A Tale of Two Cities

It is the night of the first meeting of Harvard's newly-born Student Assembly. In Science Center A, the noise level remains at a dull roar. Six candidates running for the position of chairman of the assembly stand before the group. Four are former members of the Constitutional Convention, one is a smooth-talking sophomore from Quincy House, and the other is dressed as a magician and promises to help disband the assembly.

As the candidates answer questions, applause, hisses and cheers rise from the throng of some 90 student representatives. The candidates try to satisfy potential voters with their responses to a question about what action the assembly members should take if the University ignores them.

Candidates utter words like "protest," "arrest," "jail," "march," "unity," and "fight." Many students seem in a combative mood, although they have yet to find an issue worth fighting over. The candidates are forced to answer questions revealing their stands on such issues as Harvard's investment policy and the constitution's minority representation clause.

The interest is high, and representatives are at ease, even cocky. Students stand up to make parliamentary points and either catch someone's interest or are ignored. The bickering never ceases. One representative sighs with exasperation, rolls his eyes to the ceiling and, two minutes later, becomes embroiled over a petty parliamentary point.

Three hours and a hundred-thousand words later, most of the representatives are still going at it. Now the issue is the Nestle's boycott. Many want to act quickly so the assembly can counter arguments that it will not act on substantive issues.

Steven V.R. Winthrop, one of the more right-leaning candidates, chairs the meeting. The debate is still intense, the fever high. A motion to boycott Nestle's passes, and the assembly recesses for a week. As students leave, they tell other representatives things they would have liked to have said during the debate had they been recognized.

* * *

Four days later, the Committee on Houses and Undergraduate Life (CHUL) convenes for the first time this year around a huge, finely-crafted wooden table in University Hall's historic Faculty Room. Former presidents and deans stare steadfastly from their places on the wall.

Many Faculty members and administrators are meticulously dressed and groomed. Even some of the students are wearing coats and ties or expensive-looking dresses. An air of solemnity hangs over the room as Dean Rosovsky bangs his gavel and calls the meeting to order. Like a fastidious schoolmarm, he gives his usual speech on the necessity of punctuality.

During a question-and-answer period students inquire about calendar reform, dining hall renovations, and student efforts to end University funding for the Radcliffe Union of Students. Administrators perfunctorily answer the questions, usually somewhat awkwardly. The time alloted to the question-and-answer period runs out, and Rosovsky moves on to the next item on the agenda, strictly adhering to time limits for each.

Rosovsky halts debate on several issues, and the meeting continues despite protests that the CHUL has not discussed the issues thoroughly. Throughout the meeting Archie C. Epps III, dean of students, and Dean Fox sit to the side of Rosovsky, speaking seemingly at will. Many House masters are also there, along with the students, who are outnumbered 21-15.

The debate drones on as Rosovsky slumps in his chair huddled around his pipe. CHUL members sift through a huge pile of reports, subcommittee recommendations, and position papers. As the time limit approaches, Rosovsky quickens the pace. The meeting ends; no one mentions the new Student Assembly. A lot has been decided. The house is in order until next month or so.