Word: mixer
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...typical of every other mixer I'd ever been to before. What struck me this time, though, was the contrast between this mood and that of the free concert. What had happened to the excitement and joy and fraternity we'd all felt when we were standing out in the cold March air? What happened to the smiling, grinning, happy faces? Where were all those boys who had been so genuinely eager to talk, just talk, to Cliffies? What about the invitations we'd gotten to come down here anyway...
Maybe we weren't supposed to go to the mixer. But someone had announced it at the concert. And the pink sheet said we were invited to music in the afternoon and to spend the night(s) at Adams House. There we were promised "the joyful transformation of our daily life and the end of alienation...
...certainly weren't welcomed at the mixer. In fact, these people seemed oblivious to any festival of life, and they weren't aware of one more girl's presence. There was absolutely no feeling of community at the mixer. There was only the feeling of people desperately on the make...
Each one remained an anonymous individual, safe and insular. Was this a way out of alienation and into joy as the pink sheet promised? On the contrary, it was self-defense and nothing more. There was no life at the Adams House Blizzard Mixer. There was only survival...
...MIXER reminded me of Harvard-Radcliffe relations in general. There was that same insidious lack of communication that is so characteristic of university life here. The fact that I was one of three (that I counted) Cliffies there, that being a Cliffie was a strike against me, that I thought Adams House wanted to meet me, and that nobody knew that--a real communications breakdown of the first order...