You, Me, Di-ver-si-ty

“In this bright future you can’t forget your past.” –Bob Marley

Before I came to Harvard, I thought I could be anyone I wanted. Doctor, astronaut, proud owner of a $2 million yacht, you name it. I had only to try hard enough—earn top grades, be accepted to the right university, and avoid meth and crack (cocaine was a go—rich white people and Obama did it), and I could cross any barriers—reach further than the unwritten limits of my circle of friends and family. That was what my mom told me, and who was I to question the zany woman who gave me life?

It was only when I first set foot in Harvard Yard—the first weekend of April senior year (I couldn’t go to Visitas because my high school’s Jello Wrestling competition was the same weekend, and I obviously had to defend my junior year title)—that I began to realize that “anyone I wanted” might be someone I wasn’t; that the recent slew of articles debunking the American Dream as myth and decrying the lack of social and economic mobility in the U.S. might not exclude Harvard.

I didn’t know exactly why I felt uncomfortable being myself that first weekend—maybe it was because I was the only pre-frosh, had been lost for three days straight, didn’t have swipe access, and ended up sitting outside my host’s dorm for 20 minutes, waiting to be let in, before Dean Thomas A. Dingman ’67 made an appearance and informed me that the step I was occupying was not, in fact, the entrance to Pennypacker, but rather the Freshman Dean's Office. (You might not remember me, Dean Dingman, but I will always attribute my choosing Harvard to your melodious vocal cords.)

And yet there was another formidable moment from that weekend worth mentioning—the moment I asked my host about financial aid.

I can’t deny that she was helpful, explaining the logistics of the Student Events Fund and all the other free money the school so generously bestows on students. But what I remember most from the conversation was her telling me how easy it was for students to keep their financial aid status secret—how even roommates could be, and often were, kept in the dark. It quickly became obvious that financial aid wasn’t something people talked about.

I was confused. Why would the help that 60 percent of the student body reportedly receives not be a topic of discussion? And how could anyone form close friendships without divulging this kind of personal information?

Back home, money and social class were openly and casually discussed—none of us felt defined by our financial or social status. Yet when I got to Harvard, I began to feel increasingly defined by my background—a background no one on campus really knew about. I began to realize why my former host assured me that my financial aid status would be easy to hide. Because that was exactly what I did. It was as if my pre-Harvard self had become irrelevant.

Except it wasn’t.

During one of my more sentimental moments, I told a friend that I felt like no one at Harvard actually knew me. Rather than plunging into one of those deep, bare-all revelations about his past experiences and insecurities, he gave the Harvard-esque answer I was hoping we’d avoid. He explained that we don’t have to know each other’s pasts, that all we need to know about each other is who we are now. I knew I didn’t agree, but at the time I couldn’t articulate why.

My friend’s argument, in retrospect, rings a little hollow and sounds a whole lot like a white person saying that race is not an issue for her—that it’s safely in the background.

Students from disadvantaged backgrounds may now have a voice here, an institution historically reserved for only the most elite and privileged, but that doesn’t mean they always feel comfortable being heard.

When we get here, we join clubs that fit our interests. We talk about race in Kuumba or Fuerza Latina. Or about being from Texas in the Texas Club. When people that are similar to us surround us, sharing is comfortable and easy. But while it’s vital to have these spaces to feel safe on campus, learning and growing rarely involve being comfortable.

Whether it's a black student not talking about her race with her white friends, or a financial aid recipient not talking about her money issues with her upper-class roommates, there is a problem. When social class, race, and all the other the other characteristics that put the “diverse” in diversity are not discussed, changing the unwritten rules becomes impossible.

Maybe it’s time to address the uncomfortable, to get to know not only classmates’ presents but also their pasts. Not only might this break down social barriers and help us achieve some real mobility—if we really take the time and effort to learn about one another, we might even like what we find.

Gabriela E. Weldon ’16, a Crimson editorial writer, is a history and literature concentrator in Currier House.