Oberlin: The Idea vs. Oberlin: The Man
by Jenny Sequoia, Contributor
This past summer, I was forced to spend some time at a cosmetic dentistry for some maintenance on my two front teeth. I’d chipped them in my youth and had a temporary filling for about 10 years. As my time at home drew thinner, my mother insisted I get a more permanent fixture before I left for college. After two hours and a medically-approved nitrous oxide trip, a couple bits of porcelain had been vacuum-strapped to my teeth: veneers.
A couple months and a drive past the Bass Pro Shops pyramid later, I sat in Finney Chapel as an orientation program titled “How to Be an Eco Obie” was finishing up. I, naïve and blissfully unaware, was impressed at Oberlin’s commitment to environmental activism. It was, in fact, a large reason for which I chose to come here. Coming from a deeply apathetic Southern suburb, I was excited to be part of a thoughtful and passionate campus, and the environmental sustainability efforts seemed to confirm my beliefs. You can imagine my dismay when the very next presentation contained a frankly staggering amount of AI-generated images and GIFs—a mere 10 minutes after we finished parroting back that we could only recycle plastic types 1 and 2. “Surely this is a one-time thing,” I thought to myself with rose-tinted intentions. “This can’t be the norm around here.”
For a while, the concept of “this” floated in the back of my mind as an undefined structural insecurity at the core of the concept of Oberlin, an idea more felt than textually proven. Over time it has materialized off the basis of sporadic yet memorable instances.
Walking past a student who, upon seeing a poster advertising anti-fascist protests, remarked to their bemused friends that they “would love to go” but were unfortunately “too lazy.”
An earnest email about the “Year of AI Exploration” in my inbox.
An overheard conversation in which a student attempted to criticize Karl Marx’s ideas of class struggle through the insincere lens of “Marx didn’t have a job.”
Finding a POC safe space on campus, only for it to be called something as archaic as the Third World Co-op.
And, of course, several dozen remarks about this archetypal “Oberlin Kid,” complete with rich parents, a trust fund, and a frivolous major, often mentioned along with some comment that defines the idea with a cynical flavor of self-awareness. Jabs below the waist that do nothing but facetiously say “that couldn’t possibly be us, am I right guys?”
The greatest irony of all is that tearing at each other via performative faux-self-awareness does not save us from the ever-closing walls of fascism, but directly contributes to its speed through sheer insincerity and anti-intellectualism. Mocking your peers as if you are so different from them does not thrust you away from the capital machine, but deeper into its maw. Annoyance and disdain towards the things you choose to do will not elevate you to some sort of indifference-fueled social invulnerability, but leave you with the regret of a CTE-ridden linebacker as the other boot drops onto your neck. If that is a reality you can live with, you are a direct part of a disgraced legacy, a stain on a profoundly important idea.
You are the laughable "Tobacco free since 2016” signs littered around campus, mere feet away from chairs that double as ashtrays.
You are the college that is so obsessed with equity yet won’t put a land use acknowledgement on their website.
You are the administration’s continuous boasting of Carbon Neutrality in tandem with their work to get every student a ChatGPT Plus subscription.
You are the Board of Trustees that knowingly voted to reject a proposal to divest from genocidal arms manufacturers.
If Oberlin was founded as the kindest, most well-meaning melting pot in the world, championing the oft-bejeweled promise of a fruitful and well-rounded liberal arts education, that pot seems to be boiling over into this seeping and oozing and nauseating social pathogen, a miasmatic groupthink that has lost the plot in a way that is equal parts glamorous and utterly ridiculous. At our worst, we are a school of fish that, upon being earnestly asked “How’s the water,” respond with a spat “Absolutely fucking terrible. Isn’t that hilarious?”
I am aware I sound deeply spiteful and cynical, but I came to Oberlin for the idea of a passionate and inventive student body. Those people do exist, and I am fortunate enough to work with them. I do believe in the power of genuine sincerity and passion—writing this has been an exercise in my own. It pains me, though, that my closest cultural tie to Oberlin and its gaudy game of charades is one of these slick, white, and invasive shrouds over my organic teeth.
I urge you: do not let apathy become your standard.
