If You're Here, You May Be There Already

Even if I had known then what I know now, I think I still would have done pretty much everything the same.

You all should know this comes from a Woman (yes, we're "women" now, "girls" no longer) whose first year was defined by aimless academics, pseudo-friendships and failed relationships as much as by anything else.

As a first-year I did the things I thought older, mature people did. It's been so long I hardly remember the alterations I effected from the high school me, but I'm sure at the time they seemed radical. There would be no more quick runs in parents' stationwagons to Strathmore Bagels during free periods, no more 90210, no more endless phone calls to friends who lived 20 feet away, no more mall.

A public school kid form the 'burbs of Long Island, I found these strong statements indeed.

College provided what seemed an ideal opportunity to start over. I began hanging out with people I thought had it together. I wanted to be like them. I thought they were cool--almost too cool for me, so I worked hard to catch up.

There was a guy. I won't name names because he, like most of my friends (who, nonetheless, I won't spare), could probably think of ways he'd rather earn his Harvard fame.

He lived upstairs. In my entry. In my teensy-tiny little dorm (Lionel--in size, the premature baby of the Yard).

You probably can guess where this is going, but for the nosiest among you, we met at our proctor's "Hi there, I'm..." meeting the day after we moved in. We started chatting about New York. Then it was, more dangerously, about life--over brandy.

Through the next few weeks we went rounds over whether our relationship was really a relationship and whether we wanted it to be. Though sometimes it was calculated, we legitimately couldn't help but pass by each other's rooms far too often. Stakes escalated quickly.

We'd sit in his room listening to opera and talking about art auctions, though it was unclear to both of us whether we were just wasting our time. He'd tell me about great wines, and I'd listen because I didn't know he was a poser, and I didn't know that's what I was trying to be.

More than I liked this guy, I wanted to be like him, to sound and talk and think like him and impress the people I had thought of as silly suburbanites--people like me.

This "relationship" lasted only as long as it took for me to realize that, as much as I liked the sound of our conversations, I didn't really like having them. So we stopped, and at about that time I came across someone with whom interacting put a little less strain on my psyche. He liked snuggling and Snoopy. I shifted into domestic mode, but miscalculated.

Two things were wrong: he didn't want to be domestic and I didn't want to be domesticwith him.

Rounds three and four were much the same,promising at first but ultimately disappointments.I was trying too hard to find in my first yearwhat lots of people don't find ever.

Of course, at the time I didn't realize thismight be unrealistic. It seemed to make sense thatI could find at least one--I don't know what tosay..."special friend?"--among thousands of themost interesting 18 years-olds on earth.

I did find one, later, long after I stoppedtrying or caring. Meanwhile, it was the Lionel B.crew, daft as they collectively were, that kept meentertained while I tried to figure out what thehell I was doing at Harvard.

Here's my brief Ode to Adam, my across-the-hallconfidant and the only person I know willing toplay Chinese checkers with me anytime, anyplace.Always blunt and always thinking, Adam waseverything me the poser thought was uncool buteverything me the me really loved.

At 3 a.m. over cups'o'noodles and Scrabble,he'd pretend I wasn't whining. He'd let me givehim advice about his love life, though he wassmart enough not to take it. He had spent enoughtime sorting through my self-made problems,spending nights sprawled across my uncarpetedfloor when I needed company, that he knew betterthan anyone what little business I had offeringanyone guidance about practically anything.

Clandestinely brilliant and conscientiouslyunpretentious, Adam was destined to be discovered.Never the star, Adam always had his admirers. Mosteverybody I know who knows him wishes they knewhim a little bit better.

So today it's a point of pride for me that hewas, and I hope remains (Adam, if you read this,please take note that I'm politely asking you notto retaliate for this violation of the sanctity ofyour secret life) my buddy.

The first year anywhere is hard. At Harvard I'msure it's harder. Surrounding you are people whoare amazing in their ways. Even if you are too,you might not feel it given the company you'llinevitably keep. One easy way to survive andprosper.

There are good people around. If you can figureout who they are, hang onto them. If you do,you'll be okay pretty much no matter what. It'sastonishing what winning a board game (even ifthey let you win) in the middle of the nightbefore you head into your last stretch of writinga paper can do for your morale.

For some first-years, friends from home or highschool or summer programs or classes orextracurriculars comprise their networks.Dorm-bonding is potentially far more volatile, butit can be, and in my case was, rewarding in itsintensity.

Other leading players in the cast of charactersfloating across the Lionel stage included matt,who was "Oklahoma-man" long before he knew we knewhe existed; Chris, whose sister and green backpackI met long before I figured out that Chris ofacross-the-hall was really Richard of Pittsburgh;and Dan, from whom I shied long before I realizedthat his dismissive California monotone was notdirected solely at me.

Like the siblings I never had, these guysfought with me, ate my food, stole mynewspapers--and even blindfolded and hung mySnoopy in their closet. I'm not sure I really wantthem to know this, but I loved it.

An only child, I grew up lamenting my lack ofplaymates. Suddenly I had more than I couldhandle, and I'm sure I didn't handle it very well.

It was more than novel to suddenly have peopleto hang out with anytime, all the time. I becameobsessive about being with my friends, bouncingform one to another as one fell off to do his orher "real" business at Harvard--going to study orsomething. I would just find a new game and a new,unoccupied friend.

It was great that there was Mark, who wouldpretty much always be up for a game of pool aslong as we could find a table within 10 miles. AndNadia, the Lionel B wanna-be who let me railroadher into doing all kinds of things that werestupid and useless but made life a little moreexciting.

And then there was DeLouis, who has yet tostraighten me out completely, even though mymother long ago gave him permission to use anymethods necessary to try.

I don't want to be preachy (and to those whomI'll annoy, please skip this paragraph) but I dohave one piece of useful, universal first-yearadvice to offer: find yourself a DeLouis.

I don't know if there's more than one outthere, but mine saved me life, my sanity andcountless trips home. We may not need mom and dadaround so much anymore, but as Western Unionconstantly reminds us, everybody needs somebodysometime.

DeLou hugged me when I needed it, hit me when Ineeded it, and reminded me of the obvious factthat, as a healthy Harvard student, things couldnever be as bad as I thought they were. From him Ilearned that one can be both ambitious andselfless, though he's the only person I've evermet whose quite gotten there.

And so, big bro, don't say I never acknowledgeyou. I hereby do that, and more--I want the classof 1999 to clone you.

In his crazy way, DeLouis symbolized--and infact pragmatically presented--what I had beenlooking for from the start: some security and aniche where the people I liked (really, secretlyliked) liked me back.

DeLouis and co. weren't out to impress, theywere out just to be.

It took a while, pretty much the whole longyear of me trying to overcome my disgust at thetypes of people I was with and the type of personI was becoming, to reconcile myself to that factthat what I really most wanted was just to be, andto be with my real friends.

It feels strange to offer up all this for whatis essentially public consumption when it wasn'treally so long ago that I consciously recognizedit in the first place. It's hard because I can'tkeep people who know me, and who know of what Iwrite, from reading this .

There's little greater accountability thanthat, and I know they know things about me that Idon't even know. I'm doing my best to be straight,not just because I don't want to waste your time,but also because I know there are people out therewatching.

It's a strain to write something like this--andto keep it true--without using a completely cheesyand/or completely condescending topic as a crutch.

I don't want to do that. And so, like anyjournalist in search of a more interesting story,I focus on the bad.

But I do love Harvard, in my way.

And what I love most about it, despite myendless debacles, was my first year. When I thinkback and wonder what I've gained from being here,it all pretty much centers around choices I mademany semesters ago.

My life then and my life now hardly seem tobelong to the same person, but it was then thatthe mold was cast. It just took me a while to fitinto it.

The first year I realized who I wasn't and whatI didn't want to be. There are so may amazingpeople you'll meet (though don't be disillusionedwhen you meet many who don't impress you--it'sonly a college, not a deity convention, after all)that you might be tempted to want to be like a lotof them. Secretly, most likely, a lot of them willwant to be like you.

But as Mufasa told Simba, (I had to toss in acheesy pop culture reference somewhere--it'spractically required. At least I waited thislong.) don't forget who you are. Your first yearwill be almost the only time when you meet yourclassmates. You'll feel like you're meeting theworld.

Within your group there will be a microcosm ofwhat's best among human life on earth. You canmost enjoy this if you're focused on yourclassmates, not on what they represent in relationto yourself.

And be serious about it now. After this yearyou probably won't see most of these people untilsenior spring, when you reconnect with human lifepost-thesis.

I didn't want to do this, but here's morepractical advice (from here on too-cool types aredismissed). It's all sort of random, but so is thefirst year at Harvard. That, you will learn foryourself.

Sit in the bleachers during a warm-evening RedSox game and help your drunken neighbors start thewave.

If you live in Lionel and it snows, eat chipsand salsa for dinner at the Border. it's closerthan the Union and at least this "free" food isgood.

Don't watch Melrose. Unnecessary stress.

Play smashball in the Yard.

Explore your dorm. Find secret places whereHarvard stores it nice office furniture and"borrow" it for the year.

If you find something cool like a chair thatboth you and your neighbors across the hall want,don't let them steal it. Shed blood first. Takeadvantage of the fact that older people expectfirst-years to be immature, so fight it out nowbefore it's too late.

Don't bother with the butter past. They neverreally stick.

If you live in Lionel or Mower, don't saythings you don't want your neighbors to hearanywhere near the bathroom. Be very careful withthis. It takes a while to realize that you havemore roommates than you think.

Post an entry calendar. Cite occasionalsightings of your proctor.

Have tea parties.

Be you. And be nice. Remember, you are atHarvard. The world is watching.

Tara H. Arden-Smith '96 is associatemanaging editor of The Crimson. She secretly likesFenway Park better than both Sotheby's and YankeeStadium.CrimsonAndrew L. WrightTARA H. ARDEN-SMITH '96 "posed" in Tuscanylast spring break.

Rounds three and four were much the same,promising at first but ultimately disappointments.I was trying too hard to find in my first yearwhat lots of people don't find ever.

Of course, at the time I didn't realize thismight be unrealistic. It seemed to make sense thatI could find at least one--I don't know what tosay..."special friend?"--among thousands of themost interesting 18 years-olds on earth.

I did find one, later, long after I stoppedtrying or caring. Meanwhile, it was the Lionel B.crew, daft as they collectively were, that kept meentertained while I tried to figure out what thehell I was doing at Harvard.

Here's my brief Ode to Adam, my across-the-hallconfidant and the only person I know willing toplay Chinese checkers with me anytime, anyplace.Always blunt and always thinking, Adam waseverything me the poser thought was uncool buteverything me the me really loved.

At 3 a.m. over cups'o'noodles and Scrabble,he'd pretend I wasn't whining. He'd let me givehim advice about his love life, though he wassmart enough not to take it. He had spent enoughtime sorting through my self-made problems,spending nights sprawled across my uncarpetedfloor when I needed company, that he knew betterthan anyone what little business I had offeringanyone guidance about practically anything.

Clandestinely brilliant and conscientiouslyunpretentious, Adam was destined to be discovered.Never the star, Adam always had his admirers. Mosteverybody I know who knows him wishes they knewhim a little bit better.

So today it's a point of pride for me that hewas, and I hope remains (Adam, if you read this,please take note that I'm politely asking you notto retaliate for this violation of the sanctity ofyour secret life) my buddy.

The first year anywhere is hard. At Harvard I'msure it's harder. Surrounding you are people whoare amazing in their ways. Even if you are too,you might not feel it given the company you'llinevitably keep. One easy way to survive andprosper.

There are good people around. If you can figureout who they are, hang onto them. If you do,you'll be okay pretty much no matter what. It'sastonishing what winning a board game (even ifthey let you win) in the middle of the nightbefore you head into your last stretch of writinga paper can do for your morale.

For some first-years, friends from home or highschool or summer programs or classes orextracurriculars comprise their networks.Dorm-bonding is potentially far more volatile, butit can be, and in my case was, rewarding in itsintensity.

Other leading players in the cast of charactersfloating across the Lionel stage included matt,who was "Oklahoma-man" long before he knew we knewhe existed; Chris, whose sister and green backpackI met long before I figured out that Chris ofacross-the-hall was really Richard of Pittsburgh;and Dan, from whom I shied long before I realizedthat his dismissive California monotone was notdirected solely at me.

Like the siblings I never had, these guysfought with me, ate my food, stole mynewspapers--and even blindfolded and hung mySnoopy in their closet. I'm not sure I really wantthem to know this, but I loved it.

An only child, I grew up lamenting my lack ofplaymates. Suddenly I had more than I couldhandle, and I'm sure I didn't handle it very well.

It was more than novel to suddenly have peopleto hang out with anytime, all the time. I becameobsessive about being with my friends, bouncingform one to another as one fell off to do his orher "real" business at Harvard--going to study orsomething. I would just find a new game and a new,unoccupied friend.

It was great that there was Mark, who wouldpretty much always be up for a game of pool aslong as we could find a table within 10 miles. AndNadia, the Lionel B wanna-be who let me railroadher into doing all kinds of things that werestupid and useless but made life a little moreexciting.

And then there was DeLouis, who has yet tostraighten me out completely, even though mymother long ago gave him permission to use anymethods necessary to try.

I don't want to be preachy (and to those whomI'll annoy, please skip this paragraph) but I dohave one piece of useful, universal first-yearadvice to offer: find yourself a DeLouis.

I don't know if there's more than one outthere, but mine saved me life, my sanity andcountless trips home. We may not need mom and dadaround so much anymore, but as Western Unionconstantly reminds us, everybody needs somebodysometime.

DeLou hugged me when I needed it, hit me when Ineeded it, and reminded me of the obvious factthat, as a healthy Harvard student, things couldnever be as bad as I thought they were. From him Ilearned that one can be both ambitious andselfless, though he's the only person I've evermet whose quite gotten there.

And so, big bro, don't say I never acknowledgeyou. I hereby do that, and more--I want the classof 1999 to clone you.

In his crazy way, DeLouis symbolized--and infact pragmatically presented--what I had beenlooking for from the start: some security and aniche where the people I liked (really, secretlyliked) liked me back.

DeLouis and co. weren't out to impress, theywere out just to be.

It took a while, pretty much the whole longyear of me trying to overcome my disgust at thetypes of people I was with and the type of personI was becoming, to reconcile myself to that factthat what I really most wanted was just to be, andto be with my real friends.

It feels strange to offer up all this for whatis essentially public consumption when it wasn'treally so long ago that I consciously recognizedit in the first place. It's hard because I can'tkeep people who know me, and who know of what Iwrite, from reading this .

There's little greater accountability thanthat, and I know they know things about me that Idon't even know. I'm doing my best to be straight,not just because I don't want to waste your time,but also because I know there are people out therewatching.

It's a strain to write something like this--andto keep it true--without using a completely cheesyand/or completely condescending topic as a crutch.

I don't want to do that. And so, like anyjournalist in search of a more interesting story,I focus on the bad.

But I do love Harvard, in my way.

And what I love most about it, despite myendless debacles, was my first year. When I thinkback and wonder what I've gained from being here,it all pretty much centers around choices I mademany semesters ago.

My life then and my life now hardly seem tobelong to the same person, but it was then thatthe mold was cast. It just took me a while to fitinto it.

The first year I realized who I wasn't and whatI didn't want to be. There are so may amazingpeople you'll meet (though don't be disillusionedwhen you meet many who don't impress you--it'sonly a college, not a deity convention, after all)that you might be tempted to want to be like a lotof them. Secretly, most likely, a lot of them willwant to be like you.

But as Mufasa told Simba, (I had to toss in acheesy pop culture reference somewhere--it'spractically required. At least I waited thislong.) don't forget who you are. Your first yearwill be almost the only time when you meet yourclassmates. You'll feel like you're meeting theworld.

Within your group there will be a microcosm ofwhat's best among human life on earth. You canmost enjoy this if you're focused on yourclassmates, not on what they represent in relationto yourself.

And be serious about it now. After this yearyou probably won't see most of these people untilsenior spring, when you reconnect with human lifepost-thesis.

I didn't want to do this, but here's morepractical advice (from here on too-cool types aredismissed). It's all sort of random, but so is thefirst year at Harvard. That, you will learn foryourself.

Sit in the bleachers during a warm-evening RedSox game and help your drunken neighbors start thewave.

If you live in Lionel and it snows, eat chipsand salsa for dinner at the Border. it's closerthan the Union and at least this "free" food isgood.

Don't watch Melrose. Unnecessary stress.

Play smashball in the Yard.

Explore your dorm. Find secret places whereHarvard stores it nice office furniture and"borrow" it for the year.

If you find something cool like a chair thatboth you and your neighbors across the hall want,don't let them steal it. Shed blood first. Takeadvantage of the fact that older people expectfirst-years to be immature, so fight it out nowbefore it's too late.

Don't bother with the butter past. They neverreally stick.

If you live in Lionel or Mower, don't saythings you don't want your neighbors to hearanywhere near the bathroom. Be very careful withthis. It takes a while to realize that you havemore roommates than you think.

Post an entry calendar. Cite occasionalsightings of your proctor.

Have tea parties.

Be you. And be nice. Remember, you are atHarvard. The world is watching.

Tara H. Arden-Smith '96 is associatemanaging editor of The Crimson. She secretly likesFenway Park better than both Sotheby's and YankeeStadium.CrimsonAndrew L. WrightTARA H. ARDEN-SMITH '96 "posed" in Tuscanylast spring break.