A few months ago I noticed a flurry of activity on Dartmouth-related social media, all about a Hopkins Center fundraising campaign with a special twist. Instead of the usual D-branded umbrella or fleece for your donation, they were offering something truly unique: one of the doors to the Hinman Boxes we had used as students. Not wanting to be left without a seat when the music stopped, I quickly made my donation and eagerly waited by my mailbox for my…um…mailbox. 

Several weeks later an oddly shaped package arrived. Quickly unboxing it, I saw the familiar brass rectangle with a window and the two distinctive combination wheels at the top, their letters barely legible after decades of use. I immediately sent a photo of it to my brother, an NYU alum, who responded, “It looks like a happy singing robot!” I’ll admit that I was surprised by its rough appearance, but then I began to see it as a reflection of who I am today: definitely weathered, features faded ever so slightly, but still distinct and recognizable. 

Noting its sizable heft in my hands, I remembered what my HB had meant to me in my undergrad days. I have forgotten every combination I have ever had in my life, save one: one click to the right of A and one click to the left of S. Although this particular box was different, part of me wanted to reset it to that combo, just for old times’ sake. I was surprised to find that the very thing that resonated for me and my classmates was lost on others. Multiple social media posts from children, colleagues, and friends echoed the same questions: “What’s the big deal? I don’t get it, it’s just a brass door, right?” But the truth is that one can’t understand the importance of the HB until you have lived with it as a connection to the outside world, a window into a land far beyond the Hanover Plain. 

The Hinman Boxes were a fairly recent addition to Dartmouth. Established in 1962, they barely predated the admission of women in 1972 and the D-Plan. Upon my arrival in the fall of 1986, I learned of the concept of “air mail”—the almost daily ritual of changing the air inside my empty box. But I also remember those momentous letters and packages that I sometimes found within: notes from erstwhile girlfriends, birthday cards from my grandparents, and the punk rock magazines that somehow convinced me I was edgier than I really was. My hilarious mother once sent me a box with some food and a bunch of my unmatched socks—a care package that was somewhat light on the care. As my identity slowly changed from green freshman to jaded senior, my sturdy Hinman Box was the one thing that remained immutable, almost inviolable.

Through the HB, we begin to realize that our Dartmouth experiences are both personal and plural, something that is uniquely ours but also part of a greater whole. 

During my sophomore year, I found myself living in a basement apartment a mile off campus, rooming with someone who could best be described as distant. At that time, I was struggling as a student, as an athlete, and as a young adult, the darkness of a Hanover winter creeping into all aspects of my life. During that annus horribilis, the Hinman Box became my only real link to something better. I might not have gone to class every day, but I always checked my HB, a ritual that provided comfort when I needed it most. 

Recently, I noticed a second flurry of emails from classmates inquiring if someone had a specific number and if trades could be worked out. While we like to think of an HB as exclusively ours, the truth is that it’s an experience we share with the people who came before and after us. Generations of Dartmouth students have had the same combination I did, the same location in that nook toward the back, upper right-hand corner, just at eye level. Others who have had “my” HB have also lived, loved, and lost, charting their own courses after being launched by our dear old alma mater. Through the HB, we begin to realize that our Dartmouth experiences are both personal and plural, something that is uniquely ours but also part of a greater whole. Each of us has a class number associated with our name. We come from disparate places and different alumni classes, but we are ultimately brought together by the Dartmouth experience that shapes and defines us. 

Dipping a microfiber cloth into soapy water, I slowly began to rub away the tarnish that built up on my HB door through decades. Getting it back to a perfect state wasn’t my goal, only to better uncover this touchstone to my past, to a time when I lived in a far simpler world. The glass, now clean, has become a window that looks back on the school that helped make me who I am today.

Checking my HB may no longer be the ritual it once was, but having it back in my life makes me hope for the promise of something better, for the light that is just around the corner.                    

J. Mark Riddell is an anesthesiologist who lives in New Hampshire.