In the wake of the recent presidential election, tensions on Brown’s campus have reached a fever pitch. Students are grieving, faculty are holding impromptu therapy sessions, and at least one person on Thayer Street has been spotted wearing sackcloth. But amidst this turmoil, a quiet minority remains hidden in the shadows—those who dared to feel relief, or worse, satisfaction, at the election results.
Today, I sit down with one such individual, who, for the sake of his safety, will be referred to as “Nathaniel.” Nathaniel is a self-described conservative and, as he puts it, “the most endangered species on College Hill.” We meet in a discreet location: an abandoned seminar room, where the walls are still lined with the remnants of a decolonization teach-in. He speaks in hushed tones, his eyes darting toward the door.
Zion Alexander: Thank you for meeting with me. I know this is risky.
Nathaniel: Of course. You’re one of the few people willing to hear my story. Most of campus would rather I don’t exist, like a tax cut or inconvenient statistic.
ZA: So, let’s start with election night. What was that experience like for you?
N: Hell. Pure hell. I had to sit in my common room as my roommates sobbed into their organic, locally-sourced throw pillows. At one point, someone wailed, “This is the darkest moment in American history.” I said, “Worse than the Civil War?” and they looked at me like I’d just denied climate change.
ZA: Did you feel like you could openly express your views?
N: Not unless I had a death wish. After the results came in, people started talking about “making lists” of students who had voted the wrong way. That’s when I knew: I had to go dark. I deleted my X, stopped making eye contact in class, and when someone said, “We need to find out who did this,” I nodded along like I was in a political thriller and not a liberal arts college.
ZA: What’s been the hardest part of being a conservative on campus since then?
N: The performative grief. Every professor I have started class the next morning with, “I know this is a difficult time for us all.” I had to sit through a 15-minute moment of silence in one class. Fifteen minutes! That’s longer than the moment of silence we had for Queen Elizabeth! Meanwhile, I’m just trying to take notes without anyone noticing my enthusiasm for GDP growth.
ZA: Have you found any like-minded individuals?
N: We meet in secret. Once a month, in a basement where the Wi-Fi mysteriously cuts out. If you want in, you have to answer a series of security questions, like, “Who is the best British Prime Minister?” If you say Margaret Thatcher with too much hesitation, you’re out.
ZA: Do you think you’ll ever be able to express your political views openly at Brown?
N: Maybe in 30 years, when I return as an anonymous donor and fund a building called The Center for Free Thought That Is Definitely Not a Conservative Front. But right now? No way. If I even hint at my beliefs, my classmates will start hissing like I just pulled out a crucifix in a vampire movie.
ZA: What’s your message to other conservatives at Brown?
N: Stay strong. Keep your head down. And if you must celebrate, do it quietly, like in a basement with soundproof walls, or deep in the woods where the only witnesses are squirrels.
As the interview ends, Nathaniel pulls his hood up and disappears into the night, another shadow among the ivy-covered buildings. Whether he will survive the next four years remains uncertain, but one thing is clear: in the People’s Republic of Brown, dissent is fatal.