notes from the desk Responsible regurgitation

Author: Kelly Janis

Shameless party animal that I am, I spent a raucous Saturday night covering a last-minute shift at Public Safety's recently-launched Residential Life Helpline.

The lightly-publicized service directs minor complaints formerly fielded by Public Safety to a student operator, who then contacts the appropriate individual to intervene.

When a student called to report a puddle of vomit in the doorway of his residence hall, bewilderment ensued. Nobody was too keen on mopping up bodily fluids at one o'clock on a Sunday morning. So a passerby slung a few paper towels on the floor, several "hey, wanna clean up some vomit?" voicemails were issued and that was that. As long as everyone went through the ineffectual motions - and it wasn't Family Weekend or any other occasion compelling the College to assume a sparkling facade - it could ferment for a while.

Maybe it would be cleaned up early the next morning. Or in 24 hours. Or maybe it would linger for three days, as it is alleged to have more than once in the past.

And, best of all, if clean-up required the custodians to work overtime, rather than dipping into the $46,910 and rising Comprehensive Fee or the cash allotted to each commons to plan sparsely-attended events, which students routinely eschew in favor of getting wasted, each student who resides in the vomited-upon building ran the risk of being billed for the labor.

Whose job is it to clean up the messes for which students fail to take responsibility? And how effective is our newly-restructured residential life system if it means other departments coordinating clumsily, at best, with individuals who are uncertain of the tasks for which they are responsible, and are unavailable to execute them anyway?

A Public Safety staff member who entertained my incessant late-night rant said that leaving our doorways bathed in puke teaches students a valuable lesson - that the immaturity and irresponsibility of a few ought to be the active burden of us all. Eventually, he said, students will get fed up and turn in their friends. It's all about "the College's vision of responsibility," he said. It's all about community.

Is that what being part of a community means? Policing our hallmates' penchant for puking? Getting pissed off and "tattling" on one another? Wouldn't it be far easier to instead cultivate some respect, in this case for each student's right to tread into their living space without first surmounting a puddle-hopping odyssey through God-knows-whose bodily fluid?

While, certainly, the residential life system and Department of Public Safety have their flaws, we as students should conduct ourselves with enough common decency to preclude the intervention of either, and ensure that the College doesn't have to hire people to clean up after us as though we were toddlers.

Rather than basking in our status as Midd-kids - an infantilizing term which sometimes registers as dismayingly fitting - why not behave like adults every now and again? We can start by cleaning up our own vomit. If we succeed at that, maybe we can even find ways of relating to one another that don't require becoming inebriated to the point of impairment. Certainly dulling emotions, quelling social inadequacy and making sexual overtures with the authenticity fostered by lots and lots of alcohol is part and parcel of The College ExperienceÆ, and I'd be na've to suggest that we evolve.

But given the manner in which Middlebury delights in fancying itself superior to other institutions in so many other respects, can't we aspire to a certain air of dignity in this realm? Can't we ensure that guests on admissions tours aren't wading through pools of vomit and shards of broken glass from the previous night's beer fest? Can't we demonstrate our respect for this community by taking responsibility for maintaining it?

Either that, or in the style of true "Midd-kids," we can all get drunk and forget there's any problem.

Kelly Janis '10 is a Local News editor from Binghamton, N.Y.