By Bella Levavi and Mo Schweiger
I sat reading Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America at a table in the window room at Hubbard dining hall one Tuesday morning when I learned the secret to the Smith social scene. Everyone is there.
The coolest of the cool had slept through the unconscionably early dining hall breakfast, only to convene two hours after its close in the beautiful light of the Hubbard dining room at 11am, cherry-white chocolate chip scones in hand.
For all of you newbies, Hubbard was the Green Street dining hall, directly behind Seelye, where you would go if you wanted to be seen. Not only was it open late for all the alarm snoozers, you could run there between your 9:25 and 10:50 to grab coffee to keep you awake in the back row of your lecture hall— or dairy free yogurt to unclog your bowels from last night’s beef bulgogi.
Or, if you were like me, and have never voluntarily seen the sun before 10am, you would arrive at the stately hour of 10:30 for some early morning snacking and schmoozing. I didn’t only go to Hubbard because it was the only dining hall that was open by the time I managed to drag myself down from the quad— I went for the society. Even on days that I had prepared to keep my head down, munch a croissant, and study, I always found myself sucked into a conversation with the girl I had met on the PVTA, who offered me a sip of whatever dubious liquid was in her discolored outdoor adventure Nalgene, two weekends ago.
While I was outside the social circle of my quasi idolized upperclassmen, Hubbard was the perfect point of contact. The famous BigBoobsNoBra made her heavily toasted everything bagel with cream cheese and a sliced hard boiled egg and talked about her crazy night at Majestic, back when the bar was cool. The long haired butch from the sports team taught me to make an oatmeal by putting every conceivable topping on it, and finish it off with Smith’s boxed soymilk. I am sad there won’t be a place where I can eat my nasty food as a senior and have firsties kissing my toes.
Without Hubbard, where else will I learn an ozzi container of facts from the assorted classes that my tablemates are hastily finishing their readings for before their classes begin? Where else will I be able to recoil from my neighbor’s hard boiled egg breath while they explain the mechanics of special relativity even though I have no prior understanding of the subject? Is there anywhere on campus whose walls hold as many kernels of gossip as the wood panels of the Hubbard dining room? Monday mornings were a hotbed of tales from the weekend, with stories of hookups and breakups galore being regaled over soggy bowls of Cheerios.
We may not have had the ~M a y a L i n~ but we had twenty people gathered around a circular table cranking out essays about Locke and Durkheim at the speed of light. The Smithies’ ideas may not have been groundbreaking, but Julia Child’s signed poster blessed the essays we uploaded to Moodle moments before their due dates.
The only time that the peaceful idyll of Hubbard was disrupted was the infamous chocolate hazelnut croissant day. This day came about twice a month and was nothing short of a bloodbath. Ozzie’s were stuffed, pockets were utilized, and napkins were piled high with croissants that would inevitably be stale in less than 24 hours. Yes, the croissants were really that good. None of you firsties have known the triumphs and defeats, the epic highs and lows of croissant day. One month you could be flying high after having snagged four to put in your mini fridge, and the next you could arrive only to see the person before you in line grab the last mangled remnants in the basket. On those days, the otherwise delectable bagel with cream cheese would pale in comparison to the first bite of Hubbard’s finest creation.
While the single open dining hall created a community of casual chats, ultimately I am happy to be back in a place where Smith culture surrounds me. The legacies and memories— some bad and some good —are mostly lost to institutional memory at this point, but there is a plethora of spaces and creative people here to imagine a new culture that future seniors will fawn over four year from now.
(Photo via Smith College)
