The Bowdoin Orient

Seeing copies of the Orient scattered across the tables in Thorne on Friday mornings still gives me chills. There is something very intimidating and empowering about seeing my words physically in print; students can fold them, open them, close them...and, even more frightening, read them. Publishing is rewarding but certainly not easy. I have met so many good writers at Bowdoin, pontificators and introverts alike. Both have the responsibility to contribute to the newspaper but often do not act.

My beetle study at the Bowdoin Scientific Station this summer required that I set and collect traps on an uninhabited island for a few hours a day. I had never been so utterly alone. After the Kent Island dingy dropped me off and disappeared into the inlet, there was not a vestige of humanity to be seen, heard, or even felt. On some days, when the mist reduced my visibility to a 20-meter radius, I could not even see land from my foggy prison. It's the closest I've ever been to where Shel Silverstein says "the sidewalk ends."

On the first and third Friday nights of the month, you will not find me at Bowdoin. I'll be swing dancing at the North Deering Grange Hall, getting a necessary supplement to my liberal arts education.

Upon return from a summer studying beetles on Kent Island (the Bowdoin Scientific Station), I decided to become a biology major the fall of my senior year which meant taking organic chemistry, biostatistics and a 300-level ecology course in one semester. No one could comprehend such insanity. Even I had trouble articulating my motivations—mostly because my decision to add the major had very little to do with the scientific material itself.

Around mid-February of my sophomore year, I was looking to solidify my summer plans. As a potential French-Biology double major, it would have made sense for me to travel, teach French, try outdoor education, or do ecology fieldwork. But part of me was still tempted by the allure of the business world.

I recently received an e-mail from my junior friend, Kirsten, after her first week abroad in France. The subject line read simply: "Aaaaahhhhhhh." She liked her host family, she loved her program director, the students were great?but she wanted to cry.