Come the Sophomore Revolution...

Armageddon had not come.

I was disappointed.

Nostradamus, The Crimson, and other prophets of doom had been mistaken. Nary a multi-color "click" pen had been thrown, nor any "bell-ringing beef" flung upon the arrival of the randomized sophomore class into the houses. Despite valiant attempts to polarize the situation (e.g. disproportionate gender ratios), the class struggle described in Karl Marx's little-known Harvardesque Manifesto has yet come to pass.

Perhaps I had bought into the propaganda surrounding the sophomore integration. I, a student living on the front line formerly known as North House, was hoping to dodge explosive orgo books and in turn assault vicious thesis writers with a semi-automatic barrage of hard-core industrial music. I and the other sophomores were supposed to make a difference. I am saddened by the fact that we have yet to succeed in our effort to overcome our upper-class foes with our lack of collective individuality. In trying to rationalize the state of peace, I developed several hypotheses.

One hypothesis is that the upper-class students are just really nice people. Barney, the oversized purple potato of a dinosaur, seems nice too. But who's kidding whom? Inside that eggplant exterior lies a thought-controlling devil worshipper, just as behind that calm, friendly upperclass facade is the visage of a maniacal killer, waiting to snare some naive, unsuspecting sophomore for use as a sacrificial offering to the thesis gods.

The second possibility is that with the retirement of Dining Services Director Michael P. Berry last year, the new guard has revamped the menu and included campus-wide mind control by adding grade-A, nutritionist-approved neuromodulators to the diet. Rumor has it that the "savory-baked tofu" never tasted better. However, this could never be pulled off, for like the "fresh-squeezed" taste of the Vitality juice or "authentic curry" that we are served, imitation or generic thought control substances are never on par with the genuine article.

Thus, the dominant hypothesis that remains is that of the awesome power of coping skills. Yes, coping skills. These are the same coping skills that let you move on after you get dumped by your significant other or when your favorite childhood pet runs away. True--coping at Harvard is not a new thing. Freshman year we tolerated and even grew to love the roommate who never took showers, constantly referred to itself in the third person, and insisted on practicing the tuba at 7 a.m. on weekends. Likewise, slowly but surely we even came to accept that pre-meds are not automatons but members of the human race as well.

Consequently, being the resourceful Harvard students that we are, we have applied these skills to the House situations. True, to a certain degree, sophomores and upper-class students have prevented conflict through avoidance by eating at different tables and passing each other silently in the hallways. Still others have taken a self-effacing approach by modifying their actions--turning down the volume of their stereo or ignoring the existence of loud carousing.

Nonetheless, this is all very dismaying. This year is the only opportunity for real class conflict. Soon the powers of randomization will bring greater homogeneous diversity. But I have hope yet. Finals have yet to take place and theses are not yet due.

We, the sophomores, should disdain to conceal our views and aims. Our dominance can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. Let Drag Night never be the same again. Let the pre-med hotline never ring. Let the upper-class students tremble at a sophomore revolution. We have nothing to lose but our homogeneity. We have a university to win.

Sophomores of all houses, unite!