The recipe is simple. 

Start with black leggings or perfectly fitting jeans. Fold in a pastel hoodie or sweater and your choice of UGGs or chic sneakers. Mix with a Superpuff, Longchamp bag, and Stanley or Owala. Add long, straight hair (ideally with blonde highlights), though you may substitute with styled, light-brown curls. 

Season to taste with a gold cross necklace and subtle, glossy makeup. Chill overnight and bake at 350 degrees. There you have it: perfectly symmetrical Boston College cookies. (The recipe for men is even simpler: Any sweatpants with a hoodie or quarter-zip will do.)

When riding the T, I see dyed hair, artistic makeup, piercings, and statement tees. When back on campus, I see carbon copies.

I’ve failed to be one of them: Though decent in the kitchen, I’ve messed up the recipe. I’m too attached to my funky patterned tops and combat boots, and, unfortunately, I love my unflattering, super-short pseudo-mullet. 

My eccentric style makes me feel confident and creative. But among Coach bags and blowouts, it also makes me feel like an outsider. I’ve banished my enamel pin collection, misshapen sweater vests, and over-the-top accessories to forgotten boxes in the back of my closet.

This cultural default extends beyond style. I recall exploring “BC Class of 2029” Instagram pages over the summer. Various bios blended into one: the hobby-free BC character who is down to both stay in or go out and can’t wait to explore campus.

I attributed the lack of individuality to online shyness, so I was dismayed when my efforts to converse about my interests were met with blank, disinterested stares. 

While I recognize this as my personal experience, I doubt it’s unique.

This isn’t to say that passion doesn’t exist here at all. It does, especially through our vibrant student organizations. It’s rare, however, to talk about interests outside the context of organizational involvement. 

While many of us have found niches of exceptionally passionate, curious people, many more haven’t. Though I’ve met some “weird” peers—artists, collectors, music and film obsessives—it took far more effort than I expected. 

It also isn’t to say anything’s wrong with loving Arctic Fox hoodies or blonde highlights. A style does not become less valid merely because it’s more common. My issue isn’t these choices themselves, but their symbolization of the broader suppression of “weird”—by which I mean visibly, unapologetically caring about something specific, even when it doesn’t earn you social capital.

I know my nerds, geeks, and artsy kids are out there, but we’re often quiet about it. Why? I have a handful of theories.

BC’s academic rigor and pre-professional culture leave limited spare time for casual hobbies and niche self-expression. Lack of time is only part of the issue. Our social circles notice and admire marketable passions—ones that sound “prestigious” or can be put on a resume—more than eccentric or personal ones.

Or perhaps it’s merely a first-year phenomenon. People advise that college is a chance to reinvent ourselves, that starting from a blank slate can be a stepping stone to finding our identities. The freshman urge to make friends in unfamiliar social terrain also encourages us to follow the crowd even when we ordinarily would not.

Most of all, it’s a self-reinforcing cycle. The less each BC student expresses their own unique interests, style, and identity, the more unusual it becomes to do so. The less “weird” we are, the more isolating “weirdness” seems. No one is policing us—we are policing ourselves.

To many, this cookie-cutter culture provides a sense of belonging, an easy script for fitting in. To me, it’s pressure to sacrifice my authenticity for reduced social friction.

Countless BC students I’ve met hesitated to mention their passions for weeks or months, reluctant to lead with their niche opinions or expressions of individuality. 

This has led to a mistake on my end: initially dismissing peers as “boring” when in reality I hadn’t taken the time to get to know them. Many, I realized, had probably adopted my own strategy of concealing nerdiness from strangers.

It taught me a key lesson: Our campus doesn’t lack “weird” people, only ones who express their weirdness without hesitation. At its heart, it’s about social risk-taking. 

We see a lack of visible enthusiasm. We internalize that self-expression is “abnormal” and thus potentially isolating. We hide ourselves.

I also observed that when I dare to talk about what I love first, it acts as an invitation for others. Whether it lands me with a new friend or merely a cringing feeling is a gamble worth taking.

So, this semester, I’ve promised myself to get weirder: to wear the bold clothes I love, keep losing miserably at chess, and talk unabashedly about my favorite trees until someone listens. Writing this honestly, knowing it won’t resonate with everyone, is step one.

I encourage you to do the same. Try a new style. Talk somebody’s ear off about your favorite book or song. Create something for fun, on a weeknight, even if it isn’t “good.” By doing so, you’ll invite others to do the same.

I’ve tried being authentic but isolated, and I’ve tried being sanitized but accepted. The former fulfilled me more than the latter ever has. So, I can confidently advise: Get as weird as you possibly can.