I arrived at JBU in the fall of 2019, one semester before the pandemic abruptly relegated the student body back to their homes and uprooted student life indefinitely. I remember that fall like a fond memory of an age gone-by; it was the calm before the storm, the restful evening before the fever dream of the Covid-19 pandemic. I never thought I would have to wait until my senior year to experience normality again, and even then, life at JBU still doesn’t feel “normal.” Over the past three semesters, the JBU administration has made commendable progress getting campus life back up and running; but despite their best efforts, something is still missing for those of us who witnessed the pre-pandemic days.
Many of my senior readers will be unfamiliar with what I’m about to describe, but those of you who know, know. There was once a niche community on campus that was tragically and mercilessly purged by the pandemic, and I have yet to see it regain the obscure prominence of its glory days. Once upon a time, JBU had a vibrant underground community of rule-breakers and nonconformists who fully embraced the mantra: eat, drink and be merry. It is in the best interest of JBUs image to pretend that such communities do not exist, and this article will no doubt incur the agitation of the administration, but the reality is that these groups do exist, and there is nothing the University can do about it short of instituting a police-state on student life like Oral Roberts University.
Nonconformity was a tradition passed down from class to class for decades — an unbroken chain of upperclassmen imparting wisdom to lowerclassmen. I remember witnessing the process first-hand during my first semester. It took me less than a month to learn who the nonconformists were, where they went, and how they got away with it. It was conspiratorial in nature—not organized, but self-regulating. Somehow, those with an aptitude for nonconformity naturally found their way into the underground community while the straight shooters were unwittingly barred from entry thanks to the natural process of social sorting. It was glorious and vibrant; just a bunch of newly minted adults navigating their way through exciting new experiences and puzzling relationships, free from the bonds of parental supervision.
Those first few months of college constitute some of my fondest memories. I remember the upperclassmen, reminiscing over past students and their clandestine exploits; the ones who got away with it, the ones who got caught; and the occasional reckless martyr who got suspended. Each story had a lesson learned, and new ways of doing things were developed. These veteran students were a library of oral tradition, an archive of nonconformist behavior that had been passed down for God knows how long. Some stories dated back as far as ten years, their facts no doubt distorted by time, yet they remained treasured as legend.
In the eyes of a young nonconformist freshman, the world was an oyster and things could only get better. Everything seemed so promising; but in the spring of 2020, the pandemic changed everything. The chain of nonconformists was broken. Upperclassmen began graduating while we sat at home and watched. Traditions were lost, knowledge was cut off, and the stories died out. The pandemic purged the troublemakers from campus by cutting off all contact between class levels, and the vibrance of the underground community dimmed and flickered out.
Yet there is still hope. An auspicious new development has occurred, and it bears great promise for the underground community of JBU. Yik Yak is a pseudonymous social media platform that allows anyone within a 5-mile radius to create anonymous discussion threads and, more recently, post images. The platform is controversial, to say the least. Due to its anonymity, it lends itself to harassment and hate-speech. Personally, I have a strong distaste for it, and I rarely contribute to the content it produces. Nonetheless, I think the platform has potential. Under the shelter of anonymity, students on Yik Yak can voice their frustrations, brag about their exploits, and even offer advice to other students. It is a proverbial “safe space” for the downtrodden rule-breakers and browbeaten nonconformists who feel isolated from like-minded students whom they can trust. These isolated students can avail themselves of the platform for support and validation; to see that they are not alone in their struggle against the bonds of the rules.
Unfortunately, anonymity is a double-edged sword. While it does offer students shelter from administrative retaliation, it does so at the cost of perpetuated isolation. Students cannot connect with one another on the platform for fear of doxing themselves. Anyone within a 5-mile radius can view the Yik Yak threads, including campus administration—and you had better believe that they are fully aware of the platform, just try and open the Yik Yak website on a campus computer, or on a personal computer connected to JBU Wi-Fi. The mobile app seems to work fine, but the website is suspiciously inaccessible without a VPN.
The underground community of JBU nonconformists has been missing for too long now, but Yik Yak is signaling revitalization. The nonconformists are disjointed and isolated at the moment, but they are waving their flags on the anonymous platform. There are no veterans in living memory to guide and unify them, and the lessons of past mistakes will have to be learned all over again. There is a long and difficult road ahead for the troublemakers, and I wish them well on their journey. JBU will never be a proper university without them. College isn’t college without a few cautionary tales, some legendary slip-ups, and one or two celebrated students who made it out unscathed. I am not suggesting that all students should break rules or deal with the devil, nor am I suggesting that there is anything wrong with the way JBU operates. University students are young and idealistic, they need something to fight against, a line to cross, a constraint to resist. Rules are to rebels as lighting is to thunder. Rebels are essential to the composition of the collective personality of the student body; without them, we’re all just drones walking to class with no spark or intrigue.
Photo courtesy of Mark Duffel