The Cult of Cornell

It is interesting to me that a place that gets snowswept in mid-April can inspire such devotion among its followers. Cornellians, for the most part, love Cornell and everything associated with it, including the hippies and the crappy coffee. It has snowed in August here, it’s never sunny, everything is three miles uphill and the salads at Statler run a comfortable $377.00 and a pro-rated part of your soul.

Still, however, Cornell is loved. And, after a few years here, I have finally figured out why. No, it’s not because it makes you a better person, or because it gives you a diploma, or because it turns you into a grown-up, or any of that brochure double-speak. No. The reason Cornell is so loved by the people who are associated with it is very simple.

Quite simply, Cornell is a cult.

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From the high priest of Cornell who surveys the campus from his office in Day Hall as jazz plays softly in the background, to the freshman who plays Warcraft in the dark, rarely leaves his room and smells vaguely of Cheetos, most people at Cornell are either active officers or well on their way to full membership and service in the cult of Ezra.

Ezra’s sergeants-at-arms are everywhere around us. There are, of course, the best known ones: the stewards, who guard our food supply and make sure that no one takes more than their fair share of rations. From Happy Dave to Gerry and his ponytail to the “points” guy on West Campus, these guys are the keepers of the food and the spikers of the punch.

And then, of course, we have the torch-bearers, the other famous people on and off campus who become the common ground in any discussion about life at ol’ Cornell. The zamboni guy, Denice Cassaro and that Tarzan guy on the Arts Quad — who plays frisbee with himself, throws it across the length of the quad and then sprints after it, jumping over co-eds before making a surprisingly acrobatic catch — these are all people everyone at Cornell can chat about over a beer with their fellow alums. Their function, of course, is to bring the campus/cult together.

Everything at Cornell is geared towards the cult life. According to the landmark manual, Cults for Dummies, the best way to keep people brainwashed is to lead them to believe that they actually have choices, when in reality, they have none. Here at Cornell, we can choose Appel or RPCC, Ivy Room or Okenshield’s, Uris or Olin, Club Sidewalk or Club CTP and blondes or brunettes. A careful examination of the options, however, reveals that they are actually the same: in respective order, both are full of freshmen, both share a kitchen, both have books and loud breathers, both are separated by a small strip of street that has more drunks than cars parked on it and all hair looks the same in the dark anyway. The illusion of choice is what drives the flock, and Cornell provides that in spades.

The other intrinsic part of the cult is the promotion of its principles, and Cornell, the “work hard, play hard” school extraordinaire, does a great job encouraging the ideals upon which it was created. Take diversity, for instance. It’s huge at this school, and Cornell has managed to foster an atmosphere of complete diversity, at least as soon as students hit senior year. One only needs to look at The Palms to see just how many different kinds of people can come together. The Palms at 12:30 has among its attendees the Rulloff’s crowd, the Johnny O’s crowd, the Dunbar’s crowd … hell, even the Stella’s crowd crawls out of their overpriced martinis every once in a while to make an appearance. One day soon, I predict, we may even get someone from the Pixel crowd. And then the diversity arches will cease to need to exist.

And it’s hard to argue with the devotion that some of the members of the Cult of Ezra can show. For instance, you might be wandering at 3 a.m. on a Saturday night and run across Duffield Hall. In this case, you are obviously lost. But stop for a second and take a look. There are people there! Lots of people! Duffield Hall is full of people working, working, working the night away. And they’re not complaining. Much. Not unless you check their away message. But that’s beside the point. They may be whining, but no one else is working at 3 a.m. while students all over the rest of the country have been drunk for days, weeks, months even! If you can make people work for you like this, you’re going to have little trouble convincing them to drink that Kool-Aid.

We have our rumors and ghosts, like the weather machine, Antman, secret societies and the architects. We have our customs like Slope Day and Freshmen on the Field. We have our soldiers, the massive Greek armies who know everyone and everybody and what everyone and everybody did the night before. In between their police force, the devotion, the totems, the officers and everything else, Cornell has everything a cult needs. It’s impossible to see it otherwise.

And, lastly, we have our anthem, the song everyone knows, the song everyone loves, the one song everyone will stop for and start singing at the top of their lungs the moment it comes on. It unites Cornell now, it united it years ago and decades from now, when you start humming it and someone else starts humming too, you’ll know that both of you are Cornellians. You know how it goes. Sing it with me everybody! With feeling!

… I seen her in an empty room …

Carlos Maycotte is The Sun’s former Associate Editor. He can be contacted at cam98@cornell.edu. Tequila Sunrise appears Thursdays.