Broken Dreams

IS THE LAST year or so I have been suffering from a recurrent nightmare, and perhaps some of you might be able to relate to it.

I am lying in bed asleep dreaming about Uncle Wiggly's magic tree house or something, when suddenly my door is kicked in I leap awake to see three heavily armed men in ski masks standing over one.

"What is this?" I cry, "I registered!!"

"Shut up!" One snarls, drawing back the bolt on his Schmeisser, "You're coming with us," I am just about to ask the tall one if he is my QRA advisor when a rifle butt crasher down on the back of my head.

I wake up in a cold, dank cell, tied to a chair. A hot light is shining in my face, blinding me, scoring me. "He's awake," someone snickers, "Who's got the cattle prod?"

"Help! Help!" I scream, but am answered only by my echoes, "Who are you people? Kidnappers? Terrorists?!" The only response is cruel laughter, "Who are you, then?" I gasp.

"Your worst nightmare, Admissions officer,"

"Heh? What do you want from me?"

"Answers, Like, why aren't you captain of the football team?"

"Whatdo you mean, why not? I don't play football any more!"

"It says here on your application would play, any wrestle,"

I am really staring to sweat, "Well that was before my knce injury,"

"Oh yes, your knee injury. But how does that present your from being Senior Editor of the Crimson, or Present of the Lampoon or head of the Undergraduate Council, or"

The list goes on and on as sweat pours from my body. At length ball up my application, and force me to eat it, "What have you done here?" one of my Inquisitors finally demands.

I mumble something about a paper of mine that a section leader liked, and they roar in derision, "The Uses of Back Hair Imagery in Paradise Lost?!"

"Well, she liked it..."

Enough of this crap," one growls, testing the period against the wall, "Why testing the prod against the wall, "Why haven't you done ant thing here?"

Fortunately, I usually wake up at this point, but I am still left haunted by that question, "Why don't people get in volved here?"

FTER VIOL of careful thought and a session with my Ouija board, I feel able to offer a particle explanation.

Harvard seares people out of living their application dreams.

Even the most cursory look around the shuttle bus or cafeteria will show why many people don't play sports here. An athletic injury put me out of Harvard students were put out of sports from birth. Although they would probably like to get involved, the 125 pound tackle being ground in to his seat,or the 255 pound coxswain over at the salad bar wallowing in cheese will never be in great demand on any field or river.

The Faculty of Arts and Science is also a great killer of ambition. While a pre-freshman can dream about being active in extracurricular activities, his dream will fade with his first 1000 page

reading list. Even if he goes to few practices or meeting, he will spend the whole time in misery, Knowing that 700 pages of The Role of Wheat in Medieval Latvian Politics or Warren Harding--Man or Myth are waiting for him in room.

Woe to the person who wants to be politically organizations for a student to join, many have become so polarized that often only the most radical, rabid people join them. At Harvard, even the most conservative liberal is called a Bolshevik is called a fascist. For those who seek a more neutral atmosphere in the realm of student government, just as much conflict awaits.

However, whereas the national interest groups fight over such issues as Nicaragua and the MX missile, the violence at House Committee meetings usually rages over such issues as the cost effectiveness of Styrofoam cups.

For those who dream of becoming literary titans, the terror of the comp awaits. Although many are told that "comp" is short for "Competence." Anyone who has ever comped can give you a number of other possible origins for the word, including "complete nervous breakdown," or "compulsory self-degradation."

Indeed, there is perhaps no more humbling experience in the world than taking one's first comp piece to his adviser. Line by line, paragraph by paragraph, the writer is emasculated. The most one can hope for is a kind "This stinks," or some other system pathetic comment which does the job in one fell blow. Unfortunately, most compers are subjected to the slow method, slieing along word by word, phrase by phrase, with comments like "Oh, I don't know about this adjective," or "Have you ever really seen nuns wrestle?"

FOR THOSE who are strong enough to finish a comp, or sit through a committee meeting, or even walk on to the football team, however, the benefits are enormous. For those who make it in polities, there is the assurance that no pleasantries or treachery will ever surprise them in the course of their CIA careers. For those who are elected to a publication, there is the knowledge that things can only get better once the ego has been destroyed, and, most importantly, that once they have made it, they can set get away with anything.

For those who give up, there is the cattle prod.