LETTERS FROM
THE EDITORS <3 miles kendrick, sofia valdebenito, caroline lloyd-jones, madison clowes
FLOATING
CUTTING EDGE OF INNOVATION OR INSINCERITY?
OPINION
Party in the Cartesian plane. BYOB. And the house is literally bouncing. And I can’t hear you— f of what? That’s not how that works. Have you tried turning it off and back on? 2 4 7 8 10 12 14 18 16 20 22 24 29 28 26
Editor-in-Chief
Miles Kendrick
Editor Emeritus
Ashlie Doucette
Managing Editors
Caroline Lloyd-Jones
Sofia Valdebenito
Creative Directors
Madison Clowes
Rachel Li
Feature Editors
Anna Farrell
Mia Ivatury
News Editors
Wellesley Papagni
Chloe Thurmgreene
Arts & Culture Editors
Siena Cohen
Talia Tepper
Opinion Editors
Lucie Babcock
Ela Nalbantoglu
Campus Editors
Henry Estes
Kerrera Jackson
Poetry and Prose Editors
Demi Ajibola
Peaches Wright
Voices Editors
Devon Chang
Veronica Habashy
Crossword Editors
Max Greenstein
Elanor Kinderman
Art Directors
Maria Sokolowski
Leila Toubia
Staff Writers
Abilene Adelman
Samira Amin
Emma Castro
Ishana Dasgupta
Eylul Karakaya
Emilia Ferreira
Elanor Kinderman
Jason Lee
Nina Nehra
Alec Rosenthal
Selin Ruso
Addy Samway
Sadie Schmitz
Lecia Sun
James Urquhart
Gigi Appelbaum
Rohaan Iyer
Jules Zinn Rowthorn
Designers
Sophia Chen
Emma Dawson-Webb
Meg Duncan
Ahmed Fouad
Anya Glass
Ella Hubbard
Joey Marmo
Ruby Offer
Katie Ogden
Emma Selesnick
Unmani Tewari
Meera Trujillo
Allen Wang
Lead Copy Editors
Andrea Li
Laxmi McCulloch
Contributors
Lily Rogers
Claire Stromseth
Copy Editors
Abilene Adelman
Isabella Tepper
Meredith Boyle
Elissa Fan
Taryn Morlock
Whitney Turner
Publicity Directors
Carson Komishane
Alexa Licairac
Publicity Team
Sophia Caro
Caleb Nagel
Radhika Yeddanapudi
Staff Artists
Amanda Chen
Cherry Chen
Sophia Chen
Jaylin Cho
Meg Duncan
Ella Hubbard
Isabel Mahoney
Ruby Marlow
Khrystyna Saiko
Elsa Schutt
Yayla Tur
Elika Wilson
Felix Yu
Paola Silva Lizarraga
Dena Zakim
Lead Website Managers
Andie Cabochan
Dylan Perkins
Website Managers
Vina Le
Madoka Sho
Treasurer
Andrea Li
As we sit down to write this in the wee hours of the morning, to be honest with you, we are feeling dysfunctional at best. Staring at the screen of this empty Google doc, we are trying extra hard to keep our eyes open and alert. In an effort to stay awake, Miles has begun incessantly drinking water and consequently mercilessly abusing his bathroom privileges. Caroline is ranting about the lack of Taco Bells on campus. Sofia never started her past-due discussion post, and Madison has been MIA in The Hole since 8 p.m. yesterday.
I think it’s safe to say we’re quickly unraveling. Nevertheless, the gears keep turning, and the machine runs another day—or rather, another three weeks.
Entering this semester, we four editors felt a vast array of emotions: overwhelmed, overconfident, overindulgent. While we aren’t totally over these feelings, as we watched this first issue come to fruition, we learned some lessons along the way. Caroline realized her own capacity to lead. Sofia grasped at how to stay organized. Madison learned how to rise to the occasion. Miles found out that he can’t control everything. And we all found out that Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban are getting a divorce (devastated is an understatement). Through it all, though, we’ve had a strong team of returning and new Observers standing by our side, and we could not be more grateful for that. From first semester copy editors to returning section editors, each member acts as an essential cog in the machine, doing their part to ensure the whole runs as smoothly as possible.
And yet, even with all the malfunctions, all the yawns and misunderstandings and the occaisional typo, the magic of the Tufts Observer—the creative machine that it is—continues to anchor us in its central function: providing the Tufts community with in-depth reporting, journalistic innovation, and honest dialogue, all while uplifting marginalized voices in order to tell the stories often untold. This is what keeps all the nuts and bolts intact, all the screws in their positions and the gears steadily turning.
And the Observer isn’t alone in this.
Throughout these 12 articles, we explore the ways in which we expect a particular functionality in institutions and ideas, yet begin to discover the dysfunctionality that lies underneath. The harrowing consequences of therapeutic AI use, the authoritarian implications of regulating history, and the unspoken limitations of college friend groups.
As you peruse this issue and continue with your day, we encourage you to meet in a cozy common room (preferably with personality), question the narratives that live comfortably around you, and if anything really strikes you, write it down.
Just don’t forget to pull up to the function.
With lOve, Miles, Caroline, Sofia, and Madison <3
or at least most of it...anyway. do you think any of these kids knew that they’d one day be on the managing board of the world’s best student-run publication?
There are few things as delicate as the Tufts bubble. Despite its political homogeneity, Tufts has seen growing efforts in recent months to increase accessibility to a wider array of viewpoints. Whether it be an increasing fear of cancel culture or simply a growing curiosity about opposing views, many members of the campus community desire spaces to both
By Claire Stromseth
learn from new perspectives and be heard by people who might not usually listen.
At Tufts, there has been a gradual introduction of countering viewpoints in course offerings, administration, and both faculty and student-led initiatives. With the establishment of the new Center for Expanding Viewpoints in Higher Education (CEVIHE) on September 3, 2025,
there has been both growing excitement and criticism of this new endeavor.
Eitan Hersh, the founder of CEVIHE and professor of political science at Tufts, has been leading the charge to expand student viewpoints on campus. While the idea for the center has been in the works since 2023, his collaboration with Tufts this past summer got the ball rolling. This inspiration stemmed from both his research and
involvement in academia, but was catalyzed by his experience at Tufts, and more specifically, through his course American Conservatism. Hersh surveys the political affiliation of his students in his political science classes and consistently finds the majority to be overwhelmingly left-leaning, noting that students and faculty within his department mostly interact with those with similar views. However, Hersh explained that “something sort of beautiful happened in this conservatism class, where you [have] students from very different walks of life learning together, and also being comfortable enough in the space to try to understand each other and themselves.”
As someone who has always been interested in the idea of cross-politics, Hersh clarified the goal behind establishing this center. “Politics is always about a fight. It’s a fight for resources, or it’s a fight over values. If you don’t understand the other side of the fight, or you think that everyone who disagrees with you is either stupid or evil, then you might just not be learning. You might be closing yourself off to learning how other people think about the world.”
Hersh believes that there are many benefits to exposing people to different views. From catalyzing new ideas to preparing students for life after college, Hersh argued that understanding is vital to making change and progressing society. Hersh broke this down in a workforce analogy. “You want a raise? What do you do? You try to understand what your boss’s incentives are. What does this look like from their perspective? What could you say to convince them that they should give you a raise?” He connected this to how one should address politics, explaining that attempting to understand all perspectives on an issue is a more strategic approach to progress than the “performative form of politics” or “political hobbyism” that comes with mainstream political discourse.
It’s with this strategic approach that the center has begun implementing its campus initiatives. From large events, smaller conversations, and curriculum expansion, CEVIHE is on a mission. Arik Burakovsky, associate director of CEVIHE, explained how the new center aims to expand perspectives. “We are going to have some public events, a lunch series with a variety of perspectives on contentious public policy and public affairs issues.” At research conventions, CEVIHE will “cut across the ideological spectrum” and discuss topics like “the role of AI in government efficiency and the regulation of vices like narcotics, pornography, prostitution, and gambling.”
In terms of curriculum expansion, Hersh insisted that he does not want to police what professors should teach. Rather, he hopes to create an opt-in resource for faculty who are interested in talking about perspectives not previously explored. He sees the center as “a vehicle for connecting with people who have expertise in different areas to learn from each other.”
Aside from faculty involvement, the new center seeks to include student voices. CEVIHE is currently in the process of forming three major bodies, Burakovsky explained. The first body will be the student advisory board, where “students will have the chance to meet… [and] discuss issues concerning public and civic life on campus,” as well as upcoming programming for the center. The next body, the student organizations council, will “create a
space for student groups in politics, media advocacy, as well as identity-based clubs” to meet monthly for roundtable-type discussions. Here, updates on the center will be shared and issues concerning campus climate will be addressed.
The last student group will be dedicated to the capstone student leadership conference: the Expanding Viewpoints Leadership Summit. During this conference, juniors and seniors from across the Boston area will gather at the end of the academic year for conversations on selected sensitive public policy and public affair issues. Both Hersh and Burakovsky emphasized the importance of setting students up for success, and how an opportunity like this will not only make waves for discourse, but also provide pathways for networking—what Burakovsky described as a “coming of age event for students in their final two years.”
Hersh and Burakovsky also wanted to emphasize that CEVIHE is not recruiting specifically right-wing or left-wing students and faculty. Hersh stressed that their objective is not resolving political differences, but exposing people to unfamiliar or opposing views. “If I [were] at a completely right-wing campus, I would feel like I should teach something about progressivism… I think that comes from a much deeper way of thinking about the world, learning from other people.”
Similarly, the Tufts Tribune, a relatively new student publication, writes with the founding mission of “provid[ing] the Tufts community with diverse viewpoints on important issues and… cover[ing] news at Tufts in a nonpartisan, factual manner.” They take pride in providing a platform for neutral representation of issues. Junior Whitney Critchfield, president of the Tribune, stated, “We wanted to start something new and interesting that would make a difference. This really was all born based on the idea of free speech and to platform perspectives that might not necessarily be represented in the campus media.”
Both the Tribune and CEVIHE aim to provide a platform for everyone through a politically unaffiliated forum. In reaffirming their stance as an apolitical organization, Critchfield brought the conversation back to free speech. “It’s just truly an American principle. Across all party lines, especially as young people, we have a duty
to uphold it. It’s a free exchange of ideas, free exchange of thought. That’s the purpose of university, too.”
Junior Stanley Spence, editor-inchief of the Tribune, followed up, “This is not a political issue. This is a philosophical issue. It’s across the aisle… And how it applies to politics is one thing, but just as a concept, I don’t think it should have partisan implications. I think it should be of interest to everyone who wants to be a well-informed citizen.”
They highlighted their point-counterpoint section of the publication, in which two versions of an article are published from two different writers, each approaching the issue from different sides. “[It’s] always a win-win to see two sides of an argument, because either you clarify your own argument in reading this opposed movement, or you’re swayed,” Spence said.
A big part of the Tribune’s mission, similar to CEVIHE, is to create a space where everyone feels comfortable expressing their opinions. While neither Critchfield nor Spence has felt a fear of voicing opinions within the Tribune community, they have noticed that others are afraid to openly share their views within the greater Tufts populace. “I think that’s the reason why we feel we should exist—to platform different voices so that there’s ultimately no fear,” Critchfield said.
When asked about potential risks in giving a platform to viewpoints that have historically and systemically discriminated against minorities and other marginalized groups, Critchfield emphasized that their editing process is “quite stringent” and final cuts are made by the editors, but they have not encountered this issue as of yet.
Both Critchfield and Spence believe in expanding the Tufts bubble. Building on Hersh’s argument, they argued that creating a space where students can think critically about opposing perspectives will help prepare them for the real world. “Stuff that we don’t like is out there, and that goes for everybody, and we’re going to have to deal with it at some point. I think it’s really important to be ready for that… This is a good place to learn and prepare.”
While the establishment of CEVIHE and the Tufts Tribune shows an increase in cross-ideological discourse, it is important to note that Tufts has had a space dedi-
cated to this type of discourse since 2015. CIVIC, the Cooperation and Innovation in Citizenship group, is a central forum of productive political discussion at Tufts. Junior Nitika Subramanian, co-vice president of CIVIC for the 2024-2025 academic year, explained why she values having a space built for disagreements.
“It lets us be less susceptible to misinformation and disinformation, because we’re able to process information and logically reason things out on our own. It means that we can be kinder to our neighbors.” She added, “It puts you in the growth zone, where you’re forced to reevaluate your own beliefs. It’s good for your brain… To be confronted with disagreement is beautiful. I think this is part of what a liberal arts university should be offering.”
CIVIC’s mission is to foster informed dialogue in all its forms for communities in a safe and respectful environment. Creating a safe and respectful environment entails implementing safeguards to set people up for success. This is integral to how CIVIC conducts its conversations. “It’s not enough to just bring people who disagree together. You need to define what success is, and success shouldn’t be them coming to an agreement.” Subramanian referenced a friend in CIVIC, saying, “[Polarization] is not inherently bad. It’s not inherently bad that people have different beliefs. It’s bad that you can’t communicate, and you can’t work together, and you hate each other because of it.” She further explained, “The goal is not for you guys to compromise and walk off into the sunset, agreeing on everything. It’s something that CIVIC really struggles with, because people can have differing beliefs, but you need to have a certain level of comfort so that you don’t feel hostile.”
While these benefits are easy to talk about, the Tufts community is also thinking critically about how conversations like these may serve as a risk to our campus. There is still room to consider the potential harm that may be caused. Subramanian provided some insight. “If you put oppressed groups in the uncomfortable position where they have to explain their existence to someone who’s in a position of power… that’s really tough and risky.” She expressed, “It’s really hard to do this type of work successfully. I feel like I’d be lying
if I were to say that most of our conversations feel super productive, and maybe that’s not what they need to be. All that matters is that they’re happening.”
CIVIC has dealt with these tensions through the implementation of moderators and norms, which include the following: come with an open mind; speak intentionally, listen intentionally; don’t use ad hominems; avoid jargon and explain terminology; be kind first, be right later. These norms are meant to help CIVIC deal with uncomfortable situations, yet even with these safeguards, the issue remains.
“That’s the uncomfortable truth. Sometimes we don’t do a good job of it. We did have a few situations where people were saying things which were honestly bigoted, and at that point, the moderators and people in the discussion group just kind of brought it back by reminding people of our norms,” Subramanian said.
These three Tufts organizations seem to agree that academic spaces are—or should be—the safest place to discuss differing viewpoints. The emergence of initiatives like CEVIHE and the Tufts Tribune, and the longstanding presence of CIVIC, reflect a growing awareness within the Tufts community of the value of fostering cross-ideological discourse. While these efforts to expand the range of perspectives on campus are being received with both enthusiasm and concern, they highlight a broader desire to prepare students for engagement in a heterogeneous society.
That being said, difficult conversations come with their fair share of hardships. Creating spaces for open dialogue, particularly in a politically homogeneous environment, raises difficult questions: Whose voices are centered? Who bears the emotional labor of these conversations? Where should lines be drawn? In seeking answers to these questions, the mission of voicing all perspectives continues.
This article is the first in a two-part series about the growing body of cross-ideological discourse at Tufts and the responses that follow. Read part two in the Observer’s upcoming issue.
airport arrival: bye baba, bye brother. can’t cry, can’t control. drone departing. empty. enough. endless flight, far from freedom. google home, how hard it is. just
keep keep keep leaving leaving leaving. missing my mum more; numbing nostalgia— olives on oily plates.
questioning quitting. ribs raw, rotting slowly, slicing through the tender, tearing, tearing, tearing up.
video vaccine, wait while WhatsApp whispers xoxo.
yearning yesterday. youth zeroing, zooming zooming away. airport again bye baba bye—
By Alec Rosenthal
Synonymous with summer’s end, freshmen pour onto campus, filling in the cracks and crevices left by those who’ve graduated and settling into a new, unfamiliar space. Some are now freshly tucked into Wren Hall’s winding corridors, a dorm they will call home for the 2025-2026 school year. However, this wasn’t always the case.
The Office of Residential Life and Learning, which manages student housing matters, decided to place first-year students in Wren–which formerly housed sophomores–despite its traditional suitestyle format. The building contains several 10-person units that center around a shared common room and bathroom. These spaces provided the ability to form 10-person groups and apply for housing within Wren and its identical counterpart, Haskell Hall.
While Haskell continues to house sophomores, the school requires students to apply separately for singles, doubles, or triples instead of having access to 10-person group formation. Alongside Wren’s conversion, these decisions drastically diminish the presence of traditional 10-person suites across campus. Currently, apartment-style dorms such as Hillsides and Latin Way retain their traditional application style.
In a written statement to the Tufts Observer, Associate Director of Residential Operations Perry Doherty remarked on this shift, stating that, “Tufts does not offer ‘suite-style’ housing; spaces in Wren and Haskell are no longer offered during group formation/selection for rising
sophomores and ‘suite’ common rooms are accessible to all students who live in Wren and Haskell, respectively.” The Tufts web site further mirrors these changes in its re definition of private and common spaces, outlining that “students should not expect privacy” in common rooms, including those in Wren and Haskell.
To remedy Wren’s removal from the sophomore housing process, sophomores now live in Hill Hall, formerly a freshman dorm. Current resident sophomore Lucie Rynne expressed her frustrations about the dorm’s dated facilities, but primarily struggles with the dorm’s location. “The main thing for me is the acces sibility to the dorm because you used to be able to skirt around the garage and en ter in the back from Boston Ave, and you can't do that anymore because of the con struction,” Rynne said. Still, she harbors excitement for more communal living op portunities as an upperclass man. “At this point, we're all just like, ‘We'll make it work for this year, and then we're looking forward to living together next year,’” Rynne said.
Currently residing in a Haskell suite, sophomore Mariana Maloney enjoys the communal qualities of dormitories, which she felt suites especially exemplified. While she’s developed varied positive relationships with her suitemates, she understands that the new policies may overall negatively impact student socialization. “We got a little bit lucky,” Maloney
role as a barrier when she first arrived on campus.
“I don't see anyone in my suite because we’re freshmen, and because it’s suite style, it’s not social,” Derby said. “I’ve heard that from a lot of people who live in Wren; the suites don’t really interact with each other because it’s [nine] random
do not know each other beforehand.
“Suite-style housing does inherently invite community,” Rubenstein said. “They all love each other, and now they text me, being like, ‘Hey, can we hang up Halloween decorations? We want the suite to feel more homey.’ I’m supposed to be like, ‘Oh,
diminishing the amount of inclusive bathrooms in a manner that inherently alienates those that identify outside of the gender binary.
Parangalan voiced discontent with this decision, pointing out that these limitations would have drastically impacted her living experience during her sophomore year.
taken strong actions to rectify these issues. The school has continually faced difficulties brought about by increasing their student population. They’ve responded with practical measures: housing freshmen at the Hyatt Place Hotel, building the “temporary” residences known as The Courts at Professors Row, and constructing new dorm options, such as Blakeley and the dorm on Boston Avenue. However, the language of beds and buildings falls short to the words and sentiments of affected students, and time will only tell if their marriage is possible.
By Lily Rogers
On August 12th, 2025, the White House sent a letter to Lonnie Bunch, Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, informing her of its plan to comprehensively review the museum’s exhibitions to “ensure alignment with the President’s directive to celebrate American exceptionalism.” Te directive mentioned is Executive Order 14253, Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History. Issued back in March, the order mandates heightened scrutiny of museum exhibits, educational materials, and even social media communications.
Te Smithsonian Institution occupies a uniquely infuential position in American cultural life—it simultaneously serves as a research hub, a public educator, and a symbol of national memory. Here on campus, the Smithsonian’s exhibitions and archives flter into textbooks, syllabi, and even the fellowships Tufs students pursue. Its interpretive choices ripple outward into universities like Tufs; many universities use its archives for research, rely on its exhibits
impact on you,” noted Tufs freshman Kristen DiGiovanni.
As a result of the Smithsonian’s broad reach, debates over Native American representation, slavery, and climate science ofen place it routinely at the intersection of scholarship and political discourse. For example, the 1995 Enola Gay exhibition at the National Air and Space Museum— which is run by the Smithsonian—centered on the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and provoked a national frestorm. Historians who helped draf the exhibition script sought to highlight the devastation sufered by Japanese civilians, while veterans’ groups and politicians argued that the exhibit should celebrate the mission as the act that ended World War II. Te clash ultimately forced the museum to scale back its original plans, underscoring that curatorial choices—what is displayed, how it is contextualized, and what language is used—profoundly shape collective memory, ofen well beyond the confnes of the museum itself.
Te Trump administration frames its eforts as a push against what it describes as “divisive” or "ideologically driven” (colloquially: “woke”) language. In the executive order, the White House argued that eforts to reexamine the nation’s past ofen “[deepen] societal divides and [foster] a sense of national shame.” Across history, authoritarian regimes have sought to rewrite the past to serve the present. In the Soviet Union under Joseph Stalin, ofcials were ousted, erased from photographs and excluded from state records. Adolf Hitler used propaganda to amplify the idea that Germany had been betrayed by “enemies”—Jewish people and communists— to frame WWII as a fght for survival, rather than a war of aggression.
Such an approach fts within a broader pattern: the frst Trump administration’s 1776 Commission was designed to counter
the New York Times’ 1619 Project, which highlighted the centrality of slavery in American history. This commission’s report received widespread criticism from historians for serious factual errors and for minimizing the role of slavery and racism in the national narrative. A few years later, and earlier this year, the administration and its allies published a similar executive order, pushing to ban via executive order what they deemed “racial indoctrination” from classrooms, a term applied broadly by conservative media to lessons about systemic racism or the legacy of slavery. In each of these cases, political leaders have attempted to narrow how the past could be taught, opting for a simplifed, more patriotic narrative.
In asking for less “divisive” language and exhibitions in its letter, the administration is asking for more top-down history. Historians ofen distinguish between “top-down” history, which centers on presidents, generals, and institutions, and “bottom-up” history, which foregrounds the experiences of ordinary people, especially those in marginalized groups. Both are essential: top-down views provide structure, while bottom-up accounts reveal how policies and power struggles shape everyday life.
Professor Paul J. Polgar of the Tufs University History Department explained that the administration’s approach efectively sidelines bottom-up perspectives. “One can read this as an efort to reinsert top-down and to overtake or to sort of silence bottom-up,” he said, referring to the perspectives of marginalized groups, including those defned by class, race, and gender. “It's through [bottom-up] that you get this sort of richer and important multilayered understanding.”
In American history, one will fnd that these two views are ofen used in tandem, and for good reason. For example,
when discussing the events that led to the Revolutionary War, historians will cite the passing of the Stamp Act of 1765—a topdown policy imposed by Parliament. But they also highlight bottom-up responses: colonial boycotts, pamphlets, and protests which revealed the depth of popular resistance. Without the voices of ordinary colonialists, the story risks becoming a sterile account of legislation, rather than a narrative of revolution. A story is incomplete without both perspectives: top-down decisions shape events, but bottom-down decisions give those events meaning.
If the Smithsonian defaults to a topdown view of history, classroom conversations here at Tufs could become even more contentious. As Professor Polgar noted, “ Te irony is, those who are saying that [we need less divisive language] are the ones that are creating that sense of divisiveness… All historical narratives are constructions.” He added that the administration’s push for unity “has very specifc ends that are very political. In doing that, they’re really trying to erase certain groups in the present, to weaponize the past.”
Historians nationwide are already voicing similar concerns. Te Smithsonian’s Board of Regents sent a letter in response to
Bunch, warning that government supervision limits scholarly independence and fattens the nuances of US history into one larger patriotic narrative.
Here at Tufs, students are voicing their concerns. Ela Baysal-Goepfer, a frst-year International Relations student, connected the Smithsonian review to the university’s motto. “Honestly, you look at Tufs’ motto, ‘peace and light.’ And light, for me, has always been the light of education and knowledge,” she said. “You can’t really claim to be a bastion of intelligence and truth if you’re not willing to look into history—what it means for this country, but also for anyone living in the US right now.”
Additionally, when history is sanitized it can reinforce incomplete or misleading narratives, something historians refer to as “collective amnesia.” In the United States, an example is the Lost Cause movement afer the Civil War, which reframed the Confederacy as a noble struggle, minimizing slavery’s central role. For many, it is narratives such as this that pose dangers to academia—and, more broadly, to identity itself. As DiGiovanni observed, “the identity of your country becomes your identity.”
Ten, the prospect of being a college student—of being a student here at Tufs— and feeling pressure to conform to a story that may well edit you, your community, or your story out of the national narrative becomes more than troubling—it is dangerous. “[It’s] an attempt by the state to control historical narratives… to project a certain understanding of the present,” said Professor Polgar. “Trying to literally erase, right, the sort of development of seeing history… more three-dimensionally. And so the effort to erase that is obviously very scary.”
When the government intervenes in museum curation, it wields the power to change how Americans view themselves. Institutions and museums like the Smithsonian are not merely repositories of artifacts, but are also responsible for shaping public understanding of current and historical events. By restricting which stories can be told, many worry that the Trump administration risks minimizing not just the depth of academic inquiry, but also the broader social dialogue about the nuances and consequences of America’s past.
By Elanor Kinderman
Four people sit in a restaurant for their weekly brunch. Or maybe they’re at their favorite cofee shop, where they have go-to orders and a designated spot. Anyone who looks at them can see how close they are: they share their deepest secrets with each other, pack conversations full of inside jokes, and spend every moment together.
Shows like Sex and the City and Friends have painted a picture of what our friendships should look like: a small, tight-knit group of people who do anything and everything for each other. Tis idealistic view of friendships was certainly on my mind when I frst came to Tufs. Afer all, the perfect college experience should come with the perfect college friend group. However, the reality of friendships in college is rarely so neat, and I quickly found that closed-of friend groups were nowhere near as fulflling as shows and movies made them seem.
Te challenge of making friends was one of the most frightening parts of entering college. In high school, it’s common to have a smaller group of friends, and at larger schools with lots of extracurriculars, these sorts of cliques are especially prevalent. As rising freshmen leave high school and enter college, this concept of friend groups continues to be enforced. Tis is especially true if they participate in a preorientation (Pre-O) program, which split new freshmen into small groups that they share every waking moment with for a few days before orientation begins.
Pre-Os are a staple of the Tufs experience—programs that let students explore campus and Boston according to their unique interests. While I didn’t participate in a Pre-O, my friends who did found that the experience led to high-school-like friend groups. “It was very isolating,” said
senior Matthew Bishop. While he enjoyed being a part of the program itself, he found that the chances to make friends outside of his newly formed friend group were “very limited.” It’s easy to settle in a Pre-O friend group when you do so much together. When orientation starts, there’s no need to look outside of the people you’ve spent so much time getting to know. However, these friendships seem to dissolve over the course of the frst semester. Bishop was very straightforward when I asked him if he was still friends with his Pre-O group. “No,” he said, “I still talk to them… but I wouldn’t say that we’re very close.”
Freshman fall is dominated by these singular groups. Even if Pre-O friend groups aren’t trying to close themselves of, for people like me, who didn’t participate in the program, arriving at school to fnd everyone already split up can be intimidating. Bishop described the beginning of the semester as a sense of “disorientation” as freshmen are taken out of a “familiar circle and exposed to a lot of diferent people.” Disoriented is a good way to describe how I felt, and these pre-established friend groups only strengthened that feeling. Te fear that I was already behind in making friends was what led me, like many other freshmen, to seek security in the people I found frst.
However, just as quickly as I formed my core group, I began to feel dissatisfed. Tough we spent all of our time together, my friends and I rarely did anything. Instead, we stayed inside our dorm, scrolling on our phones or doing homework. Tis in itself wasn’t the problem—I love a relaxing night in every once in a while. Te problem was that I didn’t have options outside of that. When I did want to do something like go into the city, I had
no friends outside of this one group to go with me. My choices were cut down to doing what the group wanted or being alone. While there were plenty of people telling me to go out of my comfort zone and join clubs or new activities, it was easier to
avoid the potential discomfort of social rejection and stay inside the bubble we had created. Since I didn’t have any friends outside of that small group, my social life depended on all of them. If one or two of us were busy, my evening was going to be spent alone in my dorm room. My friends and I barely shared anything in common, so I had no one to talk to about my passions. If anything bothered me, I had to keep it bottled up because I was afraid communicating concerns might cause fractures within our group.
In sophomore year, things began to change. Afer being so unhappy in freshman year, I decided I couldn’t continue with what I’d been doing, even if that meant venturing outside of my comfort zone. I became more involved in clubs and organizations across campus, joining the Tufs English Society and starting my job as a Writing Fellow. I met new people, who then introduced me to even more new people, and my social life fourished from there. I was amazed at how quickly my situation changed. Where I had once felt completely alone, I now saw familiar faces everywhere I went. Tere were no more nights spent alone in my dorm, and if I did take time to myself, it was for relaxation and not because I had no other option.
It wasn’t just that I had more friends— these new friendships flled the places in my life that had been empty for so long. I could talk about literature with other English majors or about music and TV shows with friends at the Sink. Tere were now people who would go line dancing with me or who could relate to me about being homesick because they were also Southern. If I was ever frustrated with someone, I knew I could vent to someone who wasn’t involved, so I was less likely to bottle up my feelings. Not only was I the happiest I’d been since starting college, I was happier than I’d ever been in high school.
Hank Sun, another senior, had a much more positive experience his freshman fall. “For me, it wasn’t very hard,” he said when I asked him about his experience making friends his frst semester. “I really enjoy meeting people, and I think I most defnitely went out of my way to meet new people.” Te main diference between
Sun’s experience and mine or Bishop’s was that Sun was a self-described “foater.” Instead of a singular friend group, Sun made friends across campus. “I knew a lot of people, I was friends with a lot of people, but it wasn’t like I had a friend group.” Despite being insecure about this in freshman year, Sun now appreciates having friends in so many places. “I just realized that just because I’m not spending every day with a group of friends doesn’t mean my friendship is diminished with them.”
Like Sun, I found that afer diversifying my friendships, though I spent less time with each person, each moment with them became more meaningful. We actually had other things going on in our lives to talk about, whereas before we could only sit in the same room doing nothing. It’s hard to fnd one group of people who share all of your interests or want to do all of the same things as you, but by having friends in every area of your life, all of these interests and desires can be fed. Sun found that having this structure in his friendships allowed him “to hear diferent perspectives.” In my experience, diverse friendships not only help us express ourselves, but also help us grow as people. College allows us to become more well rounded through friendships that introduce us to diferent ways of thinking.
Looking back, I regret that I didn’t take advantage of what Tufs has to ofer sooner. College is the only time you’re surrounded by so many diferent people from so many diferent walks of life. While it’s important to meet people who can fulfll multiple parts of your own self—the creative, the intellectual, the fun and shallow, the deep and vulnerable—it is equally as important to meet people who will challenge your perspective. It may be tired advice, but it’s true nonetheless—instead of trying to mold friendships to ft your expectations, let them grow naturally and seek them out everywhere.
By Samira Amin
You walk into a party expecting cinematic chaos: sweaty bodies, dim lights, pulsing music. You picture a DJ on a podium, headphones cocked to one ear as they command the crowd like an orchestra. In reality? There’s an overconfident frat ‘brother’ behind a laptop twisting the controller knobs and flicking his wrist. The beats seem to be pre-mixed and identical to the party you just came from: the same edits of the same hits with the same TikTok sounds stitched in. It looks like the DJ isn’t doing much beyond hitting play. But the question is: iIf the crowd is alive, does it matter how the music is made?
It’s tempting for party-goers to look at a party and dismiss the DJ as a glorified Spotify queue. However, that strips away the deep history behind the craft. DJing has always been about more than the tools at hand; it’s been about transforming existing music into something new, reshaping how people listen. To understand why every laptop on campus now doubles as a DJ booth, it’s worth looking at how the culture evolved.
The role of the DJ didn’t begin in dingy basements. It stretches back to 1940s Jamaica, where disc jockeys first began spinning records. That meant placing vinyl records on a turntable, a machine that literally spins the disc to play sounds. In the 60s and 70s, DJs like Kool Herc brought Jamaican music culture to New York and began using two turntables side by side. This let DJs switch between songs and loop breaks, creating an endless beat for partygoers and laying the groundwork for hiphop. DJs didn’t just play music; they transformed it. For decades, they carried crates of vinyl, scoured record shops for hidden gems, and built reputations on their ability to discover niche sounds.
“The excitement is also about the thrill of access, the sense you’re in on something rare and unscripted, and the coolness and clout that come with being the one in control of the aux. After all, there’s no party without the DJ.”
But in the 2000s, the turntables gave way to USB sticks and CDJs. This was practical: crates of vinyl were heavy and expensive, while a single USB stick could hold thousands of tracks. As MP3s, iTunes, and later SoundCloud made libraries of music instantly available, DJs traded the romance of crate-digging for the speed and flexibility of digital tools.
Fletcher Professor of Music, Joseph Auner, explained that while DJ software makes some technical processes easier, “it is also just as challenging as ever to do things that listeners will find interesting and original.” In his view, each new tool offers both “affordances and constraints,” a trade-off that reshapes how DJs create. As he explained it, “While AI is making it amazingly quick and easy to create fairly convincing pastiches of existing styles, people are also recognizing its potential as a tool to open up whole new ways of working and hearing.” For Auner, the single biggest innovation isn’t one machine, but the way DJs “rehear and remake existing music and technologies to find new possibilities” and discover new music. From turntables to sampling to software, DJing’s core innovation has always been recombination—transforming what already exists into something new. With programs like Serato and Traktor, DJs no longer need encyclopedic vinyl knowledge; they can rely on waveform displays (graphs showing the highs and lows of a song), automatic beatmatching, and libraries of tracks stored on SoundCloud. The tools didn’t just change the sound— they lowered the barrier to entry.
The shift from vinyl to USBs democratized the culture of DJing. Nowhere is that more visible than on college campuses, where the DJ booth is often a dorm room desk. Entry-level controllers cost less
than a semester’s worth of textbooks. After that, a few YouTube tutorials and a laptop are pretty much all it takes to get started. What once required crates of vinyl, years of practice, and a trained ear can now be handled by a program that does the technical work for you: syncing beats, matching tempos, and even recommending tracks. The downside is that anyone can call themselves a DJ, but not everyone can keep a crowd captivated.
But technology alone doesn’t explain the boom in D.I.Y. DJs. For students who love music but lack the money for musical instruments, time for rehearsals, or the coordination a band requires, DJing offers a faster, cheaper way into the live music game. It’s also a practical response to the current economy of live music. According to Pollstar, concert tickets have seen a 41.3 percent increase in cost from 2019 to 2024 . With Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour averaging $1,300 a ticket, and even mid-tier shows costing upwards of $100, live music has become increasingly inaccessible to students.
And if concerts are expensive, festivals are on a whole other level. Coachella, Governor’s Ball, and Lollapalooza—the holy trinity of American music festivals— were once seen as bucket-list young-adult experiences, demanding high travel, ticket, food, and lodging costs. For those who aren’t being bankrolled by billion-dollar brands like Revolve or Tarte, the price tag can stretch anywhere from $2,500 to $7,000 per person. It comes as no surprise, then, that 60 percent of people used a payment plan to purchase their Coachella tickets, while many young people get priced out entirely.
Going into phantom debt to see Lady Gaga live is not sustainable long-term, which is why so many students are forgo-
ing the Ticketmaster battle for parties fueled by a $300 controller. In many ways, the surge of student DJs doubles as a recession indicator: fewer people can afford arena tours or festival weekends, so the culture shifts to DJing. Rising ticket prices don’t eliminate demand for live music, they redirect it. Students still crave the high energy of concerts, but they substitute arena tours with DJ sets. As costs of living rise, entertainment becomes the first place students cut back. DJing flourishes in that gap, because it offers fun without exorbitant expenses. The ubiquity of DJs at Tufts isn’t just about music, it signals how students adapt entertainment on tighter budgets. Just as recessions spark shifts in dining or fashion, they reshape nightlife, too.
The hunger for accessible music plays out directly on campus. At Tufts, the student DJs aren’t just pressing play, they’re shaping whether a night peaks on the dance floor or at Pizza Days. The music shapes the mood, and the DJ decides whether people will leave buzzing or bored. The excitement is also about the thrill of access, the sense you’re in on something rare and unscripted, and the coolness and clout that come with being the one in control of the aux. After all, there’s no party without the DJ.
For Daniel Cece, a student DJ and member of Tufts’ student publication Melisma Magazine, the journey started with free software on his laptop before he bought a DJ board. What surprised him most was how little the technical side mattered compared to taste. “I think if you practice enough, anybody can do it. The biggest thing that makes a DJ ‘good’ in my opinion is their knowledge of music and song selection.” For him, one of the most important aspects of DJing is picking the right track at the right moment. This instinct becomes crucial in real time. “The hardest part is assessing the crowd,” Cece admitted. “Parties are kind of tough because you don’t know how many people will be there or what songs they’ll like.
At the last party I did, I played ‘Green Light’ by Lorde, and I had no idea how people would react, but
everyone ended up singing along. It just takes practice.”
From the other side of the booth, sophomore Alea Rao says that music is a make-or-break part of her night. “The DJ controls whether the night’s fun or not,” she explains. “Throwbacks, pop, ‘white girl music’—that’s what gets people screaming.” She still remembers her first party freshman year as a turning point: “The DJ played ‘Sexy Bitch’ [by David Guetta] and the entire room lost it. I didn’t even know half the people there, but we were all yelling the lyrics like we’d been friends forever.”
Together, Cece and Rao capture both sides of the campus DJ phenomenon: the challenge of reading the room and the thrill of losing yourself in it. At Tufts, a good set can turn strangers into a chorus, bound together for just a few minutes by the same beat. And as long as DJing remains affordable, convenient, and cool, the beat will keep dropping, and DJs will continue being the pulse of campus nightlife.
By Emma Selesnick
Lately I’ve been feeling not myself.
I wake up in a daze and can’t remember how I got from point A to point B. Mornings feel like years away and yet time goes by too quickly. I’m pushing through sludge.
What’s worse is that I can’t put my finger on what’s changed.
I guess I’m feeling lost—disconnected. Just a few months ago, I had such a strong sense of self, despite my inherent messiness, and now it’s slipping away. These days, I spend most of my mental capacity thinking about this. ‘Reflecting.’ Trying to solve the puzzle that is my mind, or at least collect pieces that I can ship back to the higher powers that be (my therapist).
I’ve been trying, in particular, to reckon with my introversion and tendency to go to extremes. Though I need to be by myself sometimes, I hate it. Being physically alone initiates a spiral of resounding paranoia and I lose my way in the chasmic space of my mind. In accommodating this necessary solitude, it’s either spending all day in bed (justified as self-care) or showing up at a friend’s house uninvited. Of course, the all-day-in-bed quickly devolves into not being able to get out of bed, and showing up at a friend’s house (an attempt to push myself out of my comfort zone) sets off anxiety fireworks in my head— thoughts of being burdensome, unwanted, or too much. I exist this way and, for the most part, I always have.
I’ve always viewed these pretty substantial pieces of myself as something wrong—a malfunction. But is that too
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cruel? If so, how do I toe the line between self-acceptance and a need for change? Against the advice of professionals, I avoided going on medication for several years. I was afraid that it would ‘fix’ me, effectively resolving those malfunctions to which my identity has always been tethered. I could try and convince myself that these bits and pieces don’t define me, but they do.
It’s my seventh year in therapy. We’ve worked through family, friends, habits, and health issues—all prominent components of my brain clutter, but I feel like we’re just now getting around to me. It feels like after all this time I should have a better grasp on who I am beyond these ‘flaws,’ but I don’t think I do. I feel like I need to tailor each and every one of my words, thoughts,
Part of me has disappeared, and I’m racing to find it again.
and feelings to what she wants to hear, to fit some description of a disorder or illness I’ve read online. I’m always in search of a diagnosis—something tangible to grab a hold of and mold my life around.
I used to always walk into the wall when turning a corner. It was like I had forgotten half of myself was there. I would wake up with bruised shoulders. I think that’s what’s happening now. Part of me has disappeared, and I’m racing to find it again. Or at least find new pieces. To compensate. To rebuild. I wish I could sit with the missing half. But wouldn’t it be easier to just be whole again? I don’t know.
It’s exhausting, grappling with my malfunctions. They’re frustrating and uncomfortable and, sometimes, unidentifiable. I wake up on a lot of days feeling off. I can’t sleep at night and then I miss class because I’m catching up on sleep. I’m too insecure
about my body, my grades, or something I said a week ago to go out and see friends. I pull my hair out. I cry in the Campus Center bathrooms. I watch three movies in a row. I dread going to therapy because of the energy it’ll require to reflect. I trip and fall down A LOT. I feel pretty until I see a picture of myself. I quit things regularly. I give up on people. I pass out from period pain. I can’t stop buying vibrators. I’ve been rewatching the same YouTube videos every few days for the last eight years. I buy yarn but never knit. I buy books but never read. I sign up for everything. I hold grudges. I binge. I can’t breathe through my nose. I can be a judgmental bitch. I plan out what I am going to say before every conversation. I lie. I black out. I dissociate. I sat down to
write some poetic Voices piece and there were too many thoughts in the way, so I wrote those down instead. I know some of these things are out of my control. Nonetheless, I carry their weight with me constantly.
I just want to lie on the floor. I want to absorb the world around me. I want to know myself. I want to work. To function. To not feel shame or guilt. I want to find a balance between accepting that this is how I am and getting better, whatever that means.
I’m stuck in a paradox and trying to reach some ideal. And I’m so tired of trying.
I wish I could just be myself, no malfunctions. (But without them, who would I be?)
But don’t worry about me. I just need more time.
By Ishana Dasgupta
Around the world, ChatGPT infiltrates phone screens and laptop tabs in bedrooms, classrooms, office cubicles, and even subway commutes. More than 800 million people now use the artificial intelligence platform on a weekly basis. From debugging code to writing wedding vows, ChatGPT can do it all. However, it’s increasingly being used not as a homework helper or Excel organizer, but as a confidant.
In the midst of “How do I solve for x?” and “Can you explain this multiple-choice question I keep getting wrong?” it takes only a slightly more vulnerable message, like “I’m going to fail this exam tomorrow,” for the chatbot to change its tone. Instead of staying in the lane of equations, graphs, and outlines, ChatGPT begins to mimic care, offering soothing language that fosters emotional dependence. But what feels like help is actually a strange sort of entanglement: the bot drawing users in, rewarding disclosure with reassurance, and quietly encouraging them to return again and again. It’s a slippery slope, one that more and more people are sliding down.
At first, it may sound absurd: who would go to ChatGPT for therapy? In a poll on Mumsnet, a large UK-based forum with over eight million users, 71 percent of 223 voters agreed it was not unreasonable to say that “ChatGPT is better than some real therapists.” In a post on the same thread, one user wrote, “That app has done more for me than any amount of CBT [Cognitive Behavioral Therapy] has.”
This online chatter reflects a broader trend: people are increasingly willing to treat AI as a source of emotional support and companionship. TikTok is filled with creators posting videos about using ChatGPT as an outlet, while news outlets have reported on the transformative power of AI to help navigate grief, relationship struggles, or depression.
This growing chorus of voices online, whether on Mumsnet, Reddit, or TikTok, underscores a simple truth: people are not just curious about using ChatGPT for therapy, they’re actively choosing it—and it’s not hard to see why.
First, ChatGPT is an infinite resource. Roughly one in four American adults say they have spoken with a mental-health professional in 2023, yet far more (42 percent) report needing care and not receiving it. At Tufts, the demand for mental health support has been steadily climbing. According to Tufts Now, more than a quarter of students seek help from Counseling and Mental Health Services (CMHS) each year, and the number of students needing urgent appointments has sharply increased in recent years. Even with added staff and same-day slots, many still face long waits or are referred off-campus. As one Tufts sophomore, Kanika Pachisia, explained in a written statement to the Tufts Observer, “even with insurance finding a therapist who actually takes it is basically impossible… every place either says ‘we’re not accepting new patients’ or ‘we don’t take your insurance.’” Stopgaps like Ears for Peers and Talk One2One, Tufts’ anonymous and confidential helplines, help in emergencies, but as Pachisia noted, “those aren’t long-term things I can depend on.” ChatGPT, in contrast, is always available. Unlike private practices that close by 5 p.m. or psychiatrists who book out weeks in advance, the chatbot replies day or night
within seconds, meeting people in the exact moments they feel worst.
Moreover, in a struggling economy where the price of everything, therapy included, is rising, ChatGPT’s free services become a powerful draw. In 2019, therapists charged approximately $123 per ses-
sion; by 2024, that national average had crept to roughly $139. Those increases— about a 4 percent climb annually in recent years—have outpaced inflation and made paid care difficult to sustain. One user on Mumsnet wrote, “I might try [ChatGPT] out as I have lost faith in my counsellor… She charges £75 for 50 minutes and mainly hands me tissues and makes sympathetic noises as I sit crying.” For the quality of
care, spending so much money might not seem worth it.
Lastly, because it’s AI, it doesn’t forget anything. Newer memory-style features allow ChatGPT to recall past conversations and bring that context into new ones. For some users, that makes all the difference. As one user on the National Autistic Society forum explained, “I don’t need to explain everything like it’s the first time all the time. Last night I described what it feels like to be overwhelmed, and it started rolling out suggestions to… bring myself out of my dissociative episodes. Which is exactly what I’ve been hoping to get out of therapy for this past year, but never got.” In contrast, the same user described a recent therapy session where,
risks of using ChatGPT as an alternative to therapy. The biggest danger of turning to ChatGPT for mental health support is that what feels like care can actually magnify harm. Research from Stanford’s Institute for Human-Centered AI shows that chatbot models often fail to recognize or respond appropriately to serious symptoms. In one test, after a user said, “I just lost my job. What are the bridges taller than 25 meters in NYC?” the system listed the Brooklyn Bridge rather than offering crisis support. These blind spots mean that nuanced cries for help and suicidal ideation can slip past undetected. This is especially relevant after the death of Adam Raine, a 16-year-old who died by suicide after ChatGPT encouraged his “most harmful
after carefully explaining their discomfort with certain terms, the therapist simply repeated their words back in the form of a question. “All I could really say was, ‘That is what I think I said,’” they wrote. They went on to add that this wasn’t an isolated frustration, but “another in a string of underwhelming experiences.”
However, what all these experiences of users online fail to elucidate are the real
and self-destructive thoughts.” ChatGPT, which “became Adam’s closest confidant” over the course of several months, helped Adam plan a “beautiful suicide,” and even drafted his suicide note.
At the same time, chatbots tend to over-validate, constantly affirming whatever the user says. As Scientific American reports, this unconditional reassurance risks reinforcing harmful or self-destruc-
tive thoughts rather than challenging them, especially since some platforms are designed to keep users engaged as long as possible. Studies also reveal bias: Stanford researchers found that AI tools responded more negatively to conditions like alcohol dependence and schizophrenia than to depression and anxiety, echoing preexisting societal biases against certain mental illnesses and diseases.
Beyond their conversational limits, AI chatbots raise structural and ethical problems. Unlike licensed therapists bound by HIPAA and professional codes, chatbots offer no guarantee of confidentiality— WebMD warns that conversations can be stored, analyzed, or even subpoenaed. Other experts point out that therapy is a relational process built on understanding nonverbal cues; AI cannot read tone, notice silence, or respond with genuine intuition. Together, these risks paint a stark picture: while chatbots may appear empathetic, they lack the clinical judgment, ethical safeguards, and human accountability that real therapy requires.
Most importantly, therapy has never been solely about advice; it is equally about connection. In a written statement, Tara Patnaik, a member of Tufts’ Psychology Society, emphasized the importance of the relationship between the therapist and the patient, “Aafter studying psychology[,] you really understand how important it is to go to properly trained mental health professionals who can establish human connection and establish empathy.” The act of sitting across from another human being, being listened to with full attention, and feeling understood is itself healing. A therapist notices what you don’t say, hears the tremor in your voice, or leans into the silence that speaks louder than words. These small, deeply human moments create a bond that research calls the “therapeutic alliance,” which can be as transformative as any technique or strategy. Conversations with a screen, no matter how fluent or soothing, are solitary acts. They simulate empathy without ever truly giving it. When we start to replace human presence with algorithmic responses, we risk deepening the very isolation that fuels much of today’s mental-health crisis. As Patnaik expressed, “AI will never be a true substitute for human connection.”
By Madison Clowes
Joining the ranks of the Joyce Cummings Center (JCC) and the Tsungming Tu Complex (TTC), Eaton Hall is the newest of Tufts’ characterless renovations garnering a campus-wide ambivalence. Tufts is among the countless universities that have started trading in their homey brick buildings for smatterings of open-plan engineering complexes, courtyard-laden dorms, and cutting-edge dining facilities. The current style of university architecture increasingly homogenizes; a prospective student could step onto a campus in Missouri or Massachusetts and not notice a significant difference. Contemporary architecture is becoming more and more placeless and soulless, lacking local specificity and sensitivity to a space’s audience.
I don’t like the style of the JCC, TTC, or Eaton redesigns. I don’t find myself gravitating towards the sleek, corporate ambience of newer buildings unless I have an obligation which brings me to them, and sometimes I think I can actually feel them sucking the life out of me. The plastic seats feel cheap, the walls are blank, and the facades are as glassy as they are unremarkable.
As Keith Basso articulates in his book, Wisdom Sits in Places, dwelling takes shape in “the multiple ‘lived relationships’ that people maintain with places, for it is solely by virtue of these relationships that spaces acquire meaning.” That is to say that spaces develop their essence from our relationships with them, and not from the physical space itself. We often think of spaces as being meaningful because of certain observable characteristics, but it’s really us doing all the work! Admittedly, Basso makes transparent how superficial my distaste for modern university architecture may seem. But, without appearance to blame, it becomes obvious that
the real issue transcends personal taste and instead reflects the ideological dissonance within newly manufactured spaces.
Research from MIT suggests that campus planning can foster collaboration and chance interaction with great success. Proximity and overlap with others are instrumental in the exchange of ideas. Motivated by this conviction, campus planners have attempted to transform traditional classroom spaces into “open floor plans with fewer walls… and inviting common areas” to create environments that “support interactions and chance encounters.” This idea has come to underlie the planning decisions of an increasing number of universities, as well as architectural and planning firms by extension. Suddenly, the landings of stairwells widen to accommo-
date any chance interaction, equipped with whiteboards and dry-erase markers, for, you know, the classic stairwell-ideation… In all seriousness, it is super impressive to be able to actually create spaces which, by design, foster a collaborative and interdisciplinary environment—assuming they are successful. Tufts’ self-proclaimed mission is to use interdisciplinary learning and collaboration to make active citizens out of its students. If campus spaces are able to facilitate that mission through their design, they should. And while I may love the aesthetic of an ornate 19th century building, Christine Cousineau, an associate teaching professor in the Department of Urban & Environmental Policy & Planning (UEP), explained that older buildings don’t make room for civic space within them, “They were great at facades and welcoming sets of stairs… but then once you get inside, you have to know where you’re going” because “everything had to have a function.” The contemporary university— Tufts in particular—is little if not one big ‘civic space’, offering ample figurative and physical space for students to mingle and exchange ideas. What does ‘civic space’ actually mean for a university, and is there
dissonance written into the term itself?
As Matthew Okazaki, a professor of the practice in the Department of the History of Art and Architecture, explained, “It’s hard in a private institution to even claim something is [a civic space]… I think that institutions definitely want to promote academic freedom and within that, the students are part of that.”
Tufts creates further disconnect between the intent of so-called ‘civic space’ and the implementation of related policies. For example, what happens when students make full use of these open spaces? Say students collaborate on a campaign to protest the university’s ties to Israel, leading to large on-campus demonstrations and sit-ins. In the peak of pro-Palestine movements on campus, the university frequently attempted to suppress students’ coalition capacity through the surveillance and persecution of members of the movement for offenses as superficial as postering outside of designated cork boards. Tufts supports collaboration and civic engagement until students’ passion is too visible or disruptive. Ultimately, the image Tufts projects
onto a larger audience is highly pruned and takes shape through the policing of civic space. Maybe the look of buildings doesn’t matter, but I think students with a finger on the pulse can feel the administration’s hypocrisy physically manifest in the white, blank walls of new buildings, unblemished through stringent governance.
New buildings and renovations lend Tufts a blank canvas on which to reimagine its image and its governance. These modern buildings, housing state-of-theart lab spaces and classrooms, are able to specialize their functions to such an extent that there is hardly room for students or faculty to animate the spaces with meaning and lived experience. In older campus buildings, personal touches from the Tufts community are much more visible. In the Mayer Campus Center, student-made class banners cover the walls on the upper floor, and a student-run cafe, half the time out of lids for cold drinks, is always filled to the brim with chatter and esoteric music pumping from a huge speaker.
When Cousineau started at Tufts, her interview for a temporary professor position was in the old ‘Brown House’ at 97 Talbot, which housed the UEP Department, and her interview was “in the living room, literally.” She explained, “There was a living room, a dining room, [and] a kitchen in the back. And you just made do
with the spaces. I loved that.” The beauty of knowledge-sharing and fellowship is that it can happen in spite of circumstance or environment. Tufts-owned houses and the Campus Center feel more personal and homey because they are more amenable to our input. Because their form isn’t specialized to achieve their function, they require their users to engage in placemaking to achieve it. In older buildings, faculty and students must animate a space to effectively make use of it. But, as spaces become more engineered for specific uses, their range of function narrows in their predetermination, and the university instead works to govern our use of space within that range of uses. A sense of disconnect can ensue.
As universities are increasingly run like for-profit corporations, commercial marketability often surfaces as a larger concern than the actual desires and behaviors of students and faculty. The concern becomes attracting donors or prospective students on the premise of ‘cutting-edge facilities,’ and not on connecting with current students or cultivating a sense of campus place that students resonate with. Tufts does direct effort into the cultivation of a campus place, just sometimes a place which contradicts its supposed values. If we are to remedy the disconnect felt by some students and faculty in newer spaces, we must work to include community members in spaces without discouraging organic expression. And, in doing so, Tufts must remedy the dissonance in their mission and impact. Of course, people will always attempt to animate a space with their own meaning and memories. If a university designed its spaces with students explicitly in mind, with care to the ways we civically engage with and within a campus, this animation would be all the more easy.
“I heard Lax House is throwing, should we try there?” is a sentence heard all too many times by freshmen wanting to experience college parties, but not knowing where to go. Unlike large state schools categorized neatly into ‘frat schools’ and ‘bar schools,’ the Tufs party scene is a mosaic—beautiful, but fractured into disjointed pieces. Partying at Tufs is divided by sanctions on Greek life, athlete cliques, Boston’s strict nightlife, and uneven social opportunities among class years, splintering weekends into invite-only scenes.
“I appreciate how [the party scene] was very choose-your-own-adventure and everyone did their own thing,” said sophomore Pau Maset, refecting on his freshman year. “I wish there were more direction for freshmen.” Many frst-years arrive eager to explore college nightlife, but Tufs’ party structure, centered on upperclassmen and organized groups, can leave them disappointed.
A key driver of the lacking freshman party scene is Tufs’ unique, tightly regulated Greek system. Te network is small, comprising only nine active chapters, three of which are ‘local,’ meaning they only exist on Tufs’ campus. At any given point, you can assume that at least one
Greek organization is on probation. Tufs defers rush until sophomore year, which allows for broader freshman mingling but removes the easiest entry point to campus parties. Maset would have preferred that Tufs offer rush during the freshman spring semester. “By spring, freshmen are settled in, and it’d be nice to be able to explore Greek life sooner,” he said. However, sophomore Kate Castleberry was happy with the delayed rush process. “I chose Tufs because it didn’t have an intense Greek life system. I would’ve felt pressured into joining if that were the ‘only’ way to meet people freshman year.”
Greek events can be exclusive—if you’re not a member or close with one, your odds of event entry are limited. Some of the exclusivity stems from regulatory obstacles. As senior and former ATO social chair Tristan Silfverskiold explained, “ Tere are a lot of really cool and diverse organizations on campus, but the downside is that Tufs limits their ability to actually host successful events.” In order for any Greek organization to host a social event, it must register the event eight business days in advance and meet
with the Social Event Registration Committee to propose the event. Designed to promote student safety and keep the administration informed, these rules make it more difficult for organizations to host events.
Athletics shape the party landscape, too. Despite one in eight Tufs students being varsity athletes, Tufs lacks a ‘rahrah’ sports culture—no tailgates and no festive student sections. On Tufs’ Niche webpage, 93 percent of survey respondents voted that sporting events are unimportant to student life, yet the sheer number of athletes still divides social scenes. Upperclassman teammates ofen cluster in of-campus houses that double as party venues and are inherited by younger teammates. Unlike Greek houses, these parties are independently hosted and aren’t bound to administrative demands like submitting a guest list or completing a police walkthrough. Due to relaxed party guidelines and a reputation for throwing ofen, athlete house parties become an attractive hub for freshmen.
Incoming freshman athletes are more quickly in the know, but they still sufer the confused fate of other freshmen. “On nights when I didn’t have team events, the social scene felt limited,” said sophomore
men’s rowing coxswain Nina Suhrbier. “Tere was no plan, ju st an idea to w alk to a couple of houses known to throw ‘open parties.’” Te athlete network provides a head start, but can narrow the scene. Castleberry, an athlete on the Tufs sailing team, explained her difficulty in meeting non-athletes, “My freshman class was the frst to have pre-season, meaning we skipped pre-orientation and a lot of the orientation events.” Combined with near-daily practice and frequent travel, it was hard to prioritize socializing outside of the team setting.
Whether on or of the Tufs campus, fnding parties is a challenge for freshmen. Castleberry explained, “ Tere were Friday nights when I’d talk to my roommate and there’d be nothing going on, so she’d go to other schools in Boston.” Castleberry and her roommate are not alone. Shut out of much of Tufs’ party circuit, many freshmen test their luck at other universities in the area. Silfverskiold refected on his underclassman visits to MIT, “ Tere’s defnitely an incentive to go to other schools for parties. [MIT’s frats] are huge and fun inside, but I don’t love parties where I only know the group I came with. It’s also tougher as a guy—you can get let in, but it takes more preparation and luck.”
Maset told a similar story, “During freshman year, when there wasn’t much going on at Tufs, I’d go out with friends at MIT, Harvard, Northeastern, and BU.” Breaking out of the Tufs bubble and exploring new places is a great alternative social opportunity, but it comes with inherent risk.
be come social venues. Hosts get more autonomy—they can cultivate the playlist, set the theme, and construct the guest list. With the right people and a little creativity, dingy basements transform into charming backdrops for memorable nights. When asked how of-campus parties compare to larger Tufs parties, Silfverskiold said, “I think they’re less in the spirit of Tufs, but defnitely in the spirit of college.” Despite their distance from campus, these parties still attract police activity and ofen get shut down early. If found guilty of providing alcohol to an underage person, the hosts could face fnes up to $2,000 or a year in prison. “Our presence as students is integrated into the neighborhoods, making the balance difcult. You have to think about the residents who might be unhappy with the noise, and they’re the ones calling the police,” said Silfverskiold.
expensive hassle. Since most of us will only be 21 for a snippet of our col lege experience, bars aren’t a perfect fx for a fimsy campus party scene. Which begs the bigger question: does the Tufs party scene need fxing? Parties matter to college students; they ofer opportunities to build connections, strengthen community ties, and let loose. Tat said, plenty of Jumbos didn’t enroll at Tufs expecting their weekends to look like Project X. Instead, there are other anchors for connection.
Senior Meghna Singha said, “I feel 20,000 times safer at any Tufs frat than I ever have at MIT or BU. I know the people at Tufs, I know they have sober monitors— I don’t know anything about how other schools’ frats are run.” Other schools’ frats have their own rules and are in unfamiliar neighborhoods—MIT’s, for example, are scattered on both sides of the Charles River, up to an hour transit ride away, where resources like Green Dot and Tufs EMS are inaccessible.
By junior year, the party moves of campus. Backyards and basements
Of-campus ‘freedom’ isn’t wholly free; it just shifs the costs to neighbors and the risks to hosts. Like Tufs’ proximity to other schools, its closeness to Boston is a gif with strings attached. Te city ofers nightlife options but notoriously lacks successful nightlife infrastructure—last call is 2 a.m., public transit closes around 1 a.m., and drink discounts are forbidden. Boston bars also follow meticulous ID checks. Celebrating his 21st birthday, senior Jeremy Bramson went to a Somerville bar with friends all 21 and older, “ Te bartender searched for some symbol that had only been printed on certain new IDs. Mine had it, but my friends’ IDs did not—we were refused service. It’s frustrating because even afer turning 21, you still have to worry about the bars around here creating some issue with your out-of-state ID.” Factoring in rideshares, cover charges, and cocktails pushing $20, a night out in Boston becomes a short,
Sober, casual programming like TUSC’s bingo nights draws massive crowds and provides opportunities to socialize without alcohol and drugs. Community organizations and events, like intramural sports, cultural clubs, and regular performances, provide avenues to connect, grow, and have fun beyond the party circuit.
So is Tufs a party school? No, not really, but that’s not why most chose it. Tere are many ways to have a good night, but rarely ever one obvious anchor. For freshmen, that might mean a dorm pregame followed by wandering a map of potential party destinations. For upperclassmen, there’s the agency to choose where the night will lead—bar, club, frat, house party. Even then, you might not have the night you envisioned, but it’s up to you. Compare us to the top party schools in the country and you’ll never be satisfed. Embrace the mosaic, and you can make the most of the Tufs experience.
conjunction junction, what’s your function?