Your Name Here: The Harvard Years

Here was a new generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a revery of long days and nights; destined finally to go out into that dirty gray turmoil to follow love and pride; a generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success.

The words were F. Scott Fitzgerald's, and he was describing students at Princeton in This Side of Paradise. Granted, it was 74 years ago, but this week, as Harvard welcomes the 358th annual crop of first-years into the Yard, they seem like a good place to start an editorial.

While not exactly a new generation, the fact that all first-years live in the Yard together without upperclass students creates an atmosphere of class unity that is stronger than that of most other schools. Combined with our self-centeredness, and our underdeveloped sense of institutional history, the peaceful conclusion that our particular roommate is the worst ever is a logical next step.

The "creeds" you will this learn this week are not necessarily old, but many are important nonetheless. Don't rape. Don't cheat. And don't ever, ever, try to a few around with the birthdate on you ID. The local bouncers don't care that much, but John Harvard does.

Along with the creeds, you will gradually learn the names and locations of most of the buildings on campus. There will be quizzes on this stuff later in the Yard, conducted by dozens of tourists. Grin and bear it.

And this week will certainly be a "revery of long days and nights." From placement tests to shopping for futons, the next seven or so days of your life will spill over with activities and general stimuli. It will be one of the few times when groups of Harvard students simply sit around talking because of arbitrary rooming assignments made by the HDO. Watch the improbable friendships form in the vacuum of a larger social structure. And then watch some of them dissolve when the participants and classmates more suitable to their coeds.

But for this week at least, the lights Matthews and Holworthy will burn through the small hours of the morning with revelations, some fascinating and some disturbing, about musical tastes, hometowns and attitudes towards life. You will learn much from your entrywaymates, things such as who has a traumatic life story and who has the best stereo in the dorm.

Come January, the "old cries" will rise from the Yard in what you will see as a touching moment of collective anxiety relief or the reason why you never should have come here in the first place, depending on your disposition.

It may seem a mere dot on a theoretical horizon, but you will eventually leave here, most likely with a degree. And when "that dirty gray turmoil" of the real world swirls around you, clouding and obscuring the friendships that have been formed here, it seems likely that we will look back on this place with glasses colored pink with memories.

College, even at its most abstract, is a very good time. You are entering an environment in which parental control is replaced by a readily available supply of alcohol. No one waits up and no one asks where you slept last night with anything but curiosity. You can go out whenever you want, but no one will ask why you never leave your room.

This is the first time you will be taken seriously as a quasi-adult by those around you. The administration cares what you think (sort of), and you will have the opportunity to rise to the top of myriad extracurricular groups. Be forewarned, however, that many others are out to be taken seriously as well--hence the power struggles that plague many seemingly-benign organizations.

If your authorized biography is written in 2050, there will inevitably be a chapter entitled. "The Harvard Years." For the rest of your life, many people will designate your Harvard affiliation as the determining factor in your being. This will not always be a positive thing.

In short, you finally have enough room to exert absolute control over your life.

Use it wisely.

Edward F. Mulkenn III '96 doesn't often wax poetic.