#33: power outages

Nothing shakes up the unspoken social conventions of Ouachita Baptist University like a good ol' power outage. Sure, by day, we are upstanding scholars. We brush the shoulders of our acquaintances with mildly interested “how’s it goings” and many a smile in the caf. We interact with professors with tact and a considerable level of hygiene. We try not to tip over the proverbial boat.

But when the lights go out, things get real. Like Bible Times real. Like Old Testament Real. Like “Oh, snap! Lot’s daughters did what?” real.

I have never been in an apocalypse. I didn’t even finish the Left Behind series. Thus, I found myself completely unprepared recently when the town of Arkadelphia found itself on the verge of total anarchy.

Two Tuesdays ago I plopped down to study for my impending Life Science test at the exact same moment that darkness seized the halls and sidewalks of our beloved campus. Like any self-respecting RA would do at such a time as this, I immediately abandoned my hall, rushing to the science building (a.k.a. The New Jerusalem of Life Science) and reassured the freshman girls cowering in the halls and stairwells of FCW3 that there would only be cause for panic if a cow came busting through the windows.

However, my Great Escape to Productivity turned out to be quite the quest. FYI, if you ever find yourself caught in the middle of an apocalypse, do not expect to get anywhere fast. The first obstacle in my and Courtney’s trek (Courtney had by this time jumped on the Jones Journey Train) to the science building was the Francis Crawford lobby. I should have known that all the residents of Flippen Perrin would converge on our halls at the first sign of weather danger. I suspect they were answering the call to use their bodies as physical Twister shields for all the vulnerable FC-dwellers who might at any moment be sucked away into oblivion. In the future, I will sleep soundly in the knowledge of this chivalrous commitment to self-sacrifice, but at the time, they were merely a blockade on the path to test preparation. Obstacle 1.

Obstacle 2 was a gargantuan tree that the wind had blown into the middle of the road. Not to fear, though. The men of Flippen Perrin were on their toes once again, rushing to the scene of the road impediment, sporting subhuman strength, headlamps, and muscle tees. It is comforting for future apocalypses to know that I live so close to an entire community of Jack Shepherds. (I suspect, though, that it wouldn't take the men of FP six seasons to get off that dadgum island.)

After safely avoiding Obstacle 2, Courtney and I slipped and slid on the lightless Ouachita sidewalks all the way to our intended goal. Yet, not surprisingly, though the Jones generators did illuminate our meiosis and exegetical notes, they did not illuminate our minds. How can one study cell reproduction when a whole host of flashlights are closing in on the Ouachita Tiger? It was like Lord of the Flies had broken out within the parameters of area code 71998. From our window, Courtney and I watched with both awe and horror as tens of (thousands of?) tiny lights crept closer and closer to our caged mascot. Meanwhile, the Tiger waited unprotected in his prison, his security cameras rendered useless by the electrical outage, leaving him as helpless as a veal or one of those suicidal shark-cage divers. Thankfully, Securitas was on the job in no time, halting the faceless ruffians from desecrating our hero with their irreverent butts on his back. (Let all Ouachitonians hereby rest assured that OBU Safety does NOT need electricity to maintain campus safety.)

Meanwhile, back at the farm, the residents of O.C. Bailey decided that a power outage was the perfect time to run, screaming, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth between their dorm and Lile.  I now know that Ouachita Football does not take pansy excuses like “total darkness” as reason for shirking physical training time.

Yet in spite of the madness, Courtney, I, the other Jones studiers, and the rest of Ouachita managed to walk away from our micro-apocalypse unscathed. The lights came back on. People went about their normal business. And I made an A on my Life Science test. What happened in the dark pretty much stayed in the dark.

I wish, though, that I had been the all-seeing Eye of Sauron in that brief moment when the Apocalype and the Ouachita Bubble collided. In those seconds right after power returned to Arkadelphia, that “Dream sequence-Jerry B. Jenkins-end of the world-I am Legend” state shook hands with the “2^nd-Baptist-attending-NorthFace-Vest-Wearing-Piggybacking-BBC kids” state. If only I could have witnessed that freshman touching the Tiger tail for the first time, or that CDA newbie in mid-rap-lyric-holler, or that streaker as he sheepishly rushed to clothe himself with the nearest shrubbery. Perhaps, then--and only then--would I have seen the true faces of Ouachitonians in all their gleaming, transparent glory.

#32: tiger traks, a personal anecdote

For four years I have happily avoided the celebrated competition of Tiger Traks. Convenient excuses like “I have to commemorate my friend’s birthday in the location of her actual birth,” or “Oh darn it, I’ll be out of the country,” or “I’m sorry, but I believe I’ll be feeding Sudanese refugees that weekend” have kept my lack of athletic ability inconspicuous.

Until now.

It being the final semester of my senior year, I was struck recently by a staggering question: can I call myself a true Tiger without ever participating in Tiger Traks? I reasoned that, “no, I could not.”

So, I set out to make my Ouachita experience complete, searching for the perfect Tiger Traks Eight-some. I pondered questions such as “where can I find the poster children of sport?” and “who on this campus epitomizes physical intensity?”

Naturally, I looked to the English Department, a hotbed of athleticism.

Having assembled our team, we embarked this past Friday on what was to be the adventure of a lifetime. We—Liz “The Dark Horse” Richardson, Baronger the Brave, Sarah “Not Plain but Tall” Stark, Ellen Three Sticks Pointing East Eubanks, Jason the Pony-tailed Warrior, The Emperor of Ice cream, Mary Poppins on Speed, and myself set off on our quest, sporting much heart and several deer-in-the-headlights expressions. We hoped to put our name down in Tiger Traks history.

The name, however, posed an unexpected problem. Mary Poppins had a brilliant idea on the subject of team t-shirts. One of her students was selling shirts to raise money for Nigerian widows. Poppins thought that by purchasing said t-shirts for the team, we would save ourselves time as well as tender our finances to the poor and destitute in the process. In order to merge both our literary roots and represent our friends back in Africa (aka, the Motherland), we chose the name “Things Fall Apart” for our team, giving a shout out to our old friend Chinua Achebe and calling upon the sympathies of many a Western Letters student. We could not foresee at the time, however, the confusion said shirts would inspire.

Apparently, having the words “AIDS” in bold red letters on one’s back during Traks lends itself to a variety of responses, few not marked by condemnation and distain. What it also lends itself to is many a conversation such as this: [while running around campus on the tiger trek]

--“What! Oh hey! No, it’s not our team name” [several gasps for air]

--“Yeah, I realize AIDS is a serious issue” [more gasping]

--“No, we’re not trying to be funny.” [more gasping]

--“It’s a novel, you know, Things Fall Apart. Nigeria? Achebe? Beular?” [exasperation]

--“Yes, I know my shirt has the words malnutrition and sex-trafficking on the front, but isn’t it nifty how it fits into the shape of Africa?”

After settling any lingering tension from the above issue, we attempted to hold our own in a variety of competition events. We found that some areas were not our strength—specifically, all games relating to mud (at one point Liz, Dr. Amy Sonheim, and I were all dragged upside down, the only lifeline between us and death by mud-drowning being the bottom of a tug-of-war rope). However, in other areas we shined. 91 marbles with our toes! Can I get a witness?

However, in all Traks events, we felt prepared. We armed ourselves with proverbs such as “the pen is mightier than the sword” and “sticks and stones won’t break my bones…” We channeled our inner Borrimeers and Beowolfs. We rested in thoughts like, “Relay? Boat race? Volleyball? check! I’ve totally read about that somewhere! We got this!”

And in the end, we fared well. We walked away with our heads held high. We brought honor to many English majors who were safe at home, resting in the comfort of a book, cup of tea, or a solitary walk through a forest.

Perhaps, Africa Is not Done Suffering, but after the end of the weekend’s events, we, the members of Things Fall Apart, certainly are.

That’ll do, Things. That’ll do, indeed.

#31: using info like eharmony

This is a postmodern world we live in, people. This is not your grandmother’s Ouachita. You won’t find us scurrying to our females-only tennis class wearing raincoats to cover up our shorty-short skirts. You won’t find us rendezvousing at the sidewalk during the designated hours for co-ed bonding. And you will certainly not find us answering telegraph invitations to go out for a coke on a Saturday night.

Community at OBU looks different than it did fifty years ago. I know this may come as a shock to you, fellow Ouachitonian. You probably, like me, were under the misconception that the past 100 years were utterly static. But let’s face reality, friends. The world is changing, and so must we.

And we have.

The area of Ouachitonian lives where this change seems most obvious is in the field of cross-gender relations, i.e. dating, engagement, and marriage.

Just in case you were unclear about that fine print section on your degree plan, be aware that these three experiences are prerequisites for you taking that ol' leisurely stroll in mid-May across the graduation stage and maneuvering that handshake-diploma-hand-off with Dr. Rex Horne. And just so we’re all on the same page here, these steps should preferably be taken in the order listed above. (Sometimes Ouachitonians get fuzzy on this issue. Not to worry. Many are here to counsel you and walk you through the process. Please consult your advisor or RA).

I know that these three tasks may seem daunting. But, not to fear, I am here to inform you that Ouachita has conveniently equipped you with all the necessary skills you need to date, engage, and be married. Where those we now dub Golden Tigers may have required intentional methods like a face-to-face conversation to figure out who that cute girl in Fine Art Theater was and whether she was available to be telegraphed for that coke, we 21^st century Ouachitonians have more convenient and technologically savvy methods.

I would like to now introduce you to Ouachita’s very own version of EHarmony:
INFO
It’s like facebook had a baby with christianmingles.com, except that baby is exponentially more talented and beautiful than either of its parents.

“How,” might you ask, “is INFO the best method for Ringing by Springing it?” Let me count the ways…

1.) Geographic Relevance.

Whilst facebook creeping an acquaintance, have you ever found your eyes wandering over to his/her friends column and landing on a particularly aesthetically pleasing individual? When clicking on said individual’s profile have you been heartbroken to discover that said individual lives in Milwalkee? Well wipe those tears away, my friend. When INFO creeping, you will never again find yourself geographically isolated from that potential someone…unless, of course, you dub the walk to the Village too strenuous.

2.)Personal Details

Will Christianmingles.com inform you of that potential someone’s major and classification? I think not! (Ok, maybe it will. I’m not really sure. I have always chosen the supremacy of INFO for all my dating, engagement, and marriage endeavors). No matter. Either way, how will you know if that easy-on-the-eyes female’s interests are truly compatible with yours? How can you anticipate her dietetics major rendering her totally uninterested as you chart the rise and fall of the Roman Empire on your first date? How are you ever to save yourself both the humiliation and wasted carbon dioxide if not to INFO stalk her first?

3.) Photograph

Perhaps 100% of Eharmony users are indeed body-builders and marathon runners. However, if you, like me, are a skeptic and find yourself doubting the legitimacy of that person’s profile pic, doubt no more. Not only are the photographs on INFO not photo-shopped or cut and pasted, they are taken in the not-so-stylistic-high-point of one’s life. AKA: freshman year. And just in case you still distrust that INFO picture, rest assured that Ms. Sandy can verify its authenticity.

I wish you the best, my Ouachitonian friend, in all of your dating and mating. If you find yourself spring semester, still unhitched, don’t blame me or Ouachita. We did the best we could to help you find that special someone.

**The inspiration for today's post came from the one, the only, the Adam 'A-Hud' Hudson. (Be sure to ask him for a personal testimony about how INFO has changed the course of his life.)

#30: aquatic friends

There are only two places in this world where Speedos are appropriate: Sweden and OBU swim meets.

Sure, some may say “hey, wow, that small piece of spandex you’re wearing screams ‘TMI!’” But such people have obviously not experienced the aerodynamic efficiency that said piece of swimwear provides. And not only that, it is highly preferable attire at outdoor sporting events. Who wants those awkward shirt and shorts tan lines?

A variety of adjectives (occasionally with more than four letters) may be uttered when the subject of our aquatic friends at OBU comes up in conversation. Some may complain about the exclusiveness that said group often adheres to. Others may be frustrated about their dining location in the caf (whatever, we didn’t want to sit there anyway). And others may simply be intimidated by their confidence in rocking minimal clothing.

Yet, let’s be honest, any hard feelings we Ouachitonians may feel towards our dearly beloved Tigersharks are only motivated by one thing: jealousy. That being said, I think that we must bond together to overcome this breaking of the 10^th commandment together. The only way to avoid being totes jel of one’s neighbor is by making said neighbor your friend.

So, here are some great strategies for becoming besties with the OBU Tigersharks…

mission: BEFRIEND A SWIMMER

1. feign a near-drowning:

This plan involves both acting and swimming abilities. Be timely. Make sure you attempt this during the regular hours of swim team practice, lest your Oscar-worthy performance be all in vain. You have two options: A. The “Oh I was just casually strolling by the water’s edge when I stubbed my toe and fell in” plan and B. The “I was swimming laps when, out of the blue, I suddenly went belly-up like a betta fish” plan. A Tigershark will have dived in that pool and swum to your rescue faster than you can hum the JAWS theme. And everyone knows that saving someone’s life equals lifelong friendship.

CAUTION: If you do not have the level of swimming proficiency necessary to put this plan into action, please divert to one of the other options, lest your attempt at faking your drowning result in your actual drowning. (The OBU Tigersharks are not liable for any deaths that may occur in efforts to befriend them).

2. maintain a daily caloric intake of 20,000+:

You will not be able to avoid bumping into a Tigershark as you both return for the 10^th time to the mainline. You’ll chat, bond, and plan a rendezvous for maximum bonding at one of Arkadoo’s all-you-can-eat buffets. Friendship is sure to ensue.

CAUTION: A diet of this proportion may necessitate your spending hours each day in vigorous exercise.

3. try a new hairstyle:

Boys, you know you’ve always wanted a Mohawk. Not only will said hairstyle land you on the path to being chummy with the swimteam, but you will also blend in at all local gatherings of both the KKK and British punk bands. Win-win.

For the girls, rock the sopping-wet bun. They won’t even know you’re not one of them.

4. Eat breakfast at 5:00am

The Tigersharks will not be able to ignore your heart-breaking loneliness as you dine morning after morning in the caf alone. If you don’t have a table invite in no time I will lose my faith in mankind. (However, if they do, by some chance, fail to notice you, try wearing an ankle-length rainjacket. By the time they realize you’re not actually a part of the team, you’ll have already won your place in their hearts).

5. when thinking life-science lab partner, choose a Tigershark:

Nothing says fellowship like making a baby potato head together.

Dear swimming Ouachitonian, if you are reading this, know that we long for your companionship, to understand where you’re coming from, to embrace diversity and tolerance through unity with YOU, our fellow Ouachitonian. I’ll leave you with a twist on the poetry of one wise mermaid—your comrade, if you will. Consider it an insight into all of our hearts:

When's it your turn?
Wouldn't you love, love to explore that world up above?
Out of the sea
Wish you could be
Part of our world.

**The idea for today's post was submitted by Amanda Seeley!

#29: Chehpel

Going to Chapel every Tuesday is like eating one of Bernie Bott’s Every Flavored Beans.

One day, after a few good choruses of “See God’s Light,” you may plop down in Row C, seat 107, to happily discover that today, Tony Campolo is speaking. Today, you picked a chocolate mousse bean.

Another day, you are slightly surprised. You don’t know what to think about the fact that there is currently a mime on stage, and said mime has replaced his invisible-box routine with the entire book of Hebrews. Today is a Marzipan day. Not bad, just not quite what you expected.

And then of course, there are those Tuesday mornings when you realize that today you lost your game of Chapel-Roulette. You should have used that chapel skip rather than saving it for flu season. And you find yourself repeating the famous words of Albus Dumbledore, “Alas, earwax.”

Due to the Forrest Gump, life-is-like-a-box-of-chocolates nature of Tuesday mornings at 10:00AM, many students have discovered means for combatting those earwax-flavor days. For, as every college student knows, nothing is more fatal than Boredom. And “listening to people older than us talk” and “Boredom” go together like Richard Simmons and inappropriate use of the unitard. I mean, how can anyone who doesn’t have a facebook possibly have anything worthwhile to say? I bet they can’t even spell the word relevance, let alone #hashtagit.

Visitors to Chapel may be flabbergasted to discover that Ouachita students regularly use Chapel as study hall. And sure, to those unenlightened outsiders, this practice may seem disrespectful. But how are they to know that home-working during the message is a long-standing Ouachita tradition? And not only that, it is a serious attempt at self-preservation lest the style of a speaker not measure up to our I’d-rather-just-listen-to-a-podcast tastes. Who, may I ask, would be liable in the case of a campus-wide epidemic of death by Boredom?

I, for one, am grateful for the way Ouachita Chapel has taught me how to cope with unentertaining situations. Heaven knows I’ll often be bombarded with them in the real world. Committee gatherings, seminars, board-room meetings, conventions? I'm confident that life after the bubble will involve circumstances that wreak havoc on my ADD, rendering my attention span comparable to that of a goldfish.

In fact, I have already started applying these coping methods to situations in my dad-to-day life. I now carry my IPod and Life Science text book on my person at all times.

Just the other Sunday, I showed up at church to discover we would be reading out of Deuteronomy that morning. I managed to don my headphones and whip out my Cellular Respiration notes before the pastor could say “thou shall not.” Maybe he was offended. I’m not really sure. I was too busy bobbing to the beats of Katy Perry to notice.

Next week I am supposed to go to this thing where the Pope like gives an address and stuff to a bunch of people. I’ve heard he’s pretty longwinded. Good thing I have an iphone. And unlimited texting.

#27: hypochondria

As an impoverished college student, I am hesitant to spend money on frivolous things like insurance or flu shots or doctor’s visits.

So what if my whole left arm has been purple for three days? It probably just needs circulation, nothing a few games of ultimate Frisbee can’t fix. And so what if I’m running 106 °F and the substance I’m currently blowing out of my nose looks radioactive? Nothing a little RnR and OJ won’t purge from the system in no time. I mean, do you know how many taco bell runs and pumpkin spice lattes could be funded for the same price as the co-pay on one trip to the doctor? The ratio is dizzying, my friend.

So understandably, I find it inconvenient when monthly (weekly?) I am confronted with a notice of my impending death. Such warnings come in the electronic medium of Kluck. Medical. Emails.

The signs started appearing September of freshman year when I first opened my Tigermail Inbox to find that Holy Cow! I had Measles/Mumps/Rubella! That kindergarten booster I endured back in the day was obviously faulty, because not only did I have fever, general malaise, sneezing, AND nasal congestion, but I had been fightin’ off a brassy cough for weeks! Sure, I could chock it up to the mold growing in my Francis Crawford AC unit, but that would just be pathetic disregard of the facts which were so blatantly staring me in the face, denial at its very finest.

And come October, I was taken aback to discover that the shortness of breath I was feeling when climbing the ESC stairs was not in fact due to too many boxes of Chik Filet waffle fries but instead, a nasty case of Sickle Cell Anemia. The signs were simply unignorable.

Since freshman year I have been dismayed month after month to learn that, not only do I have Lassa Fever, Ebola, Trichinosis, Prostate Cancer, HIV/AIDS, and three different kinds of Meningitis, but darn it, I’m pretty sure I have a rather persistent strain of SARS. (I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that civet cat kebab on our family vacation to Chongqing. Curses.)

Besides the stress it has caused my family, the most inconvenient part about this whole diagnostic process is the way it greatly conflicts with my college student search-under-seat-cushions-for-quarters-for-the-McValue-menu lifestyle. I mean, if you thought pediatricians were expensive, you would never believe the dolares one can charge when one holds the title “specialist.” And I regret to tell you that some of these diseases go beyond the scope of expertise of local physicians. I challenge you to find a doctor here in Arkansas who can confidently confirm your case of Guinea Worm Disease.

Dear Dr. Kluck, as much as I appreciate not only your concern for our physical well-being but also for our medical education, it has to stop. I just can’t take it anymore. And neither can my grandmother. After your December installment alerted me to her Coronary Artery Disease, I’m worried that her poor heart can’t take one more blow. And unfortunately, I have a growing suspicion that I have the bubonic plague. I’d just rather not know if this is true. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. And I think in the case of both me and Grandma, a strong dose of ignorance is just what the doctor ordered.

#26: having unspoken (but never to be broken) rules of modesty

As a senior in high school, scrambling through that giant pile of college advertisements, my list of "things I look for in a university" had to get super specific. I mean, if I was going to be feeding my kids soup for the next 20 years until I finally gave those student loans the boot, I wanted it to be for the sake of a worthwhile educational cause. So, I started getting choosy, thinking about what really mattered in a college. I even developed a system for sorting pamphlets into the "heck no techno," "hmmm...probably not, but I'll dangle that admissions counselor by a thread a little longer," and "yeah, I think you could make all my varsity dreams come true, so I'll definitely give you a shout out this Wednesday at prayer meeting when peeps ask me where I'm thinking about going" piles.

Some colleges made it into the final rounds of the decision making process, only missing my tuition check by a few yards. John Brown, had you not roomed me in an "we-secretly-have-Mennonite-sympathies" suite during your version of SCOPE/GROW, you might have been the one. And Hardin-Simmons, you almost had me with that free CD; it's not your fault you had to go and locate yourself in (excuse me as I spit) Texas. U of A, you were definitely in a close second; if only you had appreciated my papier-mache volcano project as much as you did that Japanese-Indian-Korean-Pakistani-American kid's independent cancer research and given me that Fellowship instead, we could have had a beautiful life together.

Other universities were a no-brainer, their fliers going straight from the envelope to the shredder. Wellesley Private Women's College, thanks for the invite, but you just didn't comply with my stay-at-home-mom fall-back plans. Yale, it was fun going on that emotional roller coaster with you, but some acceptance rate statistics would have been nice along with the bumper sticker, personal interview, and 2007-2008 handbook you mailed me. And Liberty, ooohhh, Liberty. You had me for a split second with that colorful add frequenting the pages of WORLD magazine. Your mission statement and scholarship options were pretty legit. You just made one slip up: you included a picture. Yeah, sure, the girl standing on the steps of your chapel was really pretty, and some might have been fooled by her super relevant t-shirt complete with ambiguous slogan and tree graphic, but I was cunning. I knew what to look for, and my scrutinizing eyes could not miss the blaring statement sent by that floor-length khaki skirt...DRESS CODE! You went straight to the "heck no techno" pile, Liberty, faster than I could flip channels from 700 Club to MTV Cribs. Yes, yes, I know. I did ask for a Christian liberal arts education, but I had no intention of getting doc martins, an IMB logo-polo, and a head prayer-shawl in the mix. Better luck next time.

So, after months of googling, GROW-ing, alumni-facebook-stalking, essay writing, campus-visiting, and the occasional session of spontaneous weeping, I finally decided that Ouachita was it. With my down-payment on its way to Arkadelphia, I took comfort in knowing that I had made the right decision. I had been told that, in fact, Jesus went to OBU. And "by golly," I thought, "if it's good enough for Him, surely it's good enough for me."

Naturally, I struggled to suppress my shock when I arrived on campus to discover that, in spite of boasting to be as good as Liberty except "like not fundamentalist and stuff," Ouachita did indeed have its own set of clothing do's and don'ts. Sure, you might not find them printed in the Tiger Handbook, but you would find them engraved somewhere else: on the hearts and minds of Ouachitonians.

Perhaps that spaghetti strap and jeggings combo I rocked last week wouldn't land me in Keldon Henley's office, but it would merit me a concerned spot on the Wednesday night prayer line-up, if not by name, under the not-so-unspoken heading of "those girls." You know "those girls:" "those girls who have not yet had the 'being-sensitive-to-the-struggles-of-their-brothers-in-Christ' revelation." We need to really keep "those girls" on our hearts. Perhaps, if worst comes to worst (i.e. leggings as pants or heaven forbid, something strapless!) the situation may call for a little loving dose of confronting via a friend, an anonymous 'girl-don't-you-know-that-outfit-is-only-suited-for-street-corners' note, or better yet, a passive aggressive blogpost. :)

Freedom, grace, no longer being a slave to sin? These are all grand concepts, and Ouachitonians like to help keep them happenin' through intensely specific social conventions. Though at first I was wary of the subtle clothing regulations, I have come to realize their benefits. I mean, it is nice to be able to sleep soundly at night knowing my righteousness is still intact. Not to mention that it majorly cuts down on the number of quail that I have donate for my personal atonement every spring. (I especially appreciate this latter repercussion around tax time. I can never figure out if temple sacrifices are deductible!) Said conventions also sure do make all those passage about sexuality and adultery and stuff a lot more comfortable to sit through in Sunday School when I know that I am guilt free thanks to extreme personal discipline, the gouging out of one of my eyes, and the commitment of my brothers to gloves, turtlenecks and MC hammer pants.

I only have one suggestion I would like to submit for Ouachita Dress Code consideration. I feel that my addition would be immensely helpful in our striving toward modest-is-hottest communal living. Two words: Invisibility Cloaks. In fact, why not just replace all previously unspoken rules with just this one? We could rid ourselves of a lot of ambiguity by simply investing in a campus-wide set. We're already giving incoming freshman beanies these days. So why not throw a little 100%-purity guarantee into the mix, Harry Potter style?