One of my favorite places at Cornell is the girl’s restroom in Willard Straight Hall. For the unfamiliar boys — you walk in to an anteroom of sorts with only a wooden bench and a long mirror. Then there is a short, narrow passage with old coathooks and a shelf. In the next room, the oddly-arranged cubicles are made of marble slabs with doors painted an ugly brown. The floor is made of those tiny hexagonal tiles you see in ancient pizza parlors. Being a Cornell bathroom, the cast-iron windows are bolted shut against the cold, and the air inside is always stale. It is clear that this bathroom has not been touched in decades.

Once, before it was home to grab ‘n’ go meals, the Straight was Great, a dignified dancehall, the place to see and be seen, the heartbeat of Cornell student life — and that is what the bathroom tells me. It feels old. The marble, the tiles, the wood bench and shelf have worked with girls for a long time. I see them walk in when the bathroom was still new, peeling off their coats, gloves, purses and hats, unworried about theft. Their hands now free to primp, preen, fluff and puff in front of the long mirror in the anteroom. They powder their skin smooth of the winter’s blush and pull up their pantyhose. It is a time of elegance, without fashion’s confusion and capriciousness. Poised Cornell girls dressed in perfectly cut dresses, perfectly set hair, sensible-yet-pretty shoes and a colorful brooch for flair. Gathering themselves together for the affair at Willard Straight Hall.

You see, lately, I have been inclined to daydream and wax nostalgic.

Usually, my columns detail small adventures and getaways, determined efforts to buck the Cornell grind, but these days, I find myself lingering, looking for new old things. I am excited to be back in my cozy Collegetown from a long and exhausting vacation. I am a senior, proud to have gotten through three years and emotional in my last. I am also turning 22 this Saturday, before anyone I know, and feeling oldish. A little historical. Soon, like thousands before me, I will graduate and leave, and will be an old part of an old place. My photo will one day be like those odd black-and-white ones that festoon The Hill’s big halls and libraries. I like that — maybe one day students before me will see my life here as quaint, simple and romantic, as far from the truth it may be.

I want to feel a little historical these days. I love old-fashioned clothes: delicate cardigans, knee-length skirts, clip-on earrings, high-cut pants and lady-like shoes. I’ve admired friends’ record players, beautiful record covers, danced to their father’s Led Zep and their grandfather’s Klezmer. I’m not the only one doing it — looking beyond the typical student slob — fashion is definitely reflective these days. Girls are supercool in Cosby sweaters, brandishing cigarette holders and glittery 70’s tunics over leggings. Boys are wearing rock ‘n’ roll t-shirts under bohemian corduroy blazers. Or just the prep of many years past. Retro posters of Belushi, Jimi, Marilyn and wartime kisses paper the bedrooms of campus. Everyone listens to their parents’ music and 80’s theme parties are a hiccup of a costume effort.

I’ve come to feel that this cultural tendency for reminiscence is what gives shape to my rather loose-fitting generation. We grew up during the Nice 90’s and are expected to carry bright flaming torches into the new millennium. In that first year of Our Millenium, September 11th happened. I was a high school senior in Sao Paulo, getting ready to go to college, to become an adult. A few months later, Iraq was invaded. The world and our futures got scary and we felt the duty of youth. My friends and I went on a real peace march, just like real hippies, ready to make a change (a couple of million were there). It was cool, but didn’t really work. We still don’t quite know what to do. How are we going to make a change? While at school? We are supposed to be special. How? Heavy stuff, man.

We look into the past — there is comfort, some answers in new old things. We want the tight-lipped optimism of the 50’s, the misty-eyed resolve of the 60’s, bounce of the 70’s, damned drive of the 80’s and the day-glo glut of our childhoods. Even as I write this, I see I am a little over-eager to clarify, define, set and place my generation. Make it purposeful, unique, romantic. Let us fit like a costume for a party.

Though our times are political and we welcome vigorous debate, this nostalgia takes no right or left, does not settle on the Republican or Democrat, liberal or conservative. It encompasses all. It is a vague feeling and a real mood. And we pin it down the best way we know how — buying things and making them our own. Lucky for us, there have never been so many second-hand goods for sale. America accumulated a lot of stuff in the latter half of the 20th century (surprise?). Vintage clothing stores are thriving. Yard sales are goldmines for funky accessories, funny porcelain animals for your apartment, old music, clothes that grandma wore when she was young like you. Yes, there’s a lot of junk, but we need that junk. We need something to hold, to look at, so we may believe it has happened before. One day we will be safe in history, conjured up in a romantic restroom, frozen in old photographs and felt in old clothes. Let us wear some Gatsby white. The fringed vests of real rebels. We are becoming the Goodwill Generation, looking through musty piles, mismatched coathangers, lifting the dust, hoping this one old coat will still fit young shoulders in a new way and someday make us special.

Erin Geld is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at esg24@cornell.edu. The Sampling appears alternate Wednesdays.