O say can you see

by the hall’s early light,

What so proudly we hurled

At the super’s last partying,

Whose bright orange and big B 

through the drunken night,

From our dorms we watched, were

So casually stained with green?

And the fire alarm’s loud blare,

The groans filling the air,

Gave proof through the night,

That our flag was thoroughly soaked. 

O say does that retch-covered banner still sit,

O’er the land of the free, and the home of the Greeks. 

Forgive my blasphemous actions against the founders of our nation, but I felt compelled. 

While I love our orange and blue as much as anyone, which ensures our school stands out with its bold “fashion sense,” it can sometimes be daunting to maintain a sense of normalcy while representing school spirit.

Hence, in all of their furry glory, we have Bucky. 

Bucky, our attempt at legitimacy among those who view the color of their shirt as a do-or-die statement, is our main representative. Our resident Bison, both in spirit and appearance, is the single most recognizable symbol of Bucknell’s sports program—at least from the perspective of someone who doesn’t attend many sporting events. I’d even argue that without Bucky, Bucknell wouldn’t be able to maintain the same rigorous standard of school spirit that’s drilled into us during the mandatory orientation pep rally. Pictures with Bucky draw massive crowds, and as of this writing, Bison@Work lists 10 openings for Buckys to proudly stand and represent our orange and blue brilliance.

In my opinion, these colors represent more than just a lack of color vision or making students look like traffic cones to the reckless drivers in the area—they represent the fundamental identity of Bucknell and the sense of family that comes with it. Whatever that identity means to you, whether it’s the camaraderie in the frats and sororities or the mountain of homework you fell behind on while recovering from caf-induced food poisoning, our colors are inseparable from it. If nothing else, in the years after Bucknell, you won’t see orange and blue together without feeling a slight twinge of nostalgia for the vibrant oranges of Lewisburg in the fall and the bluish tint of the winter snow (or so I’m told).