Farmers on uncommon ground

Talk of the Quad: A cold forest where nothing smells

Apparently, the College has decided to invest in something even older than fossil fuel—granite, especially the black and white variety and specimens of that variety that are rough and remind one that granite comes from the earth. Returning from two years away from campus, I was greeted all at once by this new stonework—the rectangle around the polar bear statue, the Moulton amphitheater, the gutters by Hatch, the speed humps on College Street, the stone paths out front of the Chapel. It looks clean and serves as an occasional impediment to bicyclists, which I remember as a lazy and entitled class of locomotes.
It is clear—Bowdoin has ambitions on a geologic scale, at least aesthetically. When Orient columnist Matthew Goodrich’s remains condense into crude oil, Bowdoin will use the resultant windfall to put granite facing on the dike around campus that holds back the sea.Ribbing aside, it is a new year, and a fine time for thoughts of image and legacy. What does all this stonework mean for Bowdoin? Aside from demonstrating, of course, that the school is enough in tune with the natural world to figure out where to get a lot of granite, it speaks of wealth and stability and the concept of “timeless beauty.” I am always curious as to what Bowdoin thinks of its appearance. It is clear that, over the past couple of years, the College has been thinking about how it is going to age, and how it is already aging.
You can see on the back of the Chapel, where it faces Studzinski, the claw marks from the vines of ivy that used to grow there. The ivy was handsome and produced small bunches of dark poisonous berries that the crows liked to eat—but its roots threatened the masonry. Like alcohol, ivy is lovely and fortifying until it finds some weakness to pry at—it must be closely watched. Last summer, the decision was made to rip it down.
The art museum, meanwhile, has had a mid-(quarter?) life crisis and has had some work done. I am not referring to the award-winning renovations of 2007, but to the de-greening of the museum’s bronze: the cupola and the statues of Demosthenes and Sophocles are back to their original dull brown. This cleanup work has been called a conservation effort.
In light of the other work around campus, though, I am inclined to read it more as a kind of posturing reminiscent of the Greeks’ recent efforts to rebuild the Parthenon—both presumably stem from a desire not to be officially associated with anything in a state of decay. Looking at the new entrance, we see granite and glass, which speak again of clarity and eternity and share an aesthetic with this author’s Macbook. The new entrance was built to help the museum control its climate—the old main entrance, with its massive ceremonious door, let too much of the outside in. It is at least immensely funny that, as our educations become less and less recognizable to one another, the facade that with names and busts of the old figures and benchmarks of education now bears this ominous sign on the inside of the glass, at its focal point: “EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY: ALARM WILL SOUND.”
Speaking of small pains, I remember sitting on the Quad facing the art museum as a tour guide led a group by the steps at a slow walk. She was telling her charges a story about how, when the lions that guard the facade were installed, the workers accidentally switched them. She added, lying now, that Bowdoin students knew this fact and were charmed by it.
Since I heard that story, those lions have only ever looked to me to be bored with each other and their supposed duty. I was thinking of calling for the College to switch them back, as a gesture, who knows, perhaps in line with the recent wire-brushing of Socrates.
Ultimately, though, the main entrance has been closed, and the cleaning of the statuary was an aesthetic twitch of a conservation effort that gives way to, rather than supports, the overall aesthetic project. That project is to give campus the impression of: glass, bushes, granite, natural light, and if not this gleam of the cutting edge, then at least an obedient cleanliness, like a cold forest where nothing smells. The ideals of this charming aesthetic are transparency and timelessness—two notions around which any student of human experience should hold his or her breath, for fear of becoming inspired by them.
As a final note for Facilities, and for those wondering why the Luddites on campus are always so late: time has changed since the sundials on Hubbard were last adjusted. No doubt, though, the old bronze gnomons will be burnished soon.

Talk of the Quad: Poop culture

In an age when the Internet allows universal anonymity, we begin to expect privacy as an unalienable right. When confidentiality is not an option, many people find anxiety in taking a stance—or a squat. In reality, we are much more than icons on computer screens. When it comes down to it, people are all people. And everybody poops.
We are all united in this reality. Any two humans share on average 99.9 percent of their genes, meaning most Homo sapien physiology is identical. Pooping is a unifying characteristic of humanity: all genders sit to poop (or hover if you are a hypochondriac). We all eat and so as a result we all poop. And that’s okay. It’s great, even. So why can taking a seat at the porcelain throne be so stress-inducing?
One hypothesis is that many Bowdoin students seek to project an image of perfection, even at the cost of their own well-being. The counseling staff at Bowdoin is acutely aware of this—Director of Counseling Services, Bernie Hershberger, says he especially enjoys aiding students with perfectionism anxiety.
For some odd, socially constructed reason, we seem to think it is vulgar and uncivilized to poop. Thus, to be perfect, we must never poop. As a means of striving for this ideal, we make every attempt to conceal our “indecent” behavior from our peers. Though we have not spoken to Hershberger about whether poop anxiety is often brought up in counseling sessions, we noticed that when prompted, most of our friends immediately gushed over their awkward restroom escapades. And yet, most students would never bring up poop anxiety on their own in a conversation for fear of deviating from the cultural norm.
A 2011 study at Emory University showed that chimpanzees who frequently fling feces have more developed motor cortexes and connections to a section of the brain used by humans for speech processing. Simply put, smarter monkeys throw more poop. Meanwhile, our human society finds it impolite to discuss such a dirty matter. It is possible that we attempt to hide our digestive measures as a means to separate humans from animals. However, if our closest living evolutionary relatives embrace poop as a means to display intelligence, I am not opposed to flaunting the existence of my own bowel movements (though I will still stick to speech over throwing feces as my preferred form of communication).
A great source of human anxiety is the desire to fit in. Given that everyone and their RA hides the fact that they poop, we tend to deny the existence of our excrement. Everyone has read “Everybody Poops,” by Taro Gomi—an important contribution to the literary canon of defecation. Some people, though, are loath to identify themselves as poopers. This is the great contradiction: we accept the generalization that pooping is part of the human condition, but singling one specific person out is, for some reason, embarrassing. Pooping has become taboo.
Despite this personal acceptance of pooping as a biological actuality, it can be stressful to be sitting on the can in my signature leopard-print slippers only to have another dorm resident come in to brush her teeth or do her hair. There’s no hiding. I’m being outed as a pooper. Although my bathroom guest will not say anything, we will both know. And it causes an unnecessary and unspoken power dynamic between the two of us that would be completely rectified if only people were to talk more openly and casually about pooping.
That’s the thing about this physical process—it is much less social than other bathroom activities. A casual chat over mutual urination or a recap of the day’s events while popping a pimple is normal. But something about that basic human communication while a mass of processed food is travelling out of a bodily orifice into a shared toilet makes people shut right up.
Whether they talk about it or not, many people actually enjoy the process of pooping primarily because they find time for solitude on the peaceful potty. Whether it takes one minute or an hour to process the day, pooping is a sacred time to digest it all.
However, we cannot always afford the luxury of a private toilet at the College. In fact, for many of us, our “movements” tend to be in relatively public places.
What to do when you sit down to do the deed and another lonely pooper wanders in with the same intention? In a multi-stall bathroom with two (or more) students waiting to poop, anxiety can mount. Who will release the Kraken first? Sometimes, overwhelmed by the tension in the room, the only option is to flush the toilet, zip up your pants, and find a different, less populated bathroom.
Thus, it is crucial to find your own favorite place to do the do. We all have beloved personal pooping places. However, we are unable to disclose our favorites here, for fear of the overpopulation—or worse, toilet clogging—of the most serene pooping sanctuaries. We can say, however, that you cannot select your pooping bathroom: it must choose you. Much like Olivander’s wands, when you come across the right one, you will know.
While this article presents poop anxiety with jest, we hope the absurd nature of hiding our body’s actions permeates through the humor. We all do it, and hopefully through lighthearted discussion, we can replace awkwardness with pooping solidarity.

Talk of the Quad

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Andi Noble

Contributor

October 3, 2014

On a quiet and cloudy Sunday morning, my three housemates and I decided to make the trek to the 38th Annual Common Ground Country Fair. As we headed north to Unity, I honestly had no idea what to expect. I had been hearing about this magical event for my past three years at Bowdoin, both through BOC emails inviting me to join group excursions and from friends and acquaintances around campus, but I had never been there myself. In the spirit of the final hoorahs of senior year, I decided to finally check out what this fair was all about.

The Common Ground Country Fair is described by the Maine Organic Farmer & Gardener Association (MOFGA) as “a rite of passage from our busy summer season into the quieter winter months we know lie ahead. It is a time to rekindle friendships, to learn and to savor all the extraordinary food grown by Maine’s organic farmers…[to celebrate] Maine’s rural way of life.”

Sounds pretty idyllic, right?

Sadly, I can’t say that I felt such a strong sentiment of community and excitement at the end of the day. Rather, my experience at the fair was woefully underwhelming. Sure, it may have been the gloomy weather. Or maybe it was due to my somewhat (unintentionally) judgmental attitude toward agriculture-related events here in the Northeast.

You see, I grew up (and still live) on a beef cattle ranch in western Wyoming, so I have a very particular and different view of agriculture and fairs. Maybe that is why I found the manicured look of fancy and expensive organic farm food a little superficial. Or maybe I was jaded by the fact that the fee just to enter the fair was a steep $15, and there weren’t even that many free samples to make me feel like I got my money’s worth. Either way, I guess I just wasn’t that impressed by the entire event.

All cynicism and judgment aside, though, I could see how and why the Common Ground Fair draws so many people. The sheer physical footprint of the event was almost overwhelming, and if it weren’t for the aid of a trusty map, I think I would have felt very lost and confused. It is obvious that the fair’s organizers have mastered what they do over the past 38 years, though, as the organization was impressive.

The fair could be accessed via train, bike, car or on foot. If you didn’t feel like walking to the entrance from the parking lot, tractor and wagon rides were available. Volunteers were on hand everywhere you looked. (In fact, the MOFGA newspaper reports that 2,000+ volunteers worked the weekend.)

Once inside, the pathways were lined with hundreds of local farmers selling anything from squash and apples to beef and kefir (fermented milk). There was just about anything else you could imagine, too—including food trucks, farming technique classes, art displays, craft workshops and vendors, sheep dog demonstrations, barns full of rabbits, cheese tents, and so much more. Recycling and compost stations could be found around nearly every corner. There were hundreds of people bustling about from all walks of life, from families with kids to barefooted and long-haired hippies (and sometimes even families of hippies). Of course, it was impossible not to run into the occasional group of fellow Bowdoin students as well.

My housemates and I spent our few hours at the fair wandering aimlessly between tents and demonstrations, quietly passing them by or stopping only briefly. It was all very nonchalant. I was naturally drawn to the horse demonstrations and the cattle stalls, however. The true highlight of my day was seeing a pair of Scottish Highlanders, my favorite cattle breed. My housemates also willingly tagged along as I dragged them to the sheep dog demonstrations, where four border collies showed off their sheep and goat-herding skills to a crowd gathered around a large pen. Through all of these events and stops, I couldn’t help but think of my own cattle and my three border collie cattle dogs at home, causing me to become seriously nostalgic.

Despite the overall “meh” feeling of the day and my pre-established sentiments toward events like the Common Ground Country Fair, I would say that the trek was overall worthwhile. My roommates collectively ended up with a bag of apples, three miniature squashes, an eggplant sandwich and some yogurt. I may have left empty-handed, but I walked away with a feeling of satisfaction.

I felt like I was reconnecting with my own agricultural roots, as well as gaining a quiet appreciation for Maine agriculture—even if it is different than that of the West. The fair may not have been my most thrilling weekend experience, but I think it is worth checking out. Maine is a neat place, and the agricultural opportunities and systems that exist here should be celebrated.

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