Selena Ponio '18 | June 11, 2018
“Have you found it yet?” my friend, Emily, said as we weaved our way through the leaves and branches on God Quad.
“Which rock did they say it was again?”
“The big rock on God Quad.”
“There are a million big rocks on God Quad.”
Then, we saw them: a cluster of red Solo cups filled to the brim with beer. They were for the final senior toast at midnight, when we gathered with our classmates to run up Main Building’s steps, which tradition had prevented us from doing until now.
For two of my friends who pushed the boundaries of the university-sanctioned event, the festivities began with a small scuffle with NDSP. Beer, it turns out, was fine for these of-age students, but the entire keg of it they’d dragged onto God Quad was not. Told to remove the offending keg or face the consequences, they poured what remained into a dozen Solo cups and rushed to dispose of the metal vessel, leaving us vague directions to a rock that sheltered its distributed contents.
Our search for the Solo cups encapsulated so many feelings of Senior Week. A sense of invincibility — I trudged through the grass on God Quad, able to ignore at last the campus superstition that to step on it risked academic failure. A sense of frugality — Senior Week drained our funds to the point that we wouldn’t even let leftover, warm beer go to waste. And a sense of nostalgic joviality — here we were, college graduates, society’s newest investment bankers, analysts and teachers, turning over mulch and shrubbery with the giddy adrenaline of freshmen who could be caught at any second.
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