Running a Rough Race

You are a great runner, one of the best. As you assess the new track, you don't see a possible defeat but instead another victory. Many of you have trained for this race your whole lives with personalized coaching and custom gear. Others have just stumbled across this place on your way to some other place. All of you are ready.

You meet the other runners whom you don't see so much as competition but as compatriots. As you assume the starting position and await the clap of the starter pistol, you can barely make out some older runners in the second, third and final legs of their race. Some of them seem to be cheering you on, but most are indifferent. A few come up to you and warn you that the race is no fun at all. They urge you to pull out, give up. But you don't. You tell yourself, "Maybe they couldn't make it, but I can."

And you're off! You and your comrades are off to a beautiful start. Legs pumping, chest heaving, wind racing through your hair, you revel in the energy. This is the best track you've been on yet, and the other runners are the best you've seen. As you lean into the curve, you pass the crumpled bodies of veterans and tell yourself they must not have felt like you do now. If they did, they'd still be running.

As you lean into the curve, you notice people with stopwatches ahead. It's much too early to pass the baton, and you didn't ever remember someone being on the track to get your split time. As you near the accountants of time, you see frowns upon their shaking heads. You wonder what could be wrong, but you keep running. As you pass the accountants, they yell to you, "Not good enough!" Fallen veterans on the field wave fingers of "I told you so," and your own confidence slackens. Your quadriceps begin that low burning feeling and then you notice that your comrades are not so cohesive as before. You lower your head and try to power through the back-stretch. You refuse to become a sidelined sucker. You know you can run this race. But you can't. Midway through the straightaway, you hit the wall.

All of your hopes, plans and confidence are gone. You become bitter at the crowd of vets laughing, at your old coaches and at yourself. You look to your left and look to your right, and you see no one, nothing. So you look up. The sky is dark, the winds are accelerating and it's getting cold. You are tired and barely jogging. You stumble over your own mediocrity and join the suckers on the sideline. You stop running altogether. You have just arrived at Harvard College.

In general, Harvard is a cool place. Everyone is an amazing future leader, blah, blah, blah. Underneath, however, we are, for the most part, much less dynamic. Our parties end at 1 a.m., dating is a revolutionary concept, and our dreams of improving the lot of the world soon change to getting a lot of loot for ourselves at the expense of the world. I have seen this over the past two years and think I have identified the point of conversion. After an initial injection of life and inspiration, forces conspire against student life and turn us all into grumpy-----.

This injection of life is popularly known as the first-year class. I love these kids. After the departure of many jaded and cynical seniors who have sold themselves out, this new crop of eager beavers offers the rarest of commodities in the Harvard market-place: excitement, joy, happiness and genuine curiosity. They have not yet learned to speak the words "too busy," "no time," and "no fun" in the context of their new school.

The forces conspiring against us converge in mid-to-late-October. Their ranks include the abusive parental pair of Mother Nature and Father Time. Nature unleashes her arctic winds upon us, and Time steals our sunlight. Also implicated in the plot are our esteemed professors--who break fundamental laws of mathematics with the administration of multiple midterms--and our own sense of self-doubt.

The result is that around this time of year, first-years and the rest of us begin to doubt ourselves. Should we be here? Maybe we should not have taken Computer Science 50 or that fifth class. Maybe we should have just gone to Brown. These are some of the thoughts that occurred to me during my Hell Week (except the part about Brown; I mean, really). The point is that our campus suffers an emotional shift every year and causes a decline in our quality of life. So how do we counter it?

I'm not sure that we can entirely counter the sentiment because it is a part of life. There are always going to be immense challenges and difficulties in life, and anyone who expects otherwise is mentally divergent. The task is to make it through these extra rough spots in one emotional piece.

Think back on the fun of that first snowball fight in the yard, and do it again. (That's right, upperclass students, the next time it snows, go to the Yard and beat up first-years). Look up from the ground every once in a while and see the beautiful campus that surrounds us because before you know it, most of you will be trapped in some nasty urban center, working a job and regretting that you did not try more to enjoy your college experience.

Last, remember that this race, which is really no race at all, is one of many on our life journeys. We are not in it to beat everyone else, but instead to improve upon ourselves. If we should stumble, perhaps it is because our laces were untied or we needed to move at a different pace. Whatever the case may be, let's accept the challenges and move on because before we know it, this part of the journey will have passed us by.

Baratunde R. Thurston '99, a Crimson editor, lives in Claverly Hall.