Falling in Love Again

I loathe making choices. When shopping, I buy four pairs of shoes, contemplate for a day how they would fit with my wardrobe, and then (reluctantly) return three. My social life often feels like a bad version of “The Dating Game” in which I judge eligible bachelors based on ironic or novel qualities, before ruling all of them out. Sometimes, the Dunster House salad bar is overwhelming simply because it has too many options.

So when it came to picking a college, I was surprised by how easily I made my decision. I’m the first Moore to go to college; my parents had no Opal Mehta-esque plan for how I would get into Harvard (or get a life for that matter). And until senior year, I had no Ivy League ambitions and was set on the idea of going to a women’s college.

But from the moment I stepped on campus during a summer visit, I was absolutely in love with Harvard. It could have been the colonial architecture, the 14 million books in the library, or my cute tour guide, but I was charmed by the school’s certain je ne sais quoi.

Like any love affair, the beginning was magical—shiny early acceptance letters, bright new hoodies, a party-filled prefrosh weekend. But these great feelings continued through a virtually seamless first year of good friends, great professors, solid grades, and a fulfilling extracurricular activity—The Crimson. Like a 15-year-old virgin in her first relationship, I was ready for my promise ring to Cambridge.

Then this year, something I had only thought to be rumor hit: sophomore slump. Suddenly, work got harder, relationships got more complicated, and I slipped into an increasingly dark depression. By the end of first semester, I had suffered through Moral Reasoning 50, one badly broken heart, and 40 thankless hours a week at The Crimson. Things seemed desperate, and I considered taking a leave of absence for spring semester. I started to wonder if Harvard had been the right choice after all.

What if I had gone to Smith or Wellesley? How could life have been different? I wouldn’t have sold my soul to The Crimson, wouldn’t have met “him,” wouldn’t have had a Justice TF who never bothered to learn my name. At another college, I might have discovered my talent as a rugby player, majored in “Peace and Justice Studies,” or dated a girl. The missed opportunities seemed endless.

But after a week of moping and considering life as a peace-loving lesbian (rugby) hooker, I realized I had to make a concrete decision about whether or not to take a semester off. I needed to remember what had made me fall in love with Harvard to begin with, and why it was worth it to stay here.

Once I got to thinking, I discovered I didn’t have to look far at all to find this spark. For all its publicity and brand-name recognition, Harvard is really a school of multitalented and accomplished young people. But it doesn’t matter that in twenty years you can look back and say of a future president or Pulitzer Prize winner, “I got plastered with him when...” Instead, I think Harvard is such a cool college because I have the chance to be impressed by my peers every day.

For example, my roommate is one of the smartest and kindest people I know, equally capable of solving Ec 10 p-sets and romantic problems. My blockmate, Samir, is a brilliant mathematician and will probably run the World Bank someday—that is, if he’s not an ESPN commentator. I never would have become interested in NCAA sports or understood divisibility rules without him. My uberhip chemisty-concentrating music editor, Fritz, lectures me with equal expertise on everything from Chinese linguistics to Fermi’s law to the merits of the new Ghostface Killah album.

Truth be told, Jill is probably just a little too preppy; Samir, too brilliant; and Fritz, too pretentious. And, potential members of the Class of 2010, if you decide to come to Harvard, don’t let the Princeton Review’s negative social rating of us fool you. You will have to learn to love superlatives—literally, the best young fencers, scientists, and journalists in the country come to this school. But from these people, who are for the most part entirely cool, interesting and compassionate, you will receive a better education than you could anywhere else. I guess the education I get inside the classroom is okay, too.

So that’s why I decided to stay, because even in my most cynical moments, while lost in the stacks of Widener or trapped in the perpetual daylight of The Crimson basement, I realized that I still had a lot of learning to do.

Because, frankly, at whatever college you choose, classes will sometimes be difficult, parties will sometimes be lame, and hearts will sometimes be broken. But when hearts break—whether over romantic situations, disappointing grades, or thwarted career plans—we can actually break wide open and be given the chance to learn, grow and become new people. At a place like Harvard, the people and resources around you can make this rebound possible.

And I learned that, like any relationship, my connection to Harvard takes compromise. Sometimes it demands too much of me and I expect too much of it. But even if it gets rocky between Harvard and me, I think I’m going to stay with it for the kids.