Seeking Asylum at the Harvard of the West

This past weekend, I escaped from Harvard. Under the guise of a "job interview" I spent several days in California before I was captured, tortured and placed in Loker Commons for re-education. What follows is my abridged version of events.

Thursday a.m.

I'm not sure if I'm going to make it out. Some of my friends tried to leave Harvard before and were put on probation cleaning the urine off the John Harvard statue.

Today it looks like the Deans have paid off Mother Nature because there's a blizzard threatening to foil my plot.

To counter my opposition, I sacrifice a squirrel to the ghost of Claverly Hall and pack some Harvard Kryptonite-a potent mixture of common courtesy, happiness and fun-as my weapon of choice should I encounter trouble.

Trouble indeed begins as soon as I descend into the T. I am stopped by an Ad Board Gestapo Patrol. Wearing masks to preserve their anonymity and sporting "No Escape" tattoos, they chant "none shall pass" and burn a mock-up of my diploma.

"Why would you want to leave?" asks one.

"Yes, stay with us. Everything you need is right here," they croak.

"If you go, you'll regret it," cackled another. "There's nothing to see out there except savages and heretics. They'll eat you."

Fortunately, what is not anonymous about them is age, and I outrun them.

At the airport, I swear I see one of my professors with an earpiece but think nothing of it. However, as I board my flight, the attendant rushes at me with a needle screaming, "Die traitor die!!!"

I hit him with a courtesy grenade and he falls. Close call.

Thursday p.m.

I arrive in San Francisco and notice a big difference in the weather. There is a large yellow object in the sky that hurts when you look at it.

I ask the natives what the airborne fire is, and they say it's called "sun." Man, is California weird or what?

This "sun" makes me very warm so I strip down to my boxers, order a strawberry daiquiri and await a taxi. When in Rome...

Later that night I watch my favorite action movie, The Rock, and order room service massage therapy. I call my mother and tell her I'm staying in California if I can get immunity.

I want to check e-mail but fear The Board is monitoring the Internet for my whereabouts. I pray they aren't torturing my friends back East.

At 2 a.m. the guests next door are still partying and I wonder impatiently when the police will shut it down.

Friday a.m.

I had a nightmare that a resident tutor came to my room to break up the party next door. She was frothing at the mouth and yelling "not without my baby!!"

I now feel happy and relaxed until I look up and see a skywriter message for me. It says, "U will pay 4 your insolence" and is signed by "Rudy." I become nervous and seek political asylum at Stanford claiming student rights abuses.

Friday p.m.

I rent rollerblades and ride through Stanford's "sunny" campus in search of an embassy.

I am astounded by what I see. Someone says "hi" to me so I hit him. What's his problem anyway?

Another person told me to "have a nice day." I don't understand this language. It's all Greek to me. Must be all that "sun" affecting their brains.

In my search I observe that students not having sex in tree houses are smoking weed in front of Stanford's equivalent of Memorial Church or getting tans in the Quad.

Others engage in a strange activity called "playing." I'm having second thoughts about my decision to defect.

I find the Harvard refugee camp and get in line behind dozens of my schoolmates. Some are happy and dance. Others mourn the loss of friends who didn't make it.

Still more are afraid of the unnatural environment. Speaking in tongue and flogging themselves, they cringe from all the "sun."

The Stanford immigration officials treat us gently and sing lullabies as we file the appropriate forms.

Saturday.

Today is a good day. I have some trouble adjusting to the food since my digestive system has evolved to handle only chickwiches.

Stanford provides us with counselors who acclimate us to their culture and help us with the transition.

We spend the day in San Francisco touring the area. A tragedy occurs as we pass Alcatraz on a ferry. One student leaps overboard wailing, "Nooo, no more Loker!"

We spend the rest of the day talking to one another and enjoying some pleasure reading.

Sunday.

It's all over. The Ad Board's west coast agents have found us and the Stanford officials are powerless to save us all.

A few of the students decide it's better to die than go back. I cannot give in, though. I must survive in order to give the next generation a chance at freedom.

We are carted away, drugged by savory baked tofu and put in the cargo bay of a FedEx plane.

On the flight back the Ad Board broadcasts "Ten Thousand Men of Harvard" over the intercom and shows Crimson Key tour videos on screens until we either pass out or go insane.

I begin to plot my next escape and wonder how far away Brown is.

Baratunde R. Thurston '99 is a philosophy concentrator in Lowell House. His column appears on alternate Tuesdays.