The Way to Happiness

Prefects spend most of their time the first week or two explaining their presence in freshpeople's lives. The party line is that we give first-years a chance to meet upperclass students who will then guide them with loving wisdom through the intricacies of Mother Harvard.

After almost a month as a first-time prefect, however, I can tell you the real rationale behind sending two cynical, overworked elders to have milk and cookies with impressionable young minds once a week. It's an administration plot to restore our faith in Harvard and create happy and optimistic upperclasspeople.

I had doubts last year as to my suitability as a prefect. "I don't bounce," I said to a good friend who is a veteran prefect. "I'm not an irrepressibly cheerful person and I find it difficult to be enthusiastic about anything except my hometown."

She placated me with some lie about different kinds of personalities, but I still worried.

I worry no longer. Now I know the secret behind my friend's sunny nature and optimistic smile. She's been hanging around freshpeople for three years.

Talked to a first-year lately? You'd be surprised how much happier you'll feel afterwards. They actually like being here. They think college is fun. Sure, getting a job is tough and it would've been nice to pass the QRR the first time around. But look at all the neat things there are to do here. Sure, their courses seem to have a lot of reading and two hour sections, but isn't that what they're at Harvard for? To learn?

Their attitude can be infectious. My entryway's study breaks are becoming the highlight of my week. I arrive at Pennypacker after working at the Poetry Room for five hours. The last thing I feel like doing is being cheerful about anything. Were I to go home, I would probably yell at my roommate.

But as a prefect, I get an adrenaline rush even before I have one of my proctor's cookies. These students actually know my name and act like I could have something significant to say about their lives. It's nice to feel wanted.

And then there is their enthusiasm.

One room gave a party the first week of classes and invited everyone they knew--black tie only. They spent the better part of two days cutting out construction paper stars to put on their ceiling, creating a party mix tape and decorating the room with hats and different colored lightbulbs. They even found a strobe light. Most upperclass folk I know still have an unpacked box or two sitting on their common room floor.

Last week, as the study break was ending, two of the guys in the next room began playing duets on the violin and cello. Within minutes, 10 or 15 people from different suites had gathered on their floor to listen to Mozart and Pachelbel. Very excited, more than one of my freshpeople said "Wow, now I know I'm at Harvard." (This really happened. I swear.)

Then there was the guy who told me about the Comp. Lit. class he had shopped. The reading list was sort of long and he thought he was probably the only first-year there, but he'd really liked the lecture and what did I think? I asked him what else he was taking and was told Slavic A, Expos and Chem 10.

My face probably gave me away because he said, "I know it'll be a lot of work, but isn't that what I'm here for? Everyone keeps telling me to take a gut, but I want to take classes because I like them and want to learn something. I didn't think that would be considered strange here."

I sat there thinking. "Wow, an actual intellectual at Harvard." I reassured him that intellectualism was fine at Harvard. Just a little uncommon.

I suggested he would enjoy going to the Cafe Pamplona (he'd already been) and that maybe he should comp The Advocate.

Still, his attitude toward school has stayed with me and has become one of the stories I tell my friends about this mysterious group of cheerful Harvardians. After I related another--about the girl who was taking Chem 20, Historical Studies A-12, Bio 2 and wanted to know if I thought she should take Math 25 or 21a--my friends started groaning.

One, however, stuck up for the sanity of first-year students. "You guys forget what it's like to be a freshman," she said. "They have so much more energy than we do. They can live on only four hours of sleep."

Perhaps the need for sleep is the secret to upperclass apathy. I certainly remember staying up a lot later when I lived in Pennypacker. I chose a class that met at nine every morning. Now I automatically eliminate any classes that meet before 11 a.m.

My memories of first year are empty of classical music jam sessions and parties as cool as the one thrown last week. Mostly I remember being unable to get past the crowds on the stairs due to Saturday night parties, comparing wretched foreign language experiences with friends, meeting debutantes for the first time, suffering through Dave Aronberg's incessant campaigning for U.C. rep and surviving a rooming group from hell.

I suppose it's possible that during the first month of my first year, I was as enthusiastic as this group is. It's even more likely that it's a lot more fun to be a visitor to first year life than it is to live it.

I won't write "Everything I ever need to know, I learned from my first years," just yet. But if any of my friends wonder why someone who used to define cynicism is walking around with a smile on her face, the answer is easy. Just ask a first-year.