Sometimes it’s the little things that keep you going. On many a dreary day in the middle of finals, I’ve been walking across the quad and – what’s that? It’s Guy with A Single Feather Earring! And across the way? Why, there goes Girl Who Only Eats Cinnamon Toast Crunch at the DCT. My day is instantly brighter. Many bonds have been created over a shared love of campus characters. As part of The Spoke’s new investigative journalism series, I’ve spent the entirety of this semester taking a deep dive into what it means to be a campus celebrity – by trying to become one myself. This is what I learned.
1. Deciding My Brand
The obvious first step to becoming a campus celebrity was to choose a theme. Sure, some characters are agents of chaos, cobbling together eclectic elements into something that is technically a person (Guy with No Shoes and Suspiciously Long Fingernails is premed?? What?? Okay.).
But I wanted to be different. A simple, classic theme would do the trick. I would become: Girl Who Thinks She’s a Detective from the 1940s.
2. The Look
After deciding my theme, it was time for a Spoke-sponsored shopping spree (yep, your tuition dollars are going toward this. Suck it, dweebs). Like a lighthouse in a storm, I had to become a beacon, a symbol to all those around me.
I filled my wardrobe with trench coats. Fedoras. Those stupid little chode ties. Just in case the message wasn’t getting across, I also picked up a comically large magnifying glass. The first day I stepped out in my new garb, I caught some side glances. The next day, someone asked if I was filming something. By the end of the first week, whispers were following me wherever I went – Did you see? I saw her yesterday. God, I wish I were her.
3. The Vibe
After establishing myself as a visual character, I had to make it known that I don’t just look like a campus celeb – I am a campus celeb. What would happen if people thought I just had a unique sense of style? I once had a conversation with Girl Who Wears Solid Black Contacts Every Damn Day and she was totally normal. Completely lovely. It broke my heart, and I wasn’t going to do that to people. I would be their little freak, existing solely for their enjoyment.
Step one was to take up smoking. I went from having never touched a cigarette in my life to smoking six packs a day. I smoked in the following places: My hall bathroom. My biology lab.
In line for a panini at the DCT. On every level of Stacks. I smoked so much and so often that Emory required me to meet with the Fire Marshal.
Next was an update to my vocabulary: Women are dames, men are fellas. I also adopted a transatlantic accent to really bring out the Maltese Falcon in me.
Finally, it was time for my story. Everywhere I went, I showed passersby pictures of a diamond necklace and asked them if they had seen the woman wearing it. She’s gone, ya see? Missing. Ran off in the dead of night without so much as a toodle pip. A pretty dame like that? It doesn’t seem right, I tell ya, it doesn’t seem right. I also found ways to bring up my murdered wife in every possible conversation. It’s the one crime… I could never solve.
4. Making it
So I walked like a campus celeb, talked like a campus celeb – but how would I know if I had succeeded in my mission? As I roamed the streets of campus one night, I pondered the price I was paying for my celebrity and wondered whether it would ever pay off like I dreamed. My fedora was saying “incel” more than “debonair detective.” My grades were tanking – professors had requested I not participate anymore if I was only going to talk about “my beautiful wife’s murder and how the rat bastard who did it would be sorry he was ever born.” I was coughing up soot every 45 minutes. Had I gone too far?
But just then, I passed by a girl from one of my classes. I didn’t recognize her at first; she seemed down in the dumps, dragging her feet. I considered saying something to her, just to let her know, “Hey, you’re not alone.” Turns out, I didn’t have to say a word. She looked up, and I could tell she recognized me immediately – she smiled to herself, pulled out her phone, and started typing furiously. That was the moment I knew: I was a campus celebrity. I was just going to maintain my look for the time it took to write this article – but now I’m thinking differently. If I can bring that much joy to people just by existing, shouldn’t I do it? Don’t I have a duty to my fellow man? After all, I am: Girl Who Thinks She’s a Detective from the 1940s.
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