A couple years ago, my parents and I loaded up the rental and embarked on the fabled highway 95 New England college road trip. I made a last minute decision to beg for a detour to Ithaca to visit Cornell, and eventually we found ourselves on the Arts Quad, listening to a smile-prone sophomore give her tour-guide spiel about the University. Halfway through the tour, we passed the Johnson Museum, and our guide began to describe the programs and displays it hosted on a regular basis. At some point during this talk, she mixed up her words and referred to the museum as “my Johnson.” She immediately corrected herself and moved on, but there was no going back. She’d said it.