Jason Deruuuuulo. Oh what? I’m not supposed to start off everything I say with that cat call? My bad.
So, probably like many of you, I don’t necessarily think about the fact that I go to an Ivy on a day to day basis. I mean, it’s me and 15,000 other people. N.B.D., right?
After all, I’m just the same as every other Cornellian. I study hard, party harder and Harvard kids still scare the crap out of me.
But the other weekend, I went to visit my friend at Bard. For those who haven’t heard, it’s an awesome liberal arts school that’s got an Archie vibe. But, like, a shit-ton cooler.
I showed up with my roommate at around midnight, lamenting the fact that everyone was probably going to be too schwasted to party coherently. I mean, by nine o’clock at Cornell we’re all pretty far gone, am I right?
Yeah, this is about the point when I realized we’re not in Kansas anymore. (Kansas, Ithaca, they’re both pretty much corn and cows. The analogy is appropriate.) Standard party time: one o’clock. The location: a dorm?
You heard me. And I’m not talking about greasy North Campus get-togethers filled with RA monster fear. No. I’m talking an on-campus rager in what can only be described as castle McGraw and the Alpha Delt house on steroids.
You see, there are two very cool factors about Bard that play a huge role in their social scene: first, there is no Greek Life; second, there are 1,700 students. Total.
Throw about a quarter of those into a room, and you’ve got some serious advantages over the Cornell party scene.
For one, there are no greasy frat floors to contend with. This is in part because, as a school-hosted event, alcohol has to be consumed sketchily. (Read: no messy games of beer pong.) This also means that you feel extra cool smuggling a forty in your coat without anyone noticing it and gulping the flat stuff from a brown paper bag in the back room, gangsta-style.
This also means that, if your friend is connected, you officially know EVERYONE there. And they know EVERYTHING about you.
Case and point: I was dancing up on some too-tall-for-me boy (you know how I do) when he turned me to face him and asked, “You go to Cornell, right? Aren’t there, like, only 500 of you that ever leave your desks to party?”
This is when it hit me. What exactly is the perception people have about Cornellians? I mean, I don’t live in a hole. I go out at least once a week. And I can name 30 close friends who all could name 30 close friends who do the same.
Sure, prelims suck. And sure, the social events I’ve got lined up for the next two weeks involve checking out the hot Asians studying in the ground floor of Uris and bumpin’ to the beats of Baby Einstein in Kroch.
But, that doesn’t mean we at Cornell don’t know how to have a good time. Take Halloween, for one. You would think freshmen would be too timid to even leave their rooms that early in the year.
And yet, C-Town gets packs of them moving around like some singular organism in search of the ultimate party. I should know. I was one of them. And I ended up in an apartment with my RA. Good times.
Another example, and perhaps my fondest memory of the Cornell party scene, involved boys shoving beers and money in my face (I mean, who doesn’t love that) and a lap dance from a little exotic dancer named Cici (if you’re reading this Cici, call me. I know we had a moment. I just know it). You just can’t get classy entertainment like that anywhere else.
So sure, we at Cornell value our study time. And yeah, we may be an Ivy. But I’m pretty sure we’re not bottom tier when it comes to our social life either. I mean, after all, what better way than to celebrate a 52 on Orgo (because that’s seven points above the mean) than with more than 500 of your equally nerdy friends.
Original Author: Cristina Stiller