disjecta

After having worked in the Harvard Events and Information Center—the Holyoke Center’s nesting ground for anxious tourists and Harvard Square crazies alike—since June of last year, I’ve had my far share of laughable interactions with people feeding loudly on the myth of Harvard University.

The usual crowd is made up of travelers taken by the sheer spectacle of the place. I don’t know, maybe it’s all the brick. Tourists come into the office asking what it is that they, as tourists, should do and should see. Because the newness of Harvard Square wore off for me some three and a half years ago, when questions like these are batted my way I tend to remain all silent stares and lethargic shrugs.

With the advent of April showers, however, come the hoards of prospective students—actually, more prospective parents—looking for a wayward admissions tip and a map to 8 Gardner Street. Do you mean Garden Street, sir? No, no, the woman on the phone said Gardner Street. Can you please hurry? The tour starts at 3 p.m.; it’s 12:30 now and I don’t want to be late.

My favorite are the parents who usher in children barely old enough to know how to spell the word “college,” let alone know about getting in to one. They bring little Jenny or Sue up to the counter where I sit trying my hardest not to glare disapprovingly, and they motion to the child that it’s okay to begin the rehearsed questions:

Wunderkind: Do you go to Harvard?

Me (agitated): Yes.

WK: Do you like it here?

Me: I did until about two minutes ago.

WK (still mentally incapable of picking up on sarcasm): Oh. I want to be a lawyer.

Me: (Silence)

WK: And a doctor.

Dad (for some reason, it’s usually Dad) beams like a ray of Disney sunshine, unaware that the myth will slowly corrode his child’s mind. She so young and so pumped on being the best before she even knows what the best is or why. Wanting to please and doing so now like a well-trained parrot, but probably unable to keep up the farce once more is expected of her than memorized phrases and bright-eyed smiles.

There are the parents of athletes who believe they have raised the next big star and have tricked themselves into thinking that a place on a Harvard sports team is the way to go. There are the dramatic parents who want to give you the whole story, from wunderkind’s birth to this very moment, because somehow they’ve decided that you care. The silent parents who let their prospective student do “all” the talking, only interrupting to correct every mistake, dot every verbal “i” and cross every “t.” And, my favorite: the parents who, because they’ve being intimidated by the myth or by their child’s inability to measure up, arrive with an inferiority complex that plays itself out through rude interactions and snide remarks.

Rude Parent: When my son’s a freshman here, where will he live?

Me (grinning like a well-fed cat): When one is admitted to Harvard his first year is spent in the Yard. I’m sorry, when answering your questions, I can’t personalize my responses or refer to “you” in any way. The University does not like to unnecessarily raise the hopes of its myriad applicants.

RP: Well, my kid’s got just as big a shot at going here as anybody else’s. The admissions officer at Cornell thought he was a promising applicant.

Me (with the knowing inflection of a Broadway villain): Ah, yes. Cornell.

Without having bought a $1 map, parents like these storm out of the Info Center. And usually forgetting to read the “push” sign painted on both doors, they stand there, rattling the glass and wondering why they’ve been locked in.

To give credit where credit is due, there are the occasional parents who seem not to have been possessed by Crimson demons. Parents who are focusing on being supportive instead of fanatical, they joke about their college days and ask me what my plans are for next year. If only I could radio back to 8 Gardner Street and give them a heads-up about the ones to take seriously and the ones to send packing.