Mythical Harvard

What is the real Harvard, the Harvard that continues to exist in the reality of its students and not merely in the myth of its memory? Sometimes I feel that the true Harvard only comes alive at night. The tourists are gone, the air is hushed, and the lights from the first-year dorms shine in the night--from the middle of the Yard, the lights could even be glistening candles, not halogen lamps. This is the image of Harvard that brought me here: a Harvard of un-bricked fireplaces, dusty books buried in Widener and Houghton Libraries and benches dedicated to alumnae in Radcliffe Yard. It is the image of Harvard that I glimpsed at wondrous moments during my first year here, one that sometimes comes back to me as I walk home from the Science Center after evening sections. In those moments, late at night, I believe that if I listen hard enough, I can even hear the sound of horses on the cobblestones around Mass. Ave.

More often than not, we students walk with our heads down and our minds full, thinking of exams, problem sets and papers that are soon due, "as if we had the weight of the world on our shoulders," my first-year proctor used to missing that Harvard, the Harvard of calm, walks and glistening lights, the Harvard that has survived for more then three centuries--the Harvard of old.

My interviewer for Harvard, an alumnus from the '60s, said his favorite memories of Harvard were the conversations he engaged in while sitting in the dining hall. The ideas written down on napkins and the intellectual debate, he told me were more astounding than he ever experienced in any classroom, or than he has experienced since--and these are the things that stayed with him. There are times when I yearn for this Harvard, but then I wonder: does that Harvard really exist, or is it only a myth?

Today, in the upper-class dining halls, most students don't indulge in intellectual debates about philosophy, classics or even current political situations. But I cannot say that I always mourn this change. Nowadays, dinner brings with it a certain sense of comfort, filled instead with down-to-earth conversations about classes and television shows. Does this mean that the mythical intellectual Harvard is dead?

Prefects are told to bridge the gap between the mythical, surreal image of Harvard and the real College for their first-years so that the new students can have a place within Harvard. That bridge, the philosophy that inspires the prefect program follows, will make first-years feels more at home. I do not disagree with that idea. But I wonder what is lost when we cross that bridge. I remember the wonder that I arrived with when I first came here the wonder of feeling a part of a long and lofty tradition. Much of my excitement about coming to Harvard was unique because coming to Harvard was unique because of its rich past and age-old myths. The great irony, though, was that although Harvard's allure came from its history, a history that was supposed to become mine, as well, I didn't feel myself related to it in any way.

This double-consciousness, so to speak, this simultaneous feeling of enchantment with the mythical Harvard of old and a sense of irreconcilable distance between me and that memory, pushed me to question what in mythical Harvard is worth preserving and what needs to be jettisoned. The old money, established, white, male Harvard no longer represents the diverse student body that pulses on this campus. But does our present diversity and understanding of past exclusions mean we have to reject this institution's past? I think we can draw insight from the examples of American immigrants. Just as those who immigrate to this country adopt the American Revolution as their revolution of independence, despite the chasms of class, race and ethnicity that may divide modern immigrants to the Minute Men of two centuries ago, we, too can feel connected to Harvard's history, even though it may contain no one who looks or acts like us.

At the same time, it would be irresponsible and naive to believe that we must accept all of Harvard's history without challenge or discretion. Instead, we must learn from the exclusions of the past and let them guide us as we work to make Harvard a more inclusive and diverse place. Our attempts at change, through the Alternative Senior Gift Fund (to increase the number of women and minorities in the Faculty) or through any of the other avenues students take, should not be viewed as a rejection of Harvard's past. Rather, it is our attempt, grounded in a deep awareness of Harvard, its history and traditions, to push Harvard to continue to be at the fore front education, a leader of progress and equality. In our challenge is not revolution; not only have we accepted Harvard's past, but we have adopted it as our own. Only because of the feeling of commitment to the institution of Harvard do we work to make it a better place.

Upon first arriving here, Harvard was imbued with an indelible aura, a mythical glamour the color of Crimson tradition. Although the glamour was alluring, it was also distancing. Places with so much history and so much grandeur rarely lend themselves to intense personal involvement or relationship. Over the years, the glow fades. Part of me mourns this loss, the end of enchantment. However, perhaps it is for the best that Harvard loses its rosy glow as we live here. When the College loomed so large, we felt too small to impact its future; as its size diminished, our power and desire to engage with it and to change what we could increased. My newfound commitment to the University comes from this awareness of my own potential to change it. But for all the possibilities that I now have, I remain greatly nostalgic whenever I think about the time when I could almost hear the clip-clop of horses on the bricks of Mss Ave.

Tanya Dutta is associate editorial chair of The Crimson.