Undergraduate, and Under the Influence

September 23, 2005

By Mike Snyder

It’s Saturday night, and the aroma of cheap beer permeates the campus. Students stumble down the sidewalks, clothes hanging loosely off their bodies. The air is thick and moist, saturated with human sweat and alcohol. In the distance I hear a drunken man shout something menacing, or something playful. It’s hard to tell. But his voice is consumed by the blaring siren of an ambulance racing down Professor’s Row.

Some teens jump a fence; two big guys in jackets pick a fight, slurring their words; a girl I’ve never met smiles at me, winks, and promptly trips over the cobblestone. Maybe it was the high-heeled shoes? Maybe it was the rum.

When I came to Tufts, I never thought my Saturday nights would be quite like this. Sure, I had planned on witnessing a few drunken stupors. I assumed that I would occasionally guide a tipsy floormate to his bed. I thought I might even, by the end of the month, be asked if I would like a shot of vodka or a cup of beer. But the Tufts nightlife has totally confounded any expectations, predictions, or preconceptions I might have had.

And that’s an understatement: Three weeks and three thousand miles ago, I could not have imagined such widespread drinking. I could not have conceived, for instance, that my friends would be able to store and acquire alcohol so easily—with minimal resistance from the police and other persons of authority—and that upperclassmen, rather than be barriers to underage drinking, would in fact be facilitators of it. Had somebody told me, before I came here, that I would be offered a shot (from the comfort of my dorm room no less) within the first three days on campus, I would have thought they had mistaken Tufts for the University of Arizona. And I certainly never expected that, out of the dozens of diverse and wonderful friends I’ve made so far, only a small handful would abstain from drinking. Alcohol use at Tufts is like an epidemic, a late-night affliction gone unchecked, slowly infecting every last person I know.

It’s humbling, really, to be around so many drunk people, in the same way my Harvard friend is humbled by the smart people who surround her. I feel privileged to have the opportunity to witness such inane chaos, to observe situations so unbelievable that my friends back home will writhe in their seats when they hear my stories—and I haven’t even gone inside the frats yet.

It’s also disturbing. I’m not here to condemn drinking, warn you about the dangers of excessive alcohol use, or suggest more sober ways to have a fun—ways that don’t involve fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars—because I know Health Services already does that. Instead, I will pose my favorite question: Why? Why do we drink so much and what does that say about us as a student-body? Is it because we need alcohol to have fun, or because there’s nothing better to do on a Saturday night? What would a prospective student, a freshman, or a casual observer (no pun intended) have to say about this school-wide epidemic? To think that if Jumbos spent even half as much time, energy, and financial resources on community service and active citizenship as they did alcohol, our world would be a much better place in which to live.

It’s Saturday night, and I take out my cell phone to call an old high school friend. Now at NYU, she is overwhelmed by the exorbitant levels of alcohol use that exist there. About half way through our conversation, her voice softens and becomes a whisper. She thanks me for not drinking, for being one of the few kids she knows who stays sober. I thank her in return, and tell her how wonderful it is to know that I am not alone in my resolve not to drink. I am not alone in my belief that happiness is something readily created by our consciousness, not something induced by external substances. It is a very emotional evening. Talking with her, I realize that maybe Tufts isn’t just a bad apple, that rampant weekend drinking in college is as certain as getting chemistry homework. But could hundreds of thousands of college students, across the whole of America, really be smashed on any given Saturday night? What a sobering thought.

Slipping my cell phone into my pocket, I make my way back to the dorm. A girl in pajamas, visibly disoriented, approaches me. She asks if I am Jake. I tell her no. She frowns nervously, and makes her way down the sidewalk, her cold body illuminated by a trio of oncoming police cars. I wonder who Jake is, and if he’s okay. But there’s no time for worrying. It’s Saturday night at Tufts University, and the only thing people are concerned about is tomorrow’s hangover.

Mike Snyder, LA ‘09, has not yet declared a major.