The College's Bevy of Bureaucrats

If you looked at Harvard's administrative structure as a combination of the features of two unforgettable buildings, the Science Center and Memorial Hall, you wouldn't be far off. The University bureaucracy has in the past decade acquired the streamlined, ultramodern but still sprawling look that characterizes the steel-and-glass Science Center. But to students who need something from it or, more often, are forced into its corridors, the Harvard administration continues to share the Byzantine complexity and grotesque illogic of Memorial Hall.

It's not that the system doesn't work--in fact, it manages to govern Harvard with more stability and flexibility than many other schools' set-ups. But it certainly does not have any pretense of catering directly to student needs. The same decentralization that keeps most offices in the black, and leaves few officials with overwhelming areas of responsibility, makes it almost impossible for students--especially freshmen--to know where to go when they have complaints or questions. The absence of any full-fledged, respected student government that can both collect student opinions and send them into the right office so that they can't be ignored only makes things worse.

The first thing you need to know is that there are actually two bureaucracies that will share the Yard with you throughout the year. Massachusetts Hall--the Yard's oldest brick-and-ivy structure--houses the University administration. President Bok and his bevy of vice president oversee the College and all of the graduate schools, as well as all other University affiliates, from this unassuming perch. Across the way, in University Hall, more impressive and dominating by far, sits the College administration--the building's name is meant to confuse you. Here Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences (FAS) Henry Rosovsky and his team make the decisions that will mold you life at Harvard, and the odds are if you visit any offices at all you'll visit University Hall.

Rosovsky has made a national name for himself as the architect and promoter of the Core Curriculum. His interest in undergraduate education, however, does not extend so far as to include actual contact with many students, and even if it did, his mountains of work as dean of the Faculty would still occupy him. As chairman of the Committee on Houses and Undergraduate Life (CHUL), he's in touch with students from each House and with freshmen representatives, too. But Rosovsky's attitude towards students participating in his large fiefdom surfaced during the development of the Core. At first, Rosovsky wanted to leave students entirely out of the process that would determine the courses they will have to take for the next decade or two, but scattershot outbreaks of indignation among students convinced him to allow non-voting student members on each Core committee. Of course, they weren't allowed to report to other students on the proceedings--that would leave too much room for student input.

Rosovsky's right-hand man--Ariel to his Prospero, to cast them benignly--is John B. FoxJr. '59, dean of Harvard College. It's Fox's job to implement Faculty policies in the College; since a stir over his housing plan three years ago, he's managed to do so while keeping a pretty low profile among students--despite his 6 ft. 8 in. height. Fox is the final arbiter of policies affecting undergraduate life--everything from how expensive your breakfast is to how spacious your suite is. Fox also wears another hat as chairman of the Administrative Board. Harvard's High Court for students who who are in trouble, academically or otherwise.

Archie C. Epps III, dean of students is probably the highest-level College administrator you'll get any response from. Urbane, relatively friendly, and one of Harvard's most important black officials, Epps manages the inchoate collection of student organizations here from his busy office. He's also the head disciplinarian for undergraduates, carrying out whatever sentences the Ad Board hands down, so no matter how amiable he is, he might not be the man to go to in a pinch.

The Freshman Dean's Office is a small satrapy by Harvard standards--and, having recently moved out of University Hall to Prince House, on Prescott St, it's out of the mainstream of the College administration. But as the only office devoted entirely to the care and feeding of freshmen, you're assured more attention here. Henry C. Moses, dean of freshmen, brings a gung-ho enthusiasm to his job that excites and pleases many students--usually those who are as enthusiastic as he is--but sometimes turns off students with real problems who find no succor in his blandishments.

It might be a good idea to get to know your senior adviser, since the Yard senior advisers are the Ad Board representatives for freshmen. If you falter academically or otherwise during the year, you will be up before the Ad Board--or rather, your case will. You won't be, since one of the Ad Board's operating rules is that students cannot represent themselves. Upperclassmen are represented by their House senior tutors, freshmen by their senior advisers, so they are your defenders, like it or not.

When you have specific questions during Freshman Week or therafter--about advanced standing requirements, about extracurricular activities, about your psychotic roommate who threatened your life--you're much better off approaching a middle-level bureaucrat on his own turf than shooting too high. These men tend to share a thorough competence in their fields, and a willingness to help students as long as they accept certain ground rules.

Glen W. Bowersock '57, associate dean of the Faculty for undergraduate education, is a classics scholar and an extremely able, accessible administrator. If you're totally confused or bewildered about your academic career and can frame coherent questions, a trip to his office might prove valuable.

If changing personal finances make you initial plans for paying your term bill unfeasible, R. Jerrold Gibson '51, director of the Office of Fiscal Services, usually knows the best program or method of financing your education. Gibson is a friendly face in the Holyoke Center wasteland, and more helpful than the Financial Aid Office underlings, who will throw every rule in the book at you.

John R. Marquand and Judith B. Walzer, the assistant deans of the Faculty, are both extremely knowledgable about the College bureaucracy and might be able to help you find ways out of your difficulties that your adviser or proctor would be unable to suggest.

More important than knowing the specific office or official who can help you, though, is simply the willingness to trudge from office to office until you've accomplished your goal. The corridors you'll wait in may be filled with lines of people waiting for audiences, and your tete a tete with an administrator may prove discouraging or unfruitful, but at least you will be taking some form of action. It's better than sitting in your room bemoaning your fate.

Harvard has more, and more intractable, red tape than any institution you'd care to name short of the federal government. Learning how to deal with it--how to take "no" for an answer, or how to persuade people you're only bending the rules when you're really breaking them--can be the most frustrating part of your freshman year. But if you don't learn how to do it now, you'll run into troublesome petty restrictions, over and over, until you do. It's at least as important as learning which Harvard building is which