East From California:

Adjusting to Harvard is no easy task for any freshman. Just remember that the process of adaptation involves three fundamental steps: Step 1--learn to ignore; Step 2--adapt without conforming; Step 3--don't deny your origins. And keep in mind that getting used to Harvard takes a long time. For some, it never happens.

For me, the adaptation period lasted three years. When I first got to Harvard, I convinced myself that adjustment was proportional to the distance traversed in getting to Cambridge. The rationalization was a good one for me, since my home is in California.

California: home of Richard Nixon, Charlie Manson, Patty Hearst and the SLA. California: the only state where Hollywood stars can tap dance their way into the political arena. California: land of sunshine, palm trees, and earthquakes.

The leap from California to Currier House, might not phase Evil Knievel's desires, but it devastated me. I was overwhelmed. The transition from barefeet and beaches to Top-Siders and cobblestones was easy enough to deal with. But it was the personal confrontation with Harvard people who were both mystified and threatened by my homestate that jarred my puerile sensibilities about Harvard into Step 1 of the adaptation process. I learned to ignore.

I became a master at ignoring comments that would seep out of the mouths of unthinking minds. I was plagued by arrogant comments like: "Californians are lightweights and are only concerned with flaunting their tanned bodies," or "If California can produce a Nixon, it's got to be a sick place." At first I would fight back and defend myself from further attack. But I soon realized that a defensive strategy would never quell the ignorance of such stereotyped ideas.

So, I began to smile at the jabs and wise comments. I would disregard the sublime smiles when the Beachboys' "I wish They All Could Be California Girls" played on a nearby stereo. And I got wise to the telephone calls from horny freshmen who, after scanning the Freshman Register, would come on with a line like: "I've always wanted to know a California girl."

To make matters worse, not only was I a California, but I was reared in that affluent ghetto of Beverly Hills. I grew tired of people who would ask me what movie stars I knew intimately, or if Jed Clampett lived next door. Little did they realize that I lived on the south side of the tracks.

Admittedly, I am not a native-born Californian. I was born in Cleveland and never wanted to leave Ohio when I was ten. But my father managed to convince my family that California was the place to be. He bribed my siblings and myself with the promise of surfboards and a quick Hollywood drug store discovery which would lead to stardom and glitter. The promise, of course, was never upheld. To this day I remain a surfboardless unknown in the Hollywood scene. Still, my strongest identity ties are in California.

Sometime during the fall of my freshman year, I decided that I'd never feel entirely comfortable with myself if I continued to simply snub people. It wasn't enough to feel confident. I had to get involved and be vulnerable to the pain and insecurity of confrontation. I wanted desperately to be part of Harvard. I was intrigued by its traditionalism, put off by the elitism, but above all else, compelled by how different it was from California. So, I began the second step of adjustment: I consciously tried to adapt to Harvard without losing myself in that endless stream of conformity.

To begin with, instead of smiling at people while strolling through the Yard, I began to walk briskly with eyes averted--just like everyone else. I scrambled against traffic in the Square--just like everyone else. I learned how to meticulously drape a sweater around my neck in the fall and when winter set in, I discovered that I could don my woolen hat, scarf and mittens without feeling like I was dressing up for Halloween. After all, who needs mittens in Southern California unless you're skiing on the slopes of Mammoth Mountain?

By the time Spring rolled around, I was so deeply immersed in Harvard and the goings-on of my suitemates in the basement of Daniels Hall, that I lost sight of who I was and where I was one night when I overdosed on milk and cookies. I had become a non-entity, and conformity was to blame. In desperation I struggled to piece back together the confident me, the California me. But it was too late. My concerted efforts in the adaptation process had failed miserably. My only recourse was to return to the homefront to regain my senses. Back to California, my natural habitat.

After a peaceful, sun-filled summer, I was re-energized by the solar rays and comforts of home. I rediscovered the casual, friendly, and easy-going manner of the majority of people at home and even the plastic L.A. sensations. And it was no wonder that they were healthy, relaxed human-beings--they didn't have to spend six months of the year cramped indoors because of the slushy snow and dismal rain outside.

Nonetheless, I returned to Harvard that fall and quickly befriended the resident cynics of Adams House. Our sordid late night discussions about freshman year adjustments curdled my stomach and made me yearn for the complacency of the West coast. We endlessly talked about Harvard's malignant llness and worried that we were especially susceptible to infection of the Harvard germ since we were already suffering from a mild case of Sophomore Slump. The seed of the well-known germ--ambition--could easily generate into a sick and competitive need to achieve, produce, and be known. We were depressed, felt oppressed by the confines of the "world's greatest university", and wanted to avoid becoming diseased at all costs.

I grew weary from all the talk. Friends would wallow in their self-pity and depression. I began to hate Harvard and resented myself for ever wanting to be part of it.

I junked my Harvard career in the spring of sophomore year. I withdrew from the university with no intention of returning and transferred to Stanford University. I figured that Stanford was the perfect compromise: I could continue my education at the "Harvard of the West" while simultaneously enjoying the pleasures of California. I figured wrong. When strangers said hello to me while walking by on campus, I would quicken my pace and look the other way. How well I had learned my lessons at Harvard.

The "Harvard of the West" turned out to be little more than a conservative country club run in the guise of a university, one of the nation's best in fact. Though beautiful bodies and bare chests would occasionally saunter into classrooms after a rugged set of tennis, the brains attached to those bodies weren't always turned on.

Don't get me wrong. Stanford has its fill of brilliant wonks and serious academicians. But the level of intellectual intensity doesn't compare to what you'll find at Harvard. Introspective souls do exist at Stanford even though they don't have the green and pallid "Underground Man" countenance of the driven Harvard neurotics. Discovery through suffering is not high on the priority list at Stanford mostly because environmental advantages abound.

Stanford innoculated me against Harvard's disease that spring. But as happens with innoculations, I developed a fever that left me incapacitated. It's not that I wanted to suffer, but I craved Harvard. I had unknowingly been tainted by the elitist attitude that nothing could compare to Harvard. I was itching for those all-night discussions with my cynical friends, and I missed the vitality of Cambridge. To me, Stanford smacked of anti-intellectualism. I wanted out.

But my stint there broadened my perspective toward Harvard. I realized that Harvard was just as much a part of me as I was a part of California. I no longer feared or disdained the place. Instead, I could semi-objectively criticize its weaknesses and strengths. I was ready to meet Harvard head-on and no longer worried about becoming diseased by the place. Stanford's innoculation prevented growth of the germ which, I discovered, had been inside of me all along. Once I had recognized my ambitious nature, I could keep my competitive zeal in check and deal with Harvard people without developing compulsive anxiety attacks about who I was and where I was going.

So, I headed back to Harvard in the fall of my junior year. And though I had officially withdrawn from the university in February, Harvard had no qualms about my return as long as I could cough up the money. People greeted me with surprise. They'd playfully give me a hard time: "So the California chauvinist has returned!" I dug it.

Adaptation was easy because I felt so good. It was back again to small-time Ivy League football. The Cambridge humidity left me feeling akin to Blanche DuBois--avoiding all light and begging for another drink. But I got used to it. I was reacquainted with that compulsive Harvard desire to succeed, but I didn't conform. I actually had a good time when reading period rolled around and learned to avoid all talk about papers and exams. God, I was ecstatic about feeling so comfortable, so good. At long last: end of Step 2.

Now I was ready to understand Step 3: I could enjoy Harvard without denying my origins. It was a cinch. I became slightly confused, but pleased when friends would tell me that I have a California accent.

Denying one's origins is a hard thing to do unless you especially despise your parents or hometown. I never had to contend with ill-feelings toward either one, so Step 3 happened relatively effortlessly. But it's not all that simple. Since stereotyping is rampant at Harvard, people tend to deny parts of themselves that might be associated with some innocuous stereotype. For example, though I knew nothing about prep schools when I got to Harvard, I soon realized that they are the source of endless snide remarks. I met preppies who were truly embarrassed about their background. (Of course, there were those who prided themselves on where they had prepped.) In retrospect, I can only suggest facing up to where you are from and trying to understand how much of Harvard is you and how much of you is Harvard.

Adaptation, you understand, is a natural process, or so said Darwin. It simply happens. Awareness of adjustment facilitates comfort, but introspection can destroy. So be careful. It all boils down to Survival of the Fittest. And fitness at Harvard necessitates pain--lots of it.

I'm lucky. I have one year left here. Adjustment was a struggle, but the challenge was met. Now I can't wait to get out. I'll probably return to the West coast, but I am seriously thinking about spending more time at Harvard--for my 25th reunion at the turn of the century