“Trisha Johnson, first year, undecided (deciding between psych or soc), athlete”
Cleve is a pretty great place. It’s straightforward, I get my meal, I get my Cleve cup, fill it to my liking with sprite and lemonade, sit with my friends and we talk about anything. It’s also nice because I see so many people I know standing in line, and sitting around my friend group! It’s a small source of comfort that we all eat in the same place, because even if we all have extremely different interests and pursuits, we all share and experience this one thing together.
“Olivia Schaffer, Sophomore, Philosophy, hates reality TV”
Cleive is a surveillance state. I can’t go in there without seeing somebody I know. Do you know how horrible that is? At 7:30 at night when I crawl out of bed from my post-class spiral and trudge to Cleive in ratty pajamas pants and a Death Cab for Cutie shirt, the last thing I want is to see a good 50% of the people in my 100 level French class. They don’t need to know I’m a Ben Gibbard Superfan. They don’t need to know I exist outside of the liminal space that is the second floor of Olin hall. And they especially don’t need to know the only thing I eat on a daily basis is a banana and the Cleive secret menu fries. Cleive is like the trenches of enemy territory, and I am but a lowly foot soldier without a disguise.
“Maury Freidmen, First year, undecided (probably geology but feels conflicted studying other rocks than his pet rock, Stu), plays bass clarinet”
The only thing I think when I enter Cleave is “Where’s Cincinnati? Where’s Columbus?” If you’re going to tease a really good theme of dining halls, why not commit to the bit? Anyway, my favorite part about the Cleave are not the cups, nay, they’re the napkins. I have accumulated a rather impressive collection of Cleave napkins in the bottom of my backpack that I can access at any given time. Spilled water? Cleave napkin. Food on face? Cleave napkin. Cold in class? Bust out a few Cleave napkins because those things are built like a dollar store blanket.