Confessions of a Wait-Listed First-Year

It wasn't an inspiring essay, nor was it the fact that my parents went to graduate school here.

I got into Harvard because some other guy from Maine got a free ride to the state university and couldn't pass it up. I got into Harvard off the wait list.

Harvard admissions tells you that coming off the wait list doesn't mean anything. People from the wait list, my admissions officer said, many work extra hard because they don't take their acceptance for granted. But otherwise, I was told that all Harvard students were created equal.

It's not entirely true. There are certain differences. My picture, for example, is not in the facebook Instead my name is listed on the last page of the book with all of the other "late arrivals."

And I was denied a shot at those formative Harvard experiences--the First-year Outdoor Program and the urban program; by the time I was accepted the programs' deadlines had passed.

Coming off the wait list left me with a lingering feeling of inadequacy. For much of my first year I though of myself as Harvard's second choice. That meant I was reluctant to speak in section, and that I had a severe case of under-confidence my first year.

I was allowed to move into my Pennypacker Hall room a day early because I did dorm crew. I left my stuff in the common room and did not move in to the individual bedrooms, following some guidebook's instructions to politely wait until all your roommates arrived before setting up shop.

The next day, I returned to the suite after a morning of exploring the Square to find a kid with a Fila T-shirt madly swinging a tennis racket in our common room.

Meet Chaz "spelled with a 'z'" Lee.

I was not sure what to make of him. By the way he was swinging his racket I was convinced he was some tennis star, the next Michael Chang. That's what you were supposed to come across at Harvard, anyway.

Chaz immediately announced which bedroom he was going to move into--the big corner room with four windows, and not the small one with bunk beds and a tiny window.

I quietly said that we'd better wait until everyone arrived--just to be fair.

Chaz insisted that the only correct policy was first come, first serve. And he insisted that he must have the better room.

I held firm, and so he gave me an evening deadline. Luckily the rest of our rooming group arrived by dinner time.

I wanted to room with the guy from Florida. Dave Aronberg was his name, and despite the fact that he had already announced his candidacy for the Undergraduate Council, he appeared to share some of my interests. But Chaz's mother insisted that I room with her son; the other roommates were too loud and would disturb his studying, she worried.

I acquiesced and moved into the corner room, bewildered by this woman and her racket-wielding son who were intent on establishing our room's physical and social organization.

I was in the spacious bedroom, which was nice, but my roommate was still a terrible unknown.

During Orientation Week, I took the French placement exam. By the third question it was clear that I had no clue. Disregarding the proctors' admonishment not to guess, I completed the test in a total of 10 minutes--filling in the circles carefully so I was sure that my answers didn't make a pattern.

I came within 10 points of being exempted. I should have been pleased; I almost tricked Harvard. But then I realized that they had the last laugh. Although I wasn't good enough for the exemption, I had scored too well for introductory French and was consequently placed in a higher level.

Knowing that I remembered nothing of French, I scrambled to find another language.

I have always struggled with foreign languages. Some part of me just doesn't get it. I figured the perfect language class at Harvard for me would have several key elements: a Roman alphabet, easy grammar rules and a classroom free of students who already knew the language and just couldn't pass the requirement.

This criteria left me wih two choices: Italian and Portuguese. I took Italian.

Suffice it to say that my preplanning wasn't so good. I have never done as much work for a class nor felt as idiotic as I did in Italian A.

So what's the happy ending, what is the lesson learned?

I can speak Italian now about as well as I can speak French, which is to say I can't. But there were small successes. Twice-a-week visits to the remedial Italian clinic and a bouquet of flowers for my professor on the last day of class helped boost my first semester B-to a B at the year's end.

Chaz still makes the worst first impression of anyone I know. But I still room with him and he only rarely plays tennis and never insists on having the good room anymore.

And I still don't have my picture in the face book. But my under-confidence has largely passed. And at Harvard one learns to avoid conversations about SAT scores and how to speak up in section.

I have recommended Harvard to two of my friends who got accepted. One of them went to Princeton. The other is coming here in the fall. I think she made the right choice. I know I made the right choice.

I had a good first year. At the end of it, Henry Moses, then the dean in charge of firstyears, distributed notices soliciting opinions about first-year life.

Although I can't remember the details of what I wrote, I concluded with the thought that Harvard was definitely worth $22,000.

I had learned a lot, met all kinds of different people and learned how to survive in classes of 400 without faculty contact or academic advising.

Everyone who gets accepted to Harvard hears a little about the "niche." It may be a corny and hackneyed concept, but it is the best defense against a sprawling and sometimes impersonal University.

It takes a little work, a little commitment and a little digging, but most people eventually find a place to fit in--an academic department, a job, a lab, a dorm or an extracurricular.

Some take longer to find their place than others. Not everyone finds that space their first year and not everyone keeps their place once they've founded it. But providing a "niche" is the one promise that Harvard comes the closest to keeping.

Julian E. Barnes '93 is president of The Crimson.