrast. Boy three said I had “asked him to dance” so he said yes and that he “also wanted to hook up with somebody to see what it was like.” Boy four thought I was “a pretty cool person” and “had gotten to know [me] a little.” Boy five declined to be interviewed.

Next, I asked them what they thought of me when they first saw me. I expected similar answers about my defining features, such as my wildly curly hair or five foot tall stature. They gave adjectives like “interesting,” “very short” and “cute.”

After these preliminary questions, I asked them what they expected from me before and after our hookup. Boy one expected to do it again. Boy two told me that he “always expected a first move from me” and after the fact, “wanted me to always be on the same page as him.” Boy three conveyed that he expected to “dance and make out,” and added, “one-night stands aren’t [his] thing.” Boy four stated that he didn’t expect anything serious before or after.

I then told them to say what they liked and disliked about it. They were very honest, which I appreciated. Boy one stated that he “liked the stroll we took in the park afterwards” and “didn’t like that we didn’t have sex.” Truthfully, I didn’t like that part either. Boy two said he “liked that we were exclusive for the most part” and “disliked that [I] played so hard to get.” Boy three told me that it was fun, but thought that me “texting while we were dancing was odd.” That’s definitely fair; I’d think that was weird, too. Boy four expressed that he liked that “we were both on the same page,” and that there “wasn’t really anything [he] disliked.”

They then shared with me what they remembered. Boy one said, “Everything.” Fun fact: I do too. Boy two revealed that I was his “first Bowdoin hookup,” and he could recall our “funny, awkward interactions when we were surrounded by friends.” He was my first hookup here as well. Boy three’s response was pretty standard for a DFMO (Dance Floor Make Out): “I remember we hooked up twice, went to Super Snacks, talked in your room, and watched a movie with some people.” Boy four remembered having a good time with me.

Finally, I asked them to tell me what they would have done differently. Boy one and three said “nothing,” while Boy two wished he had “made it happen more often” and “would’ve made it even more exclusive,” and Boy four wouldn’t have changed anything and was “happy about what happened.”

I was pleasantly surprised by not only their willingness to be interviewed, but also by the candidness in their responses. It’d be hypocritical of me to not answer my own questions.

Boy one, we got along extremely well. You were attractive. I wouldn’t do anything differently now since we’ve gone our separate ways, but I did feel disrespected because you never contacted me afterward. But to be fair, I could’ve contacted you.

Boy two, we were friends at first, and I wanted more. You’d ignore me sometimes then would apologize. I’d react dramatically, so I’m sorry for that. But I eventually got tired of it all and just expected to stay friends with you, which we did.

Boy three, I wanted a DFMO too. Don’t worry.

Boy four, I heard you were a nice guy. I remember approaching your friend to ask if you were single. I’m glad that you liked my honesty; I wasn’t sure if you did. I wouldn’t do anything differently.

In truth, I’m not the biggest fan of the hookup culture here. It seems like a never-ending cycle of objectification and a source of anxiety for both sides.

However, sometimes I think hookups can be fun. They’re liberating and can provide you immediate satisfaction. When Boy one expressed that he wanted to be with me solely for sex, I was okay with that. He was a Tinder hookup, after all.

Some of their answers seemed a bit contradictory. How can I avoid the label of “someone who plays hard to get” if I’m expected to not be clingy? And simultaneously, how can Boy two tell me he wants to be with me again if hookup culture says he’s “supposed” to want to be with me only once, twice, and nothing more?

During my time at Bowdoin, I have always found that students who participate in the hookup culture skirt around these types of questions. I have realized that we abide by these norms for fear of rejection or embarrassment. But these unwritten rules can lead to a severe lack of communication or worse—anger and pain.

So, the next time you find yourself grinding with someone, stop and ask them, “Why do you want to hook up with me?”

You never know, you could be rejected, or you might find they want more. That’s all part of the fun.

-Hayley Nicholas is a member of the Class of 2017

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