Applications are in Season

Ahh, spring. The word conjures up warmer weather, rollerblading along the Charles and those notorious kill-the-passerby Frisbee games in the Yard. In these last weeks before spring arrives, seniors are finishing (or starting) their theses, midterms abound and visions of alcohol-induced stupors in equatorial locales dance in our heads. Here at Harvard, the blooming of the crocuses also signals the arrival of the most important season of all--application season.

Let's Go has an urban legend--a quote attributed to a former managing editor wise beyond his or her years--that goes something like this: If Harvard students could apply to get kicked in the ass, and it was a very selective process, they'd fight each other to reach the sign-up list first. The truth is, we Harvard students are obsessed with application processes. Obsessed may not even be the appropriate word; we're haunted, enthralled, even overpowered by the sheer force of selection procedures on campus.

Want to concentrate in history and literature, social studies or some combination thereof? Better be prepared to explain yourself in a written statement. Want to have a job/internship/life when you graduate? Better get those resums in tip-top shape and have your bags packed to fly hither and yonder. Want to be a prefect, a Crimson Keyer, a Seneca member? Switch Houses? Throw a party? Ladies and gentlemen, please have your pens at the ready.

The academic nonsense we can dismiss as an unfortunate extension of a University bureaucracy that requires a steady diet of paper munchies. And as annoying as they may be, applications are a universal part of obtaining employment. But what doesn't make sense is the way that students on this campus dream up convoluted application processes for extracurricular organizations and then shove them down their peers' throats. Equally mystifying is the reason why the members of the student body not already a part of these 'in' groups are so eager to participate in what one Crimson columnist has called an "illusion of meritocracy."

Before I go any further, let me attempt to defend myself against the catcalls of hypocrisy that are sure to follow this piece. Yes, to procure this very column I had to submit a ten-page application that involved a good deal of high-falutin babble. This was, of course, on top of the editorial "comp" process that took me two semesters to complete because I wasn't hardcore enough to get it done in one.

So though I may be in no position to pass judgement, I look to at least offer some explanations for the phenomenon. The application-mongers of the world would proffer that there are numerous (questionable) benefits to a lengthy, tedious and stressful selection processes--it winnows out people who are not really interested, ensures dedication and identifies the strongest, most qualified candidates.

Sure, these are noble goals--but let's get real. One of the biggest reasons for our obsession can be traced directly back to the moment we began the mother of all application processes--the fact that you're reading this at all is testimony that you successfully maneuvered that one, so congratulations. Heck, Harvard is the most selective institution of higher learning in the nation; it's not surprising that many of us harbor a rabidly competitive nature. As a member of the Undergraduate Admissions Council, one of my jobs is to attend information sessions for prospective students to give the "upperclassman" perspective--and let me tell you, most of these kids could care less what I have to say. They (and their parents) are too busy asking the admissions officer whether they should submit their black and white photographs as 11 x 14" glossies or as slides.

Then there is the elitist aura that the ghosts of Harvard past cast over the University as a whole--abandon all humility, ye who enter here. There is a history of exclusivity that has permeated all aspects of campus life, so that even those who rail upon the traditional target, final clubs, often do so from the safety of groups which require an approval process that is ultimately no less capricious. How much of a difference is there between proving that you're good at hobnobbing than proving to a group like the Lampoon--a semi-secret Sorrento Square social organization that used to occasionally publish a so-called humor magazine--that you can occasionally draw laughs? We learn quickly to counter occlusive elements by erecting our own, new and improved, barriers to entry.

And at some point, it becomes a way of life, a habit that's hard to break. One of my best friends has become a sort running joke because she just can't help herself--you name it, she's applied. My roommate sent her, as a joke, an "application" to one of our parties this year. Essay question number two: "We relish the exclusion of less worthy individuals. Please explain why we should forfeit the small portion of joy we would obtain in excluding you from our festivities."

But regardless if it can be attributed to human nature, institutional memory or the status quo, we all need a break from time to time. As I sit here with a seven-page Harvard Model United Nations Secretariat application burning a hole in my desk, I remember with fondness my one non-application extracurricular activity this year--IM ice hockey. If there had been a selection process, I wouldn't have had a chance seeing as I accomplished nothing greater than falling over. But standing there on the ice, in skates that caused my ankles to turn in and gloves so big I couldn't even grip the stick, I felt a sense of freedom. Despite my lack of credentials or skill, I could be Wayne Gretzky for the evening. And seeing as it will be spring soon, I'm thinking about looking into IM lacrosse.

Anyone have a stick I can borrow?

Alixandra E. Smith '02 is a government con centrator in Kirkland House. Her column appears on alternate Mondays.