You put on your all-black outfit, all clothes you don’t mind getting glow stick fluid on and shoes that will hopefully protect your toes from getting trampled. This isn’t your first go round, and you know what to be prepared for. You briefly consider smearing on some eye black, too, but you toss the idea. You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard; leave that to O-Staff, who will be wearing every piece of white clothing they own.

You start the walk to the amphitheater because 10:59 p.m., the start time helpfully chalked in front of the Dining Hall, is nearing. As you draw closer, you encounter more and more clusters of freshmen, and they look at you a little funny — probably wondering at the strange unknown of North Village from whence you’ve come. You filter onto one of the grassy levels facing the stage and mill around with the young’uns and fellow crashers. The former chatter about brother and sister halls while the latter remember their first Blackout, lo these many years ago. At one point, you join in a rousing chant of “FU! FU! FU!” with more enthusiasm than you have ever shown at a football game.

Suddenly, flashes of white dart onto the stage. O-Staff has arrived. Your expectations for their attire were well-founded: there are the requisite tu-tus and feather boas, as well as a fur coat, which is a refreshing addition. “Sandstorm” begins to play, and volleys of glow sticks pelt the crowd. It has begun.

You surge forward to the stage and climb into the pulsing masses. Dubstep and EDM are calling your name tonight, and you intend to answer. You grab your friends’ hands and snake your way to the center of the crowd. You have to throw a few elbows here and there, but there’s no harm done. In the epicenter of the action, you commune with the Furman spirit. It looks a lot like pogo-ing and excessively screaming “Woo!”, but let’s not split hairs.

All around you are the familiar Blackout sights that remind you what a great tradition this is and that Blackout never really changes. In front of you is a freshman couple aggressively making out, deep in the throes of their O-mance. To the left, some upperclassmen dance questionably, though passionately, with freshmen. You are surrounded by freshmen who have dredged up every last bit of enthusiasm in order to be comfortable raving here with their 700 new best friends they met yesterday. Several students linger on the edges of the crowd, possibly unable to get in the spirit because they literally don’t know any of these people and don’t make friends like this (“It’s OK,” you think to them silently, “I stayed on the edges then, too. That’s why I come back now.”).

It feels too soon when O-Staff ushers everyone off the stage for their step routine. New song, same dance as always — to clarify, yes, you are just jealous you aren’t up there, too. Then comes the awkward dance off between brother/sister hall pairs, which you wait through patiently. Finally, O-Staff pulls everyone back up for one last hoorah before midnight. At some point they play “Wobble,” and no one faces the same direction or moves to make any semblance of a line, but it doesn’t matter because this is your jam.

And then it’s over. The music stops, and you hop down from the stage. You amble back toward your apartment with your friends and watch the freshmen go their separate way back to the residence halls, now inducted into the history of Blackout.