An Open Letter to the Aspiring Burglars of Wigglesworth

Since 1931, a menacing shadow has loomed over Harvard Yard. I’m referring, of course, to Wigglesworth Hall.

Wigglesworth, for those fortunate enough to be unfamiliar, has the honor of being the Yard’s “longest dormitory,” though its proponents seem unaware that more of something is only good if the thing in question is good to begin with. Known colloquially as “Wigg,” the hall was hastily conceived as a utilitarian way to house all freshmen sardine-style in the Yard.

The administration failed to anticipate that they were constructing not just a dorm, but a crime-ridden nightmare.

Wigglesworth’s lack of hall spirit and proximity to Massachusetts Ave make it an easy target for anyone with sticky fingers and a casual disregard for the law — so much so that one disgruntled former resident would easily dub it “Harvard’s burglary capital.” But perhaps the real crime is that each resident, by dint of being placed in Wigglesworth, has been robbed of a potentially transformative college experience.

Burglarized in 2018, 2020, and again in 2022, the hall apparently offers no deterrent other than the possibility that there’s simply nothing left to steal. Wigg is to burglars what the John Harvard statue is to tourists — a can’t-miss attraction. But has it always been this way? Yes.

In the 1990s, two men knocked on a Wigglesworth window around 4:30 a.m. and requested $5, claiming they would return it. The resident, generous to a fault, obliged. Minutes later, the men returned with a knife and demanded more. Not to be outdone, the student forked over another $4, which somehow seemed to appease his rapacious aggressors.

But crooks are far from the only hazard. Rife with architectural faults, Wigglesworth has proven to be its own worst enemy. In 1996, a student fell from a third-floor window, narrowly dodging the spiked fence below, and was saved by what was only described as “heavily mulched” ground. Residents were apparently intimidated into silence regarding the incident, as one student confessed, “I am not supposed to talk about it.”

And again in the ’90s, a resourceful band of Wigglesworth miscreants attempted to hire a birthday “strip-o-gram” for a friend. The stripper never arrived, but Harvard police did, proving once more that nothing goes quite as planned in Wigglesworth.

And then there are the (un)natural disasters. In 1977, smoke filled room G-31, forcing residents to evacuate into the night as they “soaked up the stars.” The fire department arrived promptly, but the real tragedy, one might say, was that the dorm was spared from the conflagration.

Wigglesworth does, of course, have one claim to fame. Bill Gates lived there — though “lived” is putting it generously, as any previous resident might attest. One could argue that Gates’ decision to drop out the following year and found Microsoft was driven less by entrepreneurial drive and more by the desire to escape his abysmal accommodations. Had he been placed in Thayer Hall, Matthews Hall, or even one of the middling halls, would Gates still have fled? It’s impossible to know, but I assume not. In fact, in his half hour 2007 Commencement address, Gates never even deigns to utter the word “Wigglesworth.” Very telling.

While the spirits of Wigglesworthians have routinely fallen, Wigglesworth ignominiously remains standing. A one-star Google review summed it up best: “was not worth the wiggles.” With President Ronald Reagan in mind, therefore, I make this urgent appeal: Mr. Garberchev, tear down this hall!

But until that day comes, to prospective burglars, I say this: have mercy. These freshmen have suffered falls, fires, fraud, and frustration. Let’s not add filching to their litany of grievances.

Isaac R. Mansell ’26, a Crimson Editorial Editor, is an Economics concentrator in Kirkland House and thanks God every day for having not been placed in Wigglesworth.