At last Friday’s Hampshire Halloween, a man dressed in a ninja suit attempted to dance in a style that incorporated both mixed martial arts and cardio kickboxing. Onlookers barely took note, though, for at Hampshire College’s annual Halloween gathering, such bizarre activities constitute the norm. Pirates juggled neon pins, a monster climbed the DJ tent’s support pole and spooky campus decorations abounded. When I met Ms. Frizzle at this year’s event, Hampshire Halloween introduced me to the uncanny.
After several hours of spooky dancing, students made their way to the cafeteria for a generous midnight brunch. Armed with eggs and hash browns, my friend and I glanced around the room for an empty spot to relax. We decided to join a table of strangers. Members of this group of Hampshire students dressed as a wizard, Sirius Black from Harry Potter, Velma from Scooby Doo and the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Each invited us to the table and eagerly integrated us into the discussion.
To my immediate right sat another student, dressed as the teacher from Scholastic’s Magic School Bus series, Ms. Frizzle. The student’s hair lacked the familiar ginger ferocity of the series’ character. The stars and rainbows once glued to her dress had at that point fallen off. But Ms. Frizzle’s engaging personality made up for these trivial costume defects. She fit the role.
My discussion with Ms. Frizzle hit realms unfamiliar to a typical conversation among strangers. We shared frustration at our ignorance and inability to study more than just a few fields within our lifetimes. She discussed her thoughts on the format of campus debates and then dove into feminist academia of the 1990s. After half of an hour, we turned to join the rest of the table’s conversation, which involved at that moment each table member identifying an aspect of life that made them feel the most human.
Ms. Frizzle and her roommates then invited us to their dorm to meet their kitten, smuggled in despite campus policy. The campus neighborhood suited Ms. Frizzle’s personality. Housing complexes of six stories unevenly circumscribed a gazebo adorned with spider webs. Students lounged and smoked on the fire escapes, which overlooked the courtyard. We climbed up a few flights of these metal stairways, since in this neighborhood the backdoors served as front entrances.
After I stepped over the welcome mat and into the dorm, I realized that, after this night, I would never again see Ms. Frizzle and her friends. This greatly frustrated me, for I felt that this eclectic group of strangers had successfully bypassed small talk and had reached a level of conversation familiar only between close friends. The situation is rare, but I’m sure that other students have enjoyed similar ephemeral encounters at parties or concerts. For those students, a similar feeling of frustration likely followed.
To permanently befriend Ms. Frizzle and company would result in even more enjoyable moments, but one-time encounters, such as Friday night’s, hold a special place in the spectrum of interpersonal connections. Normally, we reserve such in-depth conversation for close friends. To hold these conversations with a stranger provokes a feeling of the uncanny, a moment in which the unfamiliar invades an otherwise commonplace experience. Yes, there exists the disappointment of a lost connection, but the uniqueness of speaking with Ms. Frizzle remains valuable through the virtue of its uncanny nature.
The student dressed as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch reminded us not to stir the kitten, which had fallen asleep by then. My friend and I stood up to depart, for our bus would soon arrive. Ms. Frizzle and Sirius again led us to the fire escape. We thanked the two for their company and gave our goodbyes. They wished me a good life, as I did the same.
Brandon Sides is a Collegian columnist and can be reached at [email protected].
