With finals steadily approaching and Spring Weekend hangovers almost fully recovered, the Brown masses will be flocking to the libraries for that dreaded Reading Period. And as eyelids get heavier and textbooks seem to get longer, we’ll be swiveling our heads in anxious anticipation of the annual Naked Donut Run.

This event (or more accurately, this strolling peep show with  refreshments) features the unannounced delivery of donuts by a group of anonymous nudes to each of the Brown libraries at peak study hours. In this case, witnessing stark nudity is considered a welcome distraction from study-induced agony in the stacks.

Some may consider this tradition odd—when asked about his personal encounters with the nude invasion, SciLi security officer Keach had nothing more to say than “It’s weird.” He expressed quite candidly that he would never participate himself if given the chance, and that he would refuse to accept any snacks from the streakers, no matter how tempting the chocolate glaze.

But apart from a bystander’s perspective, finding out more about this event has proven extremely difficult. The Naked Runners and the Donut Coordinator himself have all been sworn to secrecy. They say that being involved is a privilege to be earned, a new level of social status unattainable to most. I disagree. I say that, as a witness, the privilege is all mine. For me, this event offers not only a chance to snag a free midnight snack despite potential lack of hygiene, but also a chance to play a lively game of I Spy. The Runner on the other hand, risks being identified and, I can only assume, humiliated by this loss of confidentiality. But maybe there is a deeper sentimental benefit for both parties. Surely the Runners must experience an unparalleled natural high while strutting naked and masked through the mezzanine, donuts in hand.

For witnesses who look up from a 23 pound organic chemistry textbook with blurry eyes, the Naked Donut Run brings them back to reality. For me, just one glance at that 6 foot, naked Food-Bearer and I remember that some things are larger than schoolwork. In one moment, my head clears of all the overly giganticized words I had fruitlessly attempted to incorporate into my purposefully condescending, don’t-I-sound-sophisticated-because-I-used-the-word-dichotomy-three-times-in-one-paragraph essay. I reason that if nameless figures can feel so comfortable with their bodies, then why should I stress over a take-home essay? The donut is mightier than the pen.

It doesn’t take much to realize that this is not the only “fleshy” tradition Brown has—and it’s not the only one to induce some second thoughts.

When it comes to being nude and proud, nothing beats Sex Power God. Any avid fan of The O’Reilly Factor must be familiar with this annual Brown tradition, the one that most enhances our reputation as a liberal hippy haven. Sex Power God remains the only “clothes not encouraged” party on the Ivy circuit and something on every Brown student’s college to-do list.

As a freshman, I heard the tales of extreme debauchery, mass nudity, and double-digit EMS records. But did I believe their stories? I merely lent them credence, ready to take it back if Sex Power God fell short of my expectations—I went to boarding school, I’d seen it all. I realize now how wrong and embarrassingly naïve I was, because I actually spent time picking out an outfit for the party. Sex Power God was not only an epic dance but also a chance for me to marvel at the wonders of the human consciousness set free from social confines. It was fun and exhilarating, it opened my heart, and it freed my mind. I gained a new perspective. And I lost my clothes.

Another tradition that calls my attention to sexual undertones lies face-up on the steps up to Pembroke campus. Superstition holds that, by merely stepping on the Pembroke seal, you will either be impregnated or impregnate someone else (the choice is yours). Of course, this is absurd. But for some reason, when rushing to afternoon class in Smitty B, I always cling mercilessly to the wrought-iron railing in an effort to avoid impending doom. Behind my Shades Plus faux-Wayfarers, I’m always watching to see who will be the next misstep victim.

When I see pitiable girls who casually step on the seal, I can’t help but smile with glee as I stifle my urge to point and scream BINGO! As if our fate as future mothers rested solely on arbitrary foot placement en route to class. You would think Brown students know that pregnancy can be avoided by more conventional means. Or avoiding Wednesday nights at FishCo.

Why do some of Brown’s most central traditions revolve around perverted sexual themes? What are we trying to prove to the world? We are naked in public, indulge in erotic dance parties, and taunt innocent passers-by with pregnancy, but what for?

To use my favorite cliché, these seemingly arbitrary traditions build character, not just for the students, but for the school itself. Brown is usually synonymous with words like “liberal,” “non-conformist,” “eccentric,” and “GQ’s douchiest college.” But maybe we need that “hippy tree-hugging bullshit” in order to be ranked “happiest college” by the Princeton Review. Maybe traditions like these show that Brown is a place where things that bother the haughty, old money bourgeois just don’t matter. We like to explore, whether emotionally physically. We’re not Harvard, after all.