The Duke of my freshman year was not cool enough for the Wayfarer Revolution. But something happened between then and now that has transformed an indiscriminate portion of the student body into exemplars of Ray-Ban's decades-old promise: Wear Wayfarers, be cool.
You weren't cool enough for the Wayfarer Revolution either. You wore polarized Oakleys and run-of-the-mill Aviators, or-in the case of the femmes-various takes on the philosophy that cheekbones benefit from UV protection. You were Southern cool and New England cool and California cool, but you were not-and I must stress this-Wayfarer cool.
I certainly wasn't cool enough for the Revolution. I wore 25-year-old Vuarnets, knew frighteningly little about the school, and as I met you, wondered about your collars, your frat tucks and the neoprene around your necks from which you slung-of course-your sunglasses.
I am obsessed with your shades because they represent, on one hand, a natural phenomenon: In four years, everything changes-I am different, you are different, Duke is different. But on the other hand, the change is specifically unique: Everyone I know and everything I see is just that much cooler.
This sentiment runs counter to several things I heard as a freshman. One upperclassman told me that he often pined for his days on East Campus, when he met new friends incessantly, fell in with a seemingly endless batch of girls, enrolled in the courses he enjoyed and drank more than he ever would again. In short, this guy felt way cooler as a freshman than he did in later years.
Another thing I heard-and continue to hear-is that the physical lack of kegs on the Main West Quad and Greek organizations in the West Campus dorms are somehow single-handedly responsible for a decline in social life. In other words, the University is less cool because we can't drink beer in a singular and specific space.
I would like to argue against these two claims. To the first, I say this: With each successive semester I have met more and greater people, had better sex, taken increasingly rewarding classes and-without a doubt-imbibed more alcohol.
To the second, I respond: There are thousands of other places to drink this exponentially expanding volume of beer with your exponentially expanding group of friends. Kegs on the quad attempt to appropriate a historic and mythic "cool" that just isn't worth the bother. Find new places, be cool there.
There are dozens of other factors that trip up my argument. For example: To accept that we become increasingly cooler is to reject that ties to Greek organizations are a prime, determining factor in coolness. After the crescendo during sophomore year, most people, I've noticed, become less involved in their fraternities and sororities. Beginning in the study abroad semester, social lines become increasingly blurred. As mentioned before, good friends meet other good people, and out of convenience or desperation or newfound willingness, your network expands, and you are-on account of all your new, cool friends-typically much cooler yourself.
I'm sure that not everyone thinks that they're cooler now than they were then. For though I think in generalizations, the relatively wide array of Duke students I have met and grown to know is, after all, a limited batch. But I want so badly to believe that an entire senior class, the subsequent classes to follow and the University that harbors them all, are-in at least some important regards-thinking of themselves as constantly growing toward a more satisfying place.
The cool that I speak of now is not the cool that I would have defined as a freshman. And that's the kicker. We all think of it differently; we all observe it from morphing vantages. That I believe it to be, doesn't make it so-for there is no universal cool.
Except for Ray-Ban Wayfarers-which are no doubt the hippest f-ing shades in international cultural history.
Dan Riley is a Trinity senior. He is an associate editor for Towerview.
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