Exiled From the Elysian Yard

Perhaps if I were more self-aware, I might feel, at this moment, something like the bitter resentment and sadness of a well-sated, not to say spoiled older child, forcibly weaned from the breast of plenty to make way for younger contenders for (my) Harvard resources. A close friend of mine, a visiting student, spent most of her time here reflecting on the premature graduation and delivery unto the outside world of the Harvard Student.

Pampered, patronized and paternally cherished, such a student receives no opportunity to develop a conception of any reality outside of one solely populated by self-validating reflections. Even socially, she noted, students here seek administrative ego-support, referencing one student's now-famous appeal to the Dean of Students, published in The New York Times, to ban homework on the weekends. (The Crimson, you may recall, proclaimed earlier this semester that no student should have to do homework on a Friday night.)

It seems undeniable that only Harvard undergraduates, absolutely certain of the common knowledge of their species-specific traits (an irrepressible diligence so extreme and potentially psychologically hazardous that the Harvard environmental protection agency must be constantly aware of the threat of extinction to their genius), would righteously crave the wisdom of the firm hand which would put a lock on the library door Friday nights.

Another friend (not an undergraduate) sighs enviously at the notion of a "last chance dance," the kindness and foresight of an institution which would go to the effort to ensure that its members will leave with no regrets.

At the end of a four-year gestation period, from the first ice-cream social to the last House formal (Leverett's was held at the toy store FAO Schwartz), filled with myriad tea parties in between, each and every Harvard student can e-mail his or her own personal obsessions (limited to 10) to a computer dating service promising everyone the opportunity to get some, some ultimate sustenance at the end of term. (Personally, I have always been an adherent to the Tina Brown model of cocktail party socialization, flitting from group to group with a cheerful wave and a smile-then, "I think we are expected to circulate; see you in section." I never got a chance to take up www.thespark.com on the offer to try to consummate my last crush.)

This critique about the immaturity of the graduating Harvard Student has been waged from all fronts. My brother, two years my junior and a rising third-year at Berkeley, found it quite amusing that both he and I would be simultaneously settling into our respective first apartments next year.

But is it appropriate at this moment to grasp for traces of Harvard maturity? How, in a Commencement reflection, can I defend the self-images so jubilantly assumed by myself and others?

Since I was eight or so, I have had a special niche in my world-classification for college students. Distinct from full-fledged adults (tax-paying car-washers in Southern California), yet certainly not of the same species of the younger student (the grade school variety who reach water-fountains and recognize pop songs with ease), college students were strident independents, free spirits mastering maturity, dabbling along the way.

Strangely enough, it is only when confronted with a specimen of the Other-Schooled (that is, non-Harvard-schooled) that I come unpleasantly face to face with the judgment of the outside world.

Within the elysian Yard, I stroll content; I think I have gotten the hang of the "enter to grow in wisdom" part. It is at night, contemplating nothing, that I find myself wondering what will happen sometime next year if I should misplace my key.

Of course the substance of this is less a matter of nature and much more the nurturing experience at Harvard. I honestly could not be more grateful to the tutors, administrators, dining hall staff, nightwatchpeople and "chief and coach" who have made my life so lovely. Having always enjoyed the opportunity to find a cup of coffee late at night and play with a tutor's young child and seemingly endless chances to rant with a brilliant future law-school professor about the strange journalistic mantra of meta-reportage, perhaps I protest too much about Harvard's pampering.

Where else could I proudly say I have met the person I believe will be president in 2040? If I had ventured too far off-campus (excepting the regular visits to the Middle East, and goodness, I hope you all have been there, at least to see B-Side), would I have been able to participate in an extended conversation on grammatical construction of the phallic fallacy of symbolic fecundity?

And even now, with much of the Harvard community relocating to the (not a) village, conceivably there may be some time to adjust to the barren land of post-graduate life. After all, is not cooking supposed to be fun and an art?

However, as my roommate and I attempt to hock our gray futon (to one of the fortunate who can just "store" their furniture), I realize, as have nearly all the upstart but savvy businesses in Harvard Square, our lease here is up and is not being renewed. The first generation of the "randomized" will soon really be forced to recognize the randomness of the real world. College, more than ritual, at least concludes with one, and my grandmother will be here to prove it. Just remember, if you see me sniffling this Thursday, in addition to the pang of nostalgia and the bitter-sweetness of moving on, it might also be in the hopes that Dean of the College Harry R. Lewis '68 will see me, take pity and let me stay on another year or so. Luke Z. Fenchel '99, a government concentrator in Leverett House, was executive arts editor of The Crimson in 1998.