Author Archives: Vedaant Kuchhal (he/him)

Opinion: The Excavator

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You would think that in your senior year, you wouldn’t expect the volatile shock of not belonging – a small thing that everyone seems to snicker at that has the floor crumbling out below you, the smiles around you jilted, the accents foreign.

That happened to me the morning I walked into the dining hall and saw the sticky note mural of an excavator with the heart around it. Let me try to explain why.

An excavator is a construction machine that has an immense variety of usages. It is used in digging holes and trenches, landscaping, demolishing houses, dredging rivers, mining, and so much more. I’m stating this dry obvious stuff because I want to note something important here – the excavator acquires different meanings, especially depending on who decides what is being excavated.

To me, the excavator didn’t represent whatever it represented in the sticky notes. Whether that was some sort of wonderment at seeing our well-disguised infrastructure buried below the ground, an appreciation for the sheer power of the machine, a kind of engineering curiosity I never got the memo about, or something else – to me, none of those feelings rushed up. What did rush up was a hot steam of fear, a fear of violence. What stops the excavator from turning around and clawing out West Hall? From clawing out me? What happens if someone falls into that hole? 

I agree that I’m being stupid, oversensitive, irrational – and that is emotional baggage I would have kept to myself if it wasn’t for the sticky note mural with the heart around it. A heart that signifies love, intimacy, acceptance, “this is us”.

Now imagine a heart around a drone. Cool? Maybe for some people, drones are awesome. We love them at this school. You can use them to film cool videos, to automate in cool ways, to just feel the joy of seeing something in the air. For others, particularly those who come from communities where drones are routinely used by military and police forces for following people, shooting people, etc. – not so awesome.

Now imagine a heart around a missile. I mean, why not? Our school’s resource allocation certainly seems to condone it. Missiles are security. They can vanquish savage, extremist populations abroad. They ostensibly keep lots of people safe from all sorts of threats. The trajectory calculations are fascinating. Heat-seeking technology is so cool. But this feels a bit more uncomfortable, doesn’t it? We wouldn’t say that particularly represents the ethos of the school. It’s okay to develop technology to make missiles, but that doesn’t mean you would put a heart around it.

That’s the context of the excavator for me. To countless communities, especially Black and brown, especially low-income, around the world, the excavator means violence. It means displacement. An excavator strikes terror in the hearts of I’m sure millions, if not hundreds of millions (or billions) around the world.

Me, personally? I haven’t ever had an excavator staring down my home, digging up my mountains, or tearing down my forests. But I think the moment that got me feeling so incredibly lonely was the realization that – wait, almost none of these people have seen a road dug up before right next to them. It’s not a common occurrence in many Oliners’ lives!! Which is mindblowing to me. Roads in Bengaluru, where I grew up, get dug up all the time. I’ve been minorly injured falling into a dug-up road. People get majorly injured all the time. A road being dug up is something disappointing, something common, certainly not something to be fascinated by. Have people not had pipes break or things leak or roads dug up or regularly seen a drill or utilities workers in visible action?

Every day, I have to expand the scope of things I need to take for granted in this country in order to fit in. This one completely caught me off guard. I’m sure things break in wherever you call home and you’ve seen roads being repaired, holes being dug, etc. But it doesn’t seem like you’ve seen it enough to feel resigned toward it, fearful of it, just anything but fascinated and endearing.

To wrap up, I guess I should clarify that my point is not that we should take the mural down. Or that it never should have been there. If it brings joy and a feeling of home to some folks, we should celebrate it. But I do want to interject with my own annoying qualification that these symbols that can seem harmless and quirky do have other interpretations. The excavator gets to be adorable for reasons that don’t exist in a political vacuum. 

Opinión: El Excavador

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Uno pensaría que en tu último año, no esperarías el impacto volátil de no pertenecer, una pequeñez que parece arrancar risitas a todos y que hace que el suelo se desmorone debajo de ti, las sonrisas a tu alrededor desconcertadas, los acentos extraños.

Eso me pasó la mañana que entré al comedor y vi el mural de notas adhesivas de un excavador con un corazón alrededor. Permíteme intentar explicar por qué.

Un excavador es una máquina de construcción que tiene una inmensa variedad de usos. Se utiliza para excavar hoyos y trincheras, paisajismo, demolición de casas, dragado de ríos, minería y mucho más. Estoy mencionando estas cosas obvias porque quiero señalar algo importante aquí: la excavadora adquiere diferentes significados, especialmente dependiendo de quién decida qué se está excavando.

Para mí, el excavador no representaba lo que representaba en las notas adhesivas. Ya sea algún tipo de asombro al ver nuestra infraestructura bien disfrazada enterrada bajo tierra, una apreciación por el inmenso poder de la máquina, una especie de curiosidad ingenieril sobre la que nunca recibí el memo, o algo más; para mí, ninguno de esos sentimientos surgió. Lo que surgió fue un vapor caliente de miedo, un miedo a la violencia. ¿Qué impide que el excavador dé la vuelta y arrase con West Hall? ¿Qué pasa si alguien cae en ese hoyo?

Estoy de acuerdo en que soy estúpido, sobre sensible, irracional, y ese es un equipaje emocional que habría guardado para mí si no fuera por el mural de notas adhesivas con el corazón alrededor. Un corazón que significa amor, intimidad, aceptación, “esto somos nosotros”.

Ahora imagina un corazón alrededor de un dron. ¿Genial? Tal vez para algunas personas, los drones son increíbles. Los amamos en esta escuela. Puedes usarlos para filmar videos geniales, para automatizar de maneras geniales, simplemente para sentir la alegría de ver algo en el aire. Pero para otros, especialmente aquellos que vienen de comunidades donde los drones son rutinariamente utilizados por fuerzas militares y policiales para seguir a personas, disparar a personas, etc., no tan genial.

Ahora imagina un corazón alrededor de un misil. Quiero decir, ¿por qué no? La asignación de recursos de nuestra escuela ciertamente parece aprobarlo. Los misiles son seguridad. Pueden derrotar a poblaciones salvajes y extremistas en el extranjero. Supuestamente mantienen a mucha gente a salvo de todo tipo de amenazas. Los cálculos de trayectoria son fascinantes. La tecnología de búsqueda de calor es muy genial. Pero esto se siente un poco más incómodo, ¿verdad? No diríamos que representa particularmente el ethos de la escuela. Está bien desarrollar tecnología para fabricar misiles, pero eso no significa que pondrías un corazón alrededor de ello.

Ese es el contexto del excavador para mí. Para innumerables comunidades, especialmente negras y marrones, especialmente de bajos ingresos, en todo el mundo, el excavador significa violencia. Significa desplazamiento. Una excavadora provoca terror en los corazones de estoy seguro de millones, si no cientos de millones (o miles de millones) en todo el mundo.

Yo, personalmente, nunca he tenido un excavador mirando hacia mi hogar, excavando mis montañas o derribando mis bosques. Pero creo que el momento que me hizo sentir tan increíblemente solo fue la realización de que – espera, casi ninguno de estas personas ha visto una calle excavada justo al lado de ellos. ¡No es una ocurrencia común en muchas vidas de Oliners! ¡¡Lo cual es asombroso para mí!! Las calles en Bangalore, donde crecí, se excavan todo el tiempo. He resultado levemente herido al caer en una calle excavada. La gente resulta gravemente herida todo el tiempo. Que se excave una calle es algo decepcionante, algo común, ciertamente no algo fascinante y encantador. ¿La gente no ha tenido tuberías rotas o cosas que gotean o calles excavadas o visto regularmente un taladro o trabajadores de servicios públicos en acción visible?

Cada día, tengo que ampliar el alcance de las cosas que necesito dar por hecho en este país para poder encajar. Este aspecto me tomó completamente por sorpresa. Estoy seguro de que las cosas se rompen en donde sea que llames hogar y has visto calles siendo reparadas, hoyos siendo excavados, etc. Pero parece que no lo has visto lo suficiente como para sentirte resignado ante ello, temeroso de ello, simplemente cualquier cosa menos fascinado y encantador.

Para concluir, supongo que debo aclarar que mi punto no es que deberíamos quitar el mural. Ni que nunca debería haber estado allí. Si trae alegría y una sensación de hogar para algunas personas, deberíamos celebrarlo.  Pero quiero interrumpir con mi propia molesta calificación de que estos símbolos que pueden parecer inofensivos y peculiares tienen otras interpretaciones. La excavadora puede ser adorable por razones que no existen en un vacío político.

Expanding Community at Olin

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Here at Olin, we love the word “community”. We find importance in talking about and holding “community events”, open to ostensibly everyone who plays a part in this school. Yet in our time here, we’ve also been struck by the people we don’t remember when we say “community”. The dining hall workers who come here early in the morning and leave late at night, during holidays, snowstorms, and more, to make sure we have food. The facilities workers who clean our floors and maintain our buildings in the middle of the night, to maintain the illusion that the buildings magically keep themselves clean. These people arguably work some of the hardest on campus and inarguably have been here for the longest, yet we don’t invite them into our version of community.

We wanted to change that, in our own small way. A few weeks ago, Mari spoke with three dining hall workers – Joselyn, Catalina, and Ana. What follows is a transcript of the conversation, edited for conciseness, where they talk about their lives and perceptions of students. It doesn’t represent everyone, but it’s a start, one that we hope others will follow. Enjoy reading!

The conversation below has been translated from Spanish to English.

Mari: Where are you all from?

Joselyn: We’re Dominican, all of us.

Mari: How long have you been working here?

Joselyn: I’ve been here 15 years.

Catalina: I’ve been here 6 years.

Ana: I’ve been here almost two, yeah two.

Mari: And how did you all end up working here?

Joselyn: Well someone who worked here brought me on, and they brought me on because they needed people, and I liked it. I do my work, and I’ve stayed here – I’ve stayed here all these years.

Catalina: I was also brought on by someone who works here, and its the first time I’ve worked since I got here [to the US, Boston], and since, I haven’t worked anywhere else, I like it, and I’ll be here until I don’t want to anymore. [laughter]

Ana: Well she [Catalina] brought me here [laughter], its my first job, I got here, I liked it, and here we are.

Mari: Do you have your families here?

Joselyn: Yes, my mom is here, my sisters, I have two sisters here, my daughter, and my grandson, too.

Catalina: I have my son here, my husband, and a lot of my family. My son works here, too.

Mari: Oh! Who is he?

Catalina: Luis – 

Joselyn: The cashier, the cashier.

Mari: Ohhh. James and his mom both work here too, right?

Joselyn: Yes, and his aunt, too. [laughter] We’re all family.

Catalina: Yes, we’re all family.

Joselyn: And you, Ana?

Ana: I have my kids here, my husband, and my sister.

Mari: Have your kids come to see where you work? Well, the ones who don’t work here? 

[laughter]

Joselyn: No, my daughter has never been here.

Ana: My kids have come, but only to drop me off.

Mari: How do you get to work? Are you dropped off? Do you get a ride?

Ana: A ride, yeah.

Joselyn: Well, I spend a lot of time, almost all these years I have gotten rides, but now I have learned to drive. And I have a car now, thank god.

Catalina: When I started, I got a ride, then my son got me, but now my son is somewhere else and now he only comes in the evening. In the morning I get a ride, but at night he picks me up.

Joselyn: And you guys leave together?

Catalina: Yeah.

Mari: I don’t know how to drive either, it scares me.

Catalina: I’m also scared.

Joselyn: I was also really scared, but then one day I said, “No, I have to drive, because in this country” – besides, we live far.

Mari: Where do you live?

Joselyn: We live in Dorchester. It is a bit uncomfortable to come in public transit, and I said, “No, I have to drive.” And I drove. And I’ve told them, but they don’t- [laughter] – and I lost my fear.

Catalina: I had my driving permit before her, but I’m really scared.

Mari: How is the work culture here? I see that you guys seem like really good friends.

Joselyn: We get along well because we’re like family. Everyone here gets along well. I’m not going to tell you it’s perfect all the time because we’re human, but sometimes…

Mari: Yeah, yeah.

Joselyn: But we always get along, we always resolve, besides, we love our jobs, and we are .

like family because we are together more than we are with our actual families. We spend more time together, so we are family.

Mari: Well that’s good that you guys get along well.

Catalina: We try to get along because we practically live here, like some might say.

Mari: What hours do you work?

Joselyn: I work from 6:30 AM to 3 in the afternoon, Monday to Friday, but now since the cashier, Johnny Chu, is sick, I’ve been covering these last few Saturdays until he can return.

Catalina: I work from 12 noon to 8 at night. I work from Tuesday to Saturday.

Ana: Me too.

[laughter]

Catalina: I have to talk for Ana.

Mari: I understand, I am also timid. Well, what do you know about the school? About Olin?

Joselyn: Well, I think that I know everything, because I know everything about what happens around here.

[laughter]

Joselyn: Yes because I have been in all that, because I help when you guys have events.

Mari: Oh yes, yes.

Joselyn: I see that you guys do a lot of projects. A lot of nice things. What I had never seen that I saw last week was that, in the library, that you guys had like a room for sewing.

Mari: Yeah, yeah.

Joselyn: On Saturday I noticed that.

Catalina: I didn’t know that.

[Mari describes different parts of Olin]

Joselyn: Sure. I didn’t know that either. I thought that you guys studied here and that was it. I didn’t know you had to get off campus for projects.

Mari: It’s fun, and well, you wouldn’t see it at other schools.

Catalina: [laughing] Only here.

Joselyn: No but its good because that way you guys clear your minds.

Catalina: you have your minds focused on what you have to do, and you have fun, too.

Mari: And since Olin is so small, and we’ve all gone through first year courses, well we know  that, well, that’s why they’re doing these things. Are there students with which you talk regularly?

Joselyn: Oh yeah. I talk to a lot of people. Im very talkative.

Mari: [teasing] I’m noticing!

 Catalina: I talk to people who speak Spanish, because I don’t know English. So, there are a lot of people I say hello to, but with those who speak Spanish, i talk to a little more.

Joselyn: Sometimes students are going through problems, and they come here and their faces look upset, but we always have smiles on our faces, and we always try to make you all feel better.

Mari: That’s very beautiful.

Catalina: Yes.

Mari: When I got here, I missed — In Los Angeles everyone speaks Spanish, and I always had places – like if I wanted tacos. And well here, its been more difficult to find a Latino community. 

Joselyn: There is community, but its a little further way. LIke East Boston. There’s this really good restaurant, it’s mexican, but honestly they have all kinds of food, and everyone speaks spanish – La Hacienda, it’s called. They have great food.

Mari: –La Hacienda.

Joselyn: But here [in the dining hall] you can speak Spanish with everyone, because we all speak Spanish here.

Mari: Would you want to talk more with students? Or talk to more students? Get to know them more?

Joselyn: Well I talk to everyone. Sometimes they [Catalina & Ana] are more shy, but at the very least “How are you? How was your day? Have a good day” At least that. Yeah, I’m always talking to everyone. Well, I had never talked to you, but –

Ana: For me, sometimes I think that they won’t understand me, you know. So maybe that’s why I don’t talk more.

Joselyn: No yeah.

Mari: Sometimes there are tables, like – they send out an email “we’re going to host a language table where we can speak different languages” and there are a lot of people who, since they learned Spanish in high school, want to talk to people in Spanish. It would be nice –

Catalina: Yes!

Joselyn: When someone like that comes through, they say – well I’ve been here so many years, imagine, there have been so many people who have come through, but there was this one young man – he was chinese, but he knew a lot of languages – and he’d say, “I want to talk to you to practice” but he knew so much Spanish, he knew so many languages. He always talked to me. So, sometimes when I meet people like that I say “You can speak Spanish here, we all speak Spanish” She [Ana] is so shy. She doesn’t like talking to anyone. When she got here, she didn’t speak at all.

Mari: We’re working on it.

Ana: Yeah, I’m timid, too. I don’t talk a lot.  Now [I’m talking]  because I’m here with them, who are part of my family.

Joselyn: Yeah.

Ana: But yeah, I’m also timid.

Mari: Well our school is so small, and well, we know our professors and staff very well, but not you.

Joselyn: And us who you should know more!

Mari: Yes, yes!

Joselyn: Look, when students form Babson come, they don’t like to swipe, and I have to tell them. And they ask me “How do you know that we’re from Babson?” and I tell them “Because I know everyone here!”

Catalina: Of course, we know all the kids here.

Joselyn: They ask themselves a lot “How do they know that I’m from Babson” and theres a lot of students, but I know everyone. “Everyone?” Yes, Everyone. I know who’s from here, and who isn’t. 

Mari: There’s been more [Babson students] this year, right?

Joselyn: Yes, yes. But before, before, so many students would come. At night, I used to work nights, we would have up to 150 Babson students. 

Mari: Wow.

Joselyn: And that was –

Mari: Tough?

Joselyn: It was very tough.

Catalina: There are night that many many many students come.

Joselyn: For example, Tuesdays –

Catalina: Tuesdays, the tacos –

Joselyn: They like the menu. When they like the menu [they come]. Besides, they say that our food is better than there. They say that, I don’t know.

Mari: I’ve never gone. I’m scared to. Better if I just stay here.

[laughter]

Mari: Well, it’s been very nice talking to you. Thank you for giving me your time.

Joselyn: It’s been a pleasure. Now you know that whenever you or your friend want to speak spanish, we are at your service.

Mari: Thank you!

Catalina: It’s been a pleasure talking to you, nice to meet you.

Mari: Likewise!

Catalina: thank you for the conversation, have a nice day!

Mari: You too, thank you!

Ampliando Comunidad en Olin

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Aquí en Olin, amamos la palabra “comunidad”. Encontramos importancia en hablar y celebrar “eventos comunitarios”, abiertos aparentemente a todos los que participan en esta escuela. Sin embargo, durante nuestro tiempo aquí, también nos hemos dado cuenta de las personas que no recordamos cuando decimos “comunidad”. Los trabajadores del comedor que vienen aquí temprano en la mañana y se van tarde en la noche, durante días festivos, tormentas de nieve y más, para asegurarse de que tengamos comida. Los trabajadores de las instalaciones que limpian nuestros pisos y mantienen nuestros edifi cios en medio de la noche, para mantener la ilusión de que los edifi cios se mantienen limpios por arte de magia. Estas personas trabajan posiblemente más duro en el campus y sin duda han estado aquí durante más tiempo, sin embargo, no los invitamos a nuestra versión de comunidad.

Quisimos cambiar eso, de nuestra propia manera. Hace unas semanas, Mari habló con tres trabajadoras del comedor: Joselyn, Catalina y Ana. Lo que sigue es una transcripción de la conversación, editada por concisión, donde hablan sobre sus vidas y percepciones de los estudiantes. No representa a todos, pero es un comienzo, uno que esperamos que otros sigan. ¡Disfruten leyendo!

M: De donde son?

Yoselyn: Dominicana – todas somos dominicanas

M: ¿Cuánto tienen trabajando aquí?

1: Yo tengo 15 años

2: Y yo 6 años

3: Yo 2 años, sí 2

M: Y como fue que terminaron trabajando aquí?

1: Bueno a mi, me trajo una persona que trabajaba aquí, y me trajo por que estaban necesitando gente, y me gusto, y yo hago mi trabajo, y me quede – me he quedado aquí todos estos años

2: Y a mi tambien me trajo persona que trabajan aquí, y es la primera vez que trabajo después que vine aquí, y desde aquí no he trabajado en más lados, me gusta, y voy a estar aquí hasta que yo quiera

M: y usted?

3: bueno a mi me trajo ella, [risa] es mi primer trabajo, llegue aqui, me gusto, y aquí estamos

M: ¿Tienen sus familias aquí? ¿tienen hijos?

1: sí, mi mama está aqui, mis hermanas, tengo dos hermanas aquí, mi hija, y mi nieto también.

2: yo tengo a mi hijo aquí, a mi esposo, y mucho de la familia, mi hijo también trabaja aquí.

M: Ah, como – quién es?

2: Luis 1: el cajero el cajero

M: Ohhhh. También James y su mamá trabajan aquí los dos?

1: sí tambien, y su tía — [risa] Nosotros Somos una familia

2: sí, somos una familia

1: y tu ana

3: tengo mis hijos aquí, mi esposo, y mi hermana

M: ¿Han venido sus hijos a ver donde trabajan, los que no trabajan aquí pues? [risa]

1: No la mía nunca ha venido

3: Mis hijos han venido porque han venido a traerme aquí

M: Cómo llegan al trabajo? Las dejan aquí, les dan ride?

3: Ride, si 1: bueno, yo dure mucho, bueno, casi todos los años me daban ride, pero ahora ya aprendi a manejar, y tengo mi carrito ahora, gracias a dios

2: y yo cuando empecé, venía en ride, despues venia con mi hijo, pero mi hijo ahora está por otro lado, y nomas viene en la tarde, entonces en la manana vengo en un ride, y en la noche me voy con el

1: y ellas no se van juntas?

2: aha [si]

M: Yo no se manejar tampoco, me da miedo [risa]

2: miedo Yo también tengo

1: Yo tenía mucho miedo, pero despues un dia yo dije, no, yo tengo que manejar, porque en este país, es– y además nosotros vivimos lejos.

M: Donde viven?

1: Nosotros vivimos en Dorchester. Entonces es un poquito incómodo para venir en transporte público, y yo dije, no yo tengo que manejar, y me fui, y yo les he dicho a ellas, pero ella no [risa] y perdí el miedo

2: Yo tenia el permiso primero que ella, pero que tengo miedo

M: Entonces, cómo es la cultura del trabajo aquí? Las veo que son muy amigas.

1: Nosotros nos llevamos bien porque somos como familia, o sea, aquí todos nos llevamos bien. No te voy a decir que es perfecto todo el tiempo, porque somos seres humanos, y a veces…

M: sí si

1: Pero siempre nos llevamos bien, siempre resolvemos. además, como nos gusta tanto el trabajo. Y nosotros somos una familia porque nosotros estamos más juntas que nuestras familias. Duramos más tiempo juntos, entonces somos familia.

M: Pues que bueno, que se llevan bien.

2: Tratamos de llevarnos bien porque aqui uno vive como quien dice.

M: Que horas trabajan?

1: yo trabajo de 6:30 a 3 de la tarde, de lunes a viernes, pero ahora como el cajero, Johnny Chu, él está enfermo, yo le he estado cubriendo estos últimos sábados hasta el pueda regresar.

2: Yo trabajo de 12 del mediodía, a 8 en la noche. Trabajo de martes a sábado.

3: Yo tambien

[risa]

2: yo tengo que hablar por ana

M: Yo entiendo, Yo soy bien timida. Bueno, que saben de la escuela aqui? De Olin?

1: Bueno, pues creo que yo lo sé todo, porque yo sé todo lo que hacen aquí.

[risa]

1: sí porque yo he andado en todo eso, porque yo ayudo cuando tienen eventos.

M: oh sí si

1: Yo veo que hacen muchos proyectos, muchas cosas lindas. Lo que yo nunca había visto, que yo lo vi fue la semana pasada, que era en la librería, que tienen un– como un cuarto de costura.

M: sí si

1: El sábado yo me di cuenta de eso

2: yo no la sabia

[Mari describe aspectos diferentes de Olin]

1: Ah bueno. Yo no sabía de eso tampoco. Yo pensé que era estudiar aquí y ya. Yo no sabía que ustedes tenían que hacer proyectos fuera.

M: Es divertido, y pues no se vería en otros colegios.

2: [con risa] solamente aquí

1: No pero está bien porque así también ustedes disipan la mente

2: tienen la mente ocupada en lo que tienen que hacer, y tambien se divierten

M: Y como es tan chiquito, y todos hemos pasado por esas clases del primer año, y pues nosotros sabemos que hay, por eso andan haciendo esas cosas. Hay estudiantes con quien platican regularmente?

1: Ay sí, yo platico con mucha gente. Yo soy bien platicadora.

M: estoy notando jaja

2: Yo platico con los que hablan español, porque yo no sé inglés. Entonces, hay muchos que saludo, pero con los que hablan espanol platico poquito

1: A veces los estudiantes están pasando por problemas, y vienen aquí y se notan con la cara así enojada, pero uno siempre tiene una sonrisa, y siempre trata de que ustedes se sientan bien.

M: Ay muy bonito.

2: Sí

M: Yo cuando llegué aquí extrañaba – Allá en Los Ángeles todos hablan español y siempre hay lugares donde puedo ir, como sí se me antojan unos tacos. Y pues aqui se me ha hecho más difícil encontrar una comunidad latina

1: Bueno, eso ay, pero poquito más retirado de aquí, como en East Boston, hay un restaurante muy bueno que es mexicano pero de verdad hay toda clase de comida y todo el mundohabla espanol, y – La Hacienda se llama. Me dan una comida muy buena

M: –La Hacienda

1: Pero aqui tu puedes hablar espanol con todo el mundo, porque aquí todo el mundo habla espanol

M: Quisieran hablar más con los estudiantes? O hablar con más estudiantes? Conocerlos más?

1: Bueno yo hablo con todo el mundo. A veces ellas son un poquito más tímidas, pero por lo menos “cómo estás? ¿Cómo fue su día? Que tenga un lindo día” Por lo menos eso. sí, yo siempre estoy hablando con todo el mundo. Digo, yo nunca había hablado contigo pero

3: Yo porque yo pienso a veces que no me van a entender, tu sabes. Entonces yo por eso quizá no hablo más

1: no claro

M: A veces se ponen mesas, como – mandan un email y dicen “vamos a poner una mesa hoy de platicar diff erentes idiomas” y hay muchos que, como aprendieron Español en la prepa, quieren platicar con gente. Estuviera bonito sí –

2: Claro!

1: Cuando viene alguien así, me dice – bueno tengo tantos años aqui, imaginate, han pasado tanta gente, pero había un muchacho – él era chino, pero sabía muchos idiomas– y él decía, “ Yo quiero hablar contigo para practicar” pero sabía mucho español, sabía muchos idiomas. Pero siempre hablaba conmigo. Entonces a veces cuando yo veo una gente así les digo “ Tú puedes hablar español aquí, nosotros todos hablamos español. Ella [Ana] es timidissima, a ella no le gusta hablar con nadie. Cuando ella llegó a los primeros, ella no hablaba nada.

M: Pero hay la llevamos

3: Sí, yo también soy tímida. Yo no hablo tanto. Ya yo porque estoy aquí con ellas que ya son parte de la familia

1: Claro 3: Pero yo soy también un poco timida

M: Cómo es una escuela tan chiquita pues, conocemos muy bien a nuestros profesores, a los que trabajan en las ofi cinas, pero a ustedes no

1: Y a nosotros que los tienen que conocer más!

M: sí, sí!

1: Mira cuando vienen los estudiantes de Babson, a ellos no les gusta pasar la tarjeta, entonces yo les digo. Y ellos me preguntan: “Y como ustedes saben que nosotros somos de babson?” Y les digo, “Por que yo conozco a todo el mundo aquí”

2: Claro, uno conoce a los niños de aquí ya

1: Se preguntan mucho, “¿Cómo saben que soy de babson?” Y hay tanto estudiante, pero yo conozco a todos. “¿A todos?” sí, a todos. Yo se quien es de aquí, quien no es de aquí

M: Han venido más este año no?

1: sí sí. No pero antes, antes, venían muchos estudiantes. En la noche, que antes yo trabajaba de noche, nosotros habíamos tenido hasta 150 estudiantes de babson.

M: Wow

1: y eso era algo

M: Pesado?

1: Eso era algo muy pesado.

2: hay noches que entran muchos muchos muchos

1: Por ejemplo, los martes

2: Los Martes que al taco–

1: les gusta el menú, cuando les gusta el menú. Además ellos dicen que la comida de nosotros es más buena que la de allá. Dicen ellos, yo no se

M: Yo no he ido allá. Me da miedo. Mejor me quedo aquí.

[risa]

M: Pues mucho gusto platicar con ustedes. Gracias por darme su tiempo.

1: Ha sido un placer. Ya tu sabes cuando tu quieras, o tu amigo, platicar el espanol, aqui estamos para servirles.

M: Gracias.

1: Fue un placer hablar contigo, y encantada.

M: igualmente.

2: Gracias por la platica y que tengas un bonito día.

M: Igualmente, gracias

What if Babo Didn’t Have Guns?

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If you would never think twice about calling the police when trouble occurs, take one step forward. – this question is in the online privilege walk, an activity we conduct in the OFYI Privilege session. 

One year, a student openly reflected in class. They said something like: “Until I saw that question, I didn’t realize that people would think twice about calling the police. That was an important realization for me.” I deeply respect that person’s openness in sharing that reflection. That openness sparked this article.

As a result of years of tireless organizing by the Movement for Black Lives – popularly known as the movement Black Lives Matter – the death of George Floyd sparked widespread protests, especially in the USA. The broader American public began to realize something that many Black and brown people had known since the invention of the modern police state: something’s very wrong in our assumptions of what policing does and who it benefits. In my first semester, I saw students and professors with Zoom backgrounds and profile pictures with the BLM logo. I saw Olin’s stated mission shift towards recognizing racial injustices in engineering systems and committing to combatting that. 

Yet I didn’t hear a single conversation, comment, or jibe about the police here, at Olin. The only thing I recall was an exchange between two other international students, where one warned another not to mess with Babson Police, “it’s not like the police at home”. It seemed to me that everyone was convinced that Derek Chauvin is a “bad” police officer, unlike Babson Public Safety, who are “good” police officers. Babo wouldn’t do that. I am sure that many officers at Babson Public Safety recoiled at Derek Chauvin’s actions. But that’s not the point.

I wish I didn’t have to clarify this, but I am not saying that the officers I have interacted with at Babson Public Safety are bad people, as far as I know. (I’m sorry if you cringed or felt dismissed at this supposed clarification because you’re thinking “it doesn’t matter if they’re good people” – I promise that’s my point, keep reading.)

The point is to criticize the assumptions of policing, as BLM does. Every day, people in the US (especially black and brown, especially those experiencing homelessness, especially trans and non-binary people, especially women of color) die from police violence. Abolitionists have known that the reason these people get killed by police is not because they are “bad actors” who deserve punishment, but that the communities that are policed the most are the most marginalized and under-resourced. 

Abolition is the broad movement to reimagine a world without policing and incarceration, and in the crudest of terms, it is about focusing on prevention of harm, not punishment and control. I wish I could go beyond the tiny, tiny scrape off the tip of the iceberg in the stories and organizing and scholarship in truly recognizing why policing exists in various degrees of severity in nation-states and what it means when abolitionists ask us to imagine a world without police, but I won’t. Mainly so that you keep reading, and maybe because I’m scared of the vastness of the divide between my opinions and acceptable discourse at the college. Baby steps.

Here’s what I do feel comfortable telling you, in the political context of Olin in March 2024.

Armed campus policing is not normal. Just ten years ago, only 22% of private, small (<5000 student) colleges had armed police. I don’t know when Babson Police were first armed, but I hope to ask them about it in the future. Many private colleges still don’t have armed campus police, such as Vassar College in New York, or Smith College in Massachusetts. None of the colleges I know in India have armed police on campus – just “Campus Security” to berate drunk students. When you think about it, having armed officers patrolling a college campus doesn’t really make sense.

But Vedaant, I feel more safe with the police being armed.

Which means you’re probably white. Or grew up in a wealthy neighborhood. Or have never had an encounter with a cop that left you shaken. An argument I have heard from fellow students is that “But no one at Olin really cares.” That statement, to me, speaks to how much further Olin has to go in having a student body that’s truly representative of the US population. Olin is a place where people get loud and aggressive, people have their stuff stolen, people experience sexual violence, and none of that requires an armed police officer. Remember, I’m not asking for abolition of campus police just yet – just not arming them.

But Vedaant, what if there’s an active shooter?

This is one of the most common questions. This isn’t India, people own guns here. Many studies have shown that having an armed police officer on campus has no correlation with deterring a shooting, or speeding up the response to one. We know this because of the unfortunate number of elementary schools with armed police officers which have experienced horrific school shootings. We simply cannot use the argument of guns to justify more guns.

But Vedaant, Babo is so helpful with the transports.

Exactly! Babson Public Safety (at least according to some accounts) is ostensibly helpful, reasonable, and quick to act when it comes to the health and safety of Olin students. Which should not be the role of an armed police officer. In the words of the Dallas Police Chief, “We are asking police to do too much in this country…Policing was never meant to solve these problems.” 

I want to be able to dial 5555 and a trained, level-headed, adult to show up in minutes to help in an emergency. I want that person to have first-responder training and de-escalation training and be a paid adult whose full-time job is to make sure that everyone in the community feels and is safe. I want that person to be as approachable and friendly as a Peer Advocate or R2 is, so that students have support in handling crisis situations. And I want that person to not have a gun. It would make me that much less hesitant to call them.

In the words of legendary abolitionist Ruth Wilson Gilmore, “Abolition is about presence, not absence. It’s about building life-affirming institutions.” Beyond Olin, abolition as I understand it is about rethinking a world where we don’t create the conditions of desperation that spawn violence and harm by investing our resources in “healthcare, housing and wages to its community members that truly keep communities safe”. It’s a big vision, but it’s certainly not impossible, and to me is intrinsically connected to the equally big vision of Engineering for Everyone in envisioning a world where everyone has equitable access to explore, to dream, and live fulfilled, safe, lives.

And that won’t happen at the snap of a finger; the point is that it is a thoughtful transition. I’m not asking for Babson Public Safety to disappear tomorrow and leave us with no one. But right now, at Olin, I’m asking for Babson Public Safety to not have guns. I’m asking Public Safety to mean genuine public safety, not a synonym for armed police. And therefore, I’m asking for Babson Public Safety to refocus itself to the critical care and first-responder work that it isn’t adequately trained to do, which StAR and student resources may be stretched too thin or wrongly placed to do. 

I’m asking for us to recognize that I can still choose whether Babson Public Safety makes me feel safe or not. And that there’s privilege in having that choice.

Footnote: I want to leave a quick note for who I believe is Frankly Speaking’s most important reader. The future student. I’m in my final semester at Olin, and I don’t have the time or energy left in me to engage in conversations, research, campaign, organize for this. But I recognize that Frankly Speaking may inspire you just as it inspired me. 

About ten years ago, students wrote about sexual violence, about fossil fuel divestment, about the deaths our engineering could enable unless we choose otherwise. Those writings gave me a launchpad to think critically about this college and to find peers who did too. I hope that ten years from now (hopefully sooner), our writings today give you a launchpad to be critical and to care.

I also recognize that, just as I judged the Frankly Speaking articles 10 years ago for being too conciliatory, a little naive, and often insensitive, you may judge this article today too. In the vast history and organizing practice around police abolition and the violent realities experienced by millions of Americans, what I’m arguing for is rather – mild. I could have written this in a vastly more “radical” form, but I chose not to. I want it to be a starting point, a tiny widening in our imagination of what’s possible. Baby steps.

Shout out to Olivia Chang for her endless support and helping out with research for this piece.

Indian Beyond This

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Byline: This article is specifically about Indians, but that’s mainly because I happen to be one. I hope that this is an invitation for more Frankly writing about identity, so we can better live, work, and laugh with each other. I don’t claim that the experiences I talk about below apply only to Indians, nor do I claim to speak for all Indians. Here’s what I’ve learned:

It’s been a long time coming.

All around the world, the discourse is growing. The country with the most people, with the world’s largest and most influential diaspora. CEOs of big tech companies, the prime minister of the UK. From students to indentured laborers, millions working hard from the UAE to Ukraine, sending billions of dollars, and a promise of a better future, back home. We’ve surely shaken up something.

We have been a significant presence at Olin for many years. A group that is celebrating its presence with increasing confidence, holding some of the largest events on campus. Yet it isn’t a group that we have explicitly thought or talked about.

So let’s do that. Let’s talk about us.

A few months ago, I interviewed six Olin students who consider being Indian at least a part of their identity. Unsurprisingly, I heard six completely different stories. Trying to weave together these stories, find a common narrative, a well-packaged identity has been next to impossible. I’ve raised more questions than answers, but that’s why we start here, beyond this.

What is Indian beyond culture? Every single American-born Indian spoke about the struggle of connection with their culture, in a community that often predicates your Indianness as colorbar depending on how “cultured” you are. Do you watch Bollywood movies? Check. Do you follow cricket? Check. Do you speak your parents’ first language fluently? No? Oof that’s too bad, you’re a coconut – brown outside, white on the inside. Claiming your identity becomes an Olympics of cultural connection – an Olympics in which some come out first in, but being on the podium isn’t enough. It never is.

What is Indian beyond food? Someone pointed out a line from an American children’s show where the sole Indian character says – I kid you not – “Sweet Ganesh, I’m a human samosa!” That’s what you’re known as – the spice, the channa masala, bursting with flavor. But that’s not it, is it? Another interviewee said, “Food has so much attached to it – it’s not just the food itself. It has so many feelings attached.” Food is a culture. Food is taking care. It’s an indication of presence, warmth, home. Indian is (undeniably) the best cuisine because food for you is, well, important.

What is Indian beyond a person of color? “Engineering for Everyone”. Most interviewees candidly described the justice-aligned mission as a “nice to have”, but not something they think about everyday and certainly not why they came to Olin. You don’t struggle with representation or access. Your parents are engineers. Your families expect it of us, and often are willing to scrape together the resources to send you to this top-ranked, 10%-acceptance-rate, engineering school. What should that privilege mean to you? Do you know where you fall within this hegemony, or its challenge?

What is Indian beyond jokes about brownness? Every identity group has their story of reckoning with the fabric of the communities that they live in. How do you reckon with yours? Your dad’s sexism, that one Indian friend who thinks it’s funny to say the N-word, the Islamophobic comments your relatives make. What does that mean? An interviewee pointed out that “Western media is quick to poke holes in Indian society with a level of skepticism they don’t have for their own country. They’re quick to present us as backwards, so growing up I believed that India is a messed up place.” Often, the progressive path is to denounce and renounce Indianness – staying progressive despite your culture. But the same interviewee challenged this by arguing that it’s important to be proud that you are Indian and also say that sexism, colorism, racism have no place.  Reframing the conversion from “I’m Indian but progressive” to “I’m Indian and progressive”?

What is Indian beyond here? The Indian story is always of migration – you are and always will be an outsider. One day, you showed up to school, with the baggage of your “ethnic background”. Maybe American legally, but really from India. Your skin, your height, your food, your religion, your festivals, your movies, your oh-so-colorful clothes. Your name. Your major. Your purported resiliency. You lug it around everyday, but you don’t want to unpack that sack in front of everyone because it sure isn’t the biggest sack – why should you get a chance? Why shouldn’t you get a chance?

I’m asking these questions because an interviewee remarked that their attempts to discuss Indian identity with their peers had been “killed with kindness”. Everyone is an active listener- and then no one talks further. Another interviewee pointed out that “to have conversations is a privilege”, especially in family. By no measure have I reasonably covered all the topics people brought up in response to the same questions. I haven’t spoken about the diversity within India, how Bollywood movies are not musicals, or what ABCD stands for. But I’m going to stop now, hoping this has helped. To reduce the dance of politeness just a little bit so that we’re a little less scared to be more honest and engaged with each other. 

Now, it’s your turn.

Thoughts from an Island

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In response to the anonymous March 2023 Frankly Speaking article titled “Let’s Make Real Environmental Impact”.

I appreciate the action, courage, and time you put into thinking about the role of OCJ in the climate justice movement on campus. We feel very misrepresented from the perspective that the board of trustees has presented to you, but I want to put that aside for a second and address a simple difference between the way I see the role of OCJ at Olin and the way I think you do:

The climate crisis is now. If we don’t reach net zero by 2030 – less than 7 years away – it will lead to catastrophic loss of lives, livelihood, and much more, especially in the most underserved regions and communities of the world. But you already know this from our articles and banners. I don’t think we have done a good job of explicitly stating the next link.

If we are to reach net zero CO2 emissions by 2030, it will only happen if we radically reshape our current value systems. It will only happen if the climate crisis is our number one priority. It will only happen if we challenge the existing power structures around us (including at Olin) which will not lead us to net zero emissions by themselves.

For me, fossil fuel divestment at Olin is important because that act represents a fundamentally different political stance – that fossil fuel companies necessarily need to not exist in 7 years if we are to reach net zero. Fossil fuel divestment is important because it’s asking Oliners to be someone they haven’t been before. Students are learning to protest. The faculty are in the process of passing their first-ever climate-related resolution. The Board is learning that it cannot exist in a bubble and that its meetings can be interrupted by students filled with rage and passion. The discomfort you feel right now is the point. We want the board to divest because they don’t want to do it. The pressure, stress, and perhaps alienation you have felt from the divestment movement is part of the incredibly uncomfortable process of challenging your sense of comfort and stability when something is a crisis.

We can’t make Olin build solar panels tomorrow, but we can make Olin divest tomorrow. Literally. And making that decision would involve the board members we have been meeting with fundamentally reshaping their values very quickly. And I too agree that the board thinks it’s genuinely being collaborative while we are disengaging, but that difference is what defines the climate crisis – we are trying to set the bar for caring a lot, lot, higher.

Ultimately, the divestment movement is about the struggle and what that struggle reveals about Olin. So far, we feel like that struggle has been fruitful – it has completely reshaped the discourse at the college, it has exposed students to nonviolent direct action, and – most importantly – it has brought people like you to think about this, care about this, reach out to people in power, and respond. So thank you, and I genuinely ask you to join the next OCJ meeting. We are unwavering but not perfect, and you will have a lot to learn from our meetings only if you are really ready to challenge a lot of your assumptions because that’s what it takes to combat a global crisis at an unprecedented rate. We have studied and discussed and challenged our own assumptions so much, and trust that we will continue to do so.

I know that this will be difficult for many of my Olin friends to read. I know that if my parents or high school friends somehow found this article, they would not recognize me. And I know that I feel so deeply privileged to stand on the shoulders of giants who brought me and keep me in this school, but that doesn’t mean I stop trying to see through the clouds. My story of care at Olin would not feel genuine to me if it stopped at student support, cultural communities, and building safe, open spaces. I hope you can understand how deeply valuable each of those components are, and OCJ,  in the way that I’ve been trying to understand for the past short three years.

No community is exempt from dissent. No institution is too perfect for reckonings of power. No college, no matter how caring, well-intentioned, and hardworking, is exempt from disruption. 

I never thought that I would be writing a Frankly Speaking while studying abroad, but turns out that the climate crisis is a crisis, well, everywhere. The island I’m living on has visibly eroded this past semester. It’s time to be honest about how we got here. We at Olin, an institution with an incredible amount of influence, money, and hard-earned respect need to take big, bold steps, because… (say it with me!)

Climate justice can’t wait.

We voted to divest, now what?

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Two weeks ago, at the Town Hall, we, the student body, made Olin history. At Olin’s first-ever social referendum, 93% of the student body voted “yes” to divest and disclose.

  1. Are you in favor of calling on Olin to divest from fossil fuel companies and reinvest in sustainable businesses, industries, and funds?
  2. Are you in favor of calling on Olin to disclose the endowment’s exposure to fossil fuel companies on a regular basis?

This town hall is the first time that we, the students, have collectively expressed our voice through a democratic process we designed. In a young, maturing institution, we are setting a precedent.

This is a monumental achievement. Many other colleges weren’t able to get above 80% support: at Harvard, for example, 72% of the student body voted for fossil fuel divestment back in 2013. Our vote demonstrates the overwhelming support of Olin students for this critical effort, and CORe will send an official recommendation to the Board of Trustees with these numbers that show our resounding consensus.

As Gilda announced on the day of the Town Hall, the Board has now formed a committee to discuss divestment. The student representatives for this committee—nominated by CORe—are Olivia Chang and Tyler Ewald, and the committee will be having its first meeting on December 13. This new committee is important progress towards divestment, and we are optimistic that it will spur both conversation and meaningful action: the committee is preparing a proposal for the Board to vote on during its February meeting.

We thank you – fellow Olin students – for your support. Your questions, your solidarity, and your demonstrated commitment to fighting the climate crisis are why divestment is moving forward. As members of the community, you have the unique privilege to shape how seriously our school takes our stated commitments to sustainability, equity, and justice. A lot of important work has been done in the past twenty years of our school, but more remains to be done.

We hope you join us in our efforts to move Olin towards a just and sustainable future. Climate justice can’t wait.

The Town of Nilo

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Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there was the Town of Nilo. Now as far as towns go Nilo was a rather small town, but the residents of Nilo were prosperous and happy. They took pride in their town’s central trade – pig rearing – and did it well. So well, in fact, that they were ranked among the top pig-rearing towns in the country.

Pig rearing may seem stupid and irrelevant now (and believe me, some of Nilo’s residents thought that too) but back then, pig rearing was the sought-after job. Pig rearers were paid the highest – of course, less than the factory farm executives they served – and the world had just entered what was then called the Livestock Revolution. The pig rearers of the town of Nilo were told that they were extra special, and they knew it too with their innovative, hands-on, pig-rearing skills.

As we all know, nothing that is prosperous is perfect, and the practice of pig-rearing had its bad sides too. For starters, pig-rearers (especially the wildly sought-after pig-rearers of Nilo) often ended up working at factory farms. It was known in the town of Nilo, even back then, that the factory-farming system was greedy and unethical, but the pig-rearers of Nilo worked there anyway. What other choice did they have? They needed to make money, yet the word “factory” became taboo in the town nevertheless.

But times were changing. The town was changing, and the residents of Nilo were waking up to the evils of the factory farms that they aspired to join. Moreover, the world was moving ahead, and Nilo’s innovative pig-rearing practices were not as flashy and unique anymore. Nilo needed something different, something unique to make it stand out, to make its residents feel special again. Why not capitalize on the relevance of complex changing political times and increasing anti-factory-farming sentiment?

“Pig-rearing for everyone.” That was the town’s new motto. For a rich cash-strapped town that was erected from the vast fortunes of the now-outlawed tobacco plantation industry, this was bold, ambitious, and revolutionary. Nilo was to place pig-rearing, long rooted in injustices and in the reach of only the elite few, into the reach of everyone, for everyone. Never mind that the town of Nilo had a deeply privileged culture that rested on hardworking residents from rich pig-rearing prep schools. Never mind that Nilo was in one of the wealthiest parts of the world, a region as bland elite as it could get, alien to many including Nilo’s own residents. As everyone in this little changemaking town was growing to accept, disruption is bad. Change is slow.

The hardworking residents of Nilo were told that – on top of everything that they were already doing – they were going to do more, going to get better. It wasn’t just about the pig-rearing skills, it was about understanding the context and implications of pig-rearing. It was about being angry at the factory-farming system but tempering that anger because they were going to work at those factory farms anyway. It was about feeling morally conflicted, but in that conflict finding absolvement in the idea that they were not like other pig-rearers, they had considered the ethics of pig-rearing. They were better.

As with any diverse community, there were people who didn’t care about the ethics of pig-rearing at all and others who saw it as privileged, saviorism, or hypocritical. But we don’t care about them. The Town of Nilo was one happy community, and it had finally found a fresh new purpose.

And the residents of Nilo got to work. Hard at work. In fact, they were ranked as the most hardworking residents of any town in the world. Some might even say that they worked too much. But what place does your well-being have when you’re changing the world? The residents of Nilo knew that they were special, that they could be workers and leaders and changemakers, and that all they needed to do was to try harder and be happier and more productive.

One of the first things to go was democracy. Who needs community meetings, who needs long boring town halls, who cares about the Nilo government? The town’s unique honor system was a performative joke anyway that had once been relevant in the town’s heyday. They were all distractions, time taken away from productive pig-rearing.

Next was space for reading and self-reflection. The residents of Nilo knew that everything they valued and thought about had to be relevant to their identity as pig-rearers, and anything else was a waste of time. “If it’s not pig-rearing, I know everything that is wrong about it” was the implicit motto that all pig-rearers knew as the way to stifle out anything but productive, world-changing, pig-rearing.And last to go, was fun. Well, Nilo had a vibrant nightlife that involved joint pig-rearing until 3:00 AM in the public spaces of Nilo, but anything else was taboo. If you weren’t pig-rearing, you weren’t changing the world, you weren’t living up to your full potential, you weren’t being a valuable person. But what did it matter? Nilo was still ranked as the 23rd happiest town in the world! The residents of Nilo could simply do everything, it was marvelous how they had everything and yet yearned for more. If you weren’t doing absolutely everything, were you even a true resident of Nilo?

Different?

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Maybe it’s just me, but if you’ve ever studied in the West Hall 2 antelounge after midnight, sometimes you hear a certain tapping. It’s not a faint ticking, but rather a loud, consistent beating that goes on for hours. It’s happening right now as I write these words. 83 beats per minute. You can tune it out, but it’s still mildly alarming – like someone’s stuck outside where it’s cold and snowing, slowly freezing stiff, waiting for you to prove something or go to sleep.

Tap tap tap or go to bed. To be clear – I’m not here to complain about Olin’s work culture. Work is honestly the last thing on my mind right now. I’m talking about the relentless restlessness of Olin – to prove, to socialize, to care. I still really really love the college and the people and community. But therein lies the problem. Tap tap tap or go to bed. 

Last semester, I wanted to write an article criticizing the criticism at Olin. The lack of empathy, the blatant disregard for one’s own privilege, the excitement of being in a cushion community where students listen when you yell. It all disgusted me. When I saw Olin staff and faculty have emotional breakdowns in the face of disrespectful student criticism, it made me so so angry. 

But I never found the time. Winter Break happened, and my position completely flipped. I was now angry at the administration. I was frustrated with how clubs were being asked to create safe spaces at Olin; spaces that Olin loves to advertise but should be created by the institution in the first place. About how Olin’s administration needs to rebuild fractured trust among students with more leadership, openness, and professionalism.

But the reality is both. We’re a baby school with big dreams striving relentlessly to prove ourselves. An insecure college with small grounds but wide-open skies. A little colony of people trying to establish themselves and softening under the protection of a pressure-cooker community. Tap tap tap or go to sleep.

The phrase that makes me shudder the most at Olin is, “Everybody here is -”. So much has been appended to that. Liberal, privileged, burnt-out, anti-capitalist, an engineer, well-intentioned. And the truth is – at least MY truth is – that’s never the case. It’s one thing to have a shared culture, and another to assume unwavering conformity to it. The vibe I feel running through campus runs through us all, but it doesn’t mean we all interact with it in the same way.

I’m not making a revolutionary point here – we’re all different. Period… or not, for your take on this may be different from mine. And a lot more can be accomplished at Olin if this simple fact is culturally recognized.

Some examples:

There is mistrust between students and Olin’s administration. Trust that needs to be rebuilt. And the key insight lies in recognizing that not all students mistrust the administration. Unfortunately, the students with the least faith in Olin’s administration, in a twist of cruel irony, are also the students who need the support of the administration the most. But acknowledging that not everyone has this attitude reduces frustration among students who feel privileged to be at Olin in the first place! Much more importantly, an administration that recognizes this nuance can use it to improve their approach – reducing the burden of advocacy on struggling students, creating structures to proactively be a resource for students, stepping in to break the self-destructive cycle of “Need Information (/assistance/health support/accommodations) Now? Just Ask” – because for many there’s never a “just” to asking.

Or the assumption that everyone at Olin has the best intentions. This is a tricky one, because all the way back from OFYI we’re taught to “assume best intentions”. And that’s definitely a huge part of Olin, an intrinsic piece of our culture. But again, it’s naive to assume this is always true, certainly not in the world, but even at Olin. I have been in situations where people have definitely NOT acted with good intentions in mind, and I have struggled to find ways to deal with those situations simply because I don’t know how to. 

There is a danger to the mindset of “we’re a close-knit community of nice people and we look out for each other”. ‘Cause while a lot of us agree with that, it really sucks for those who don’t. Olin becomes a 4-year long summer camp of trying to fit into your niches, finding your Olin brand, and having a happy, productive time overall. Good vibes only, cause we’ve created something special here in this little innovative school. Tap tap tap or go to sleep.

To reiterate: I love this college. I love the people who run it, I love being able to say hi to people I walk by and (mostly) getting a response, and I just feel so gosh darn lucky to be here. Yet, on the days that I’m exhausted and pissed and don’t want to say hi to the people I walk by, I don’t feel like Olin’s got my back. And that would be okay – except I feel pushed from the front by the sheer Olin-ness of things. What do you mean you’re not going to join the laughter in the dining hall but sulk in the mezz of introversion, privacy, and tight friend groups? 

I want to emphasize one last thing before I go to bed. Don’t take this scrappily-written article as the only perspective. My complaints about Olin are by no means important: something that everyone – students, staff, and faculty – need to recognize. The students who this college is harshest on don’t write  articles, buzzing with middle-school energy. The folks who need to be heard the most are the ones who don’t feel empowered to speak up. Listen to what they have to say, be honest and gentle, and create that space. It’s okay to be uncomfortably different. Or disagree with me and tell me about it!