They’re here. They’ve come. Amidst a campus of jaded liberal arts zombies, morosely trudging to class while praying for global warming to kick in, they enter the Middlebury community. I am, of course, referring to those little rays of sunshine we call “Febs” (aka Feblets, Febbies, Fmunchkins, etc.).
They are the fleshy balls of boundless enthusiasm ready to start their college experiences and provide fresh blood for our a capella groups and theatrical productions. Meanwhile, they fill up rooms vacated by upperclassmen who have gone abroad and give the admissions staff something super exciting to tell “prospies” about. Overall, it’s a pretty sweet deal for all parties involved. Why, then, do we give them so much crap?
It is pretty impressive, how much guff the brand new Febs have to deal with from their upperclassmen brethren. I think of it as a more endearing form of hazing, where we blame them for silly things while thinking they’re absolutely adorable. It’s true, the number one response when a Feb walks in is something along the lines of “Awwwwwww it’s a Feb! Let’s pet it!”
We are then quick to dismiss whatever they are doing as ridiculous Feb behavior, and end with some judgmental remark speculating on how many bowls of granola and cottage cheese they ate this morning. Just the other day I saw two people goofing around in the hallway outside Proctor, and, without any evidence other than the physical (and maybe romantic?) interaction, I decided that they were Febs. While my judgment turned out to be very correct, I still wonder why I or anyone else would feel the need to think such things.
There are several theories. The most straightforward is that Middlebury students can’t handle the collective enthusiasm of their new classmates. They leap onto campus with “I Love College” blaring through their iPod headphones, extremely ready to leave their parents and drink beer and dance at cool parties and learn about the Anthropology of Sociological Human Ecology Geology. Meanwhile, the rest of campus is going through the five stages of grief, following the realizations that Winter Term is over and that snow just went down their shirt. I can vouch for these people: walking past someone gleefully whistling his SIM audition piece while I am desperately clinging to life sort of makes me want to vomit on his pajamas.
But I think this theory is incomplete, and it definitely doesn’t explain the times we condescendingly equate Febs with puppies. My theory is that they remind us of ourselves when we first got here or worse: before we got here. Everyone goes through his or her awkward phase, and after it ends (if it ends), we want never to think of it again. I could give plenty of examples from my life, but I feel it is my duty as an older brother to bring your attention to the picture to your right.
No, it is not the elusive face of the mysterious Cousin Itt that you see. The fair, ginger maiden is, in fact, my brother Dan “Darnull” Johnston in the year 2006. His luxurious locks are what happen when you combine a wannabe hippie phase, negligent parenting and daily therapy with Pantene Pro-V.
Luckily, Goldilocks Darnull is a thing of the past, and his current style is not one that draws questions about his gender. This change came just in time too, as he has just begun his first semester at Middlebury as a new Feb. Darnull has changed a lot since then, and despite spilling milk on the football team at lunch last week, he is a wonderful addition to the campus. He and you other Febs don’t deserve all the crap you will inevitably experience from everyone else, not to mention from me right now. We are all just cold, lonely and depressed jerks, and you remind us of the times our proverbial hair was as long as Darnull’s. I apologize on behalf of all the buttface upperclassmen for their jealous and/or condescending actions, and I promise we will be over it just in time for you to realize how drafty your windows are.
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