I’m a Senior

A confession: I am a senior. It was bound to happen. After taking a normal load of courses for the past three years and negotiating the various academic hurdles that came my way (I see you, Core v. Gen Ed debate), I have made it to my final year at Harvard. I don’t quite know how it happened; I honestly don’t remember a few semesters tucked in there and am not sure they existed. But barring a few remaining obstacles (e.g. writing a thesis; avoiding the Last Chance Dance), I should be receiving a diploma on May 24, 2012.

I’m not particularly excited for this date, in large part because I don’t know what I will be doing after it. In high school, I knew college would follow. There: the next four years, taken care of. But now, “next year” is an abstract goal with no obvious means.

Several institutions at Harvard exacerbate this mild anxiety with constant reminders that the end of college is near. They have become even presumptuous about my classmates’ and my graduation date. In the spring, we were hounded with emails from the Harvard Yearbook, asking us to sign up for photographs a full year in advance. Believing their sense of urgency that I must take my photo at that time—lo and behold, there were additional opportunities this fall—I made an appointment.

It thus far counts among the least pleasant experiences of my Harvard career; my awkward inclinations were heightened by the photographer’s insistence that I tilt my head this way, rotate my body the other way, and put my left hand on green. After that photo-shoot ended, I thought my time was over, musing that I could have put my $10 “sitting fee” to other, better uses (e.g. blowing my nose, killing a bug, or making a quiet ripping sound). But no! I was then forced to don a cap and gown, hold a “diploma,” and do it all again. I wondered why anyone would purchase a fake photo of me holding a fake diploma in a fake cap and gown in a random office on Brattle Street. The value of a liberal arts degree is dubious enough; it need not be amplified by a phony diploma. Couldn’t we all just hold out until May 24 and use our cameras and cell phones? Or just wait 15 hours after graduation before Facebook photos are uploaded? A daguerreotype would be a better alternative to these weirdly premature surrogates.

Class rings are another hasty reminder of graduation. Ever since sophomore year, I have received emails from the kind people over at Harvard Student Agencies informing me that I could purchase a class ring for a mere $245. That price turned out to be the early-bird special; now, class rings cost at least $295, and promptly spike to prices that could single-handedly stimulate the American economy. But buying a ring, they tell me, would be an easy way to commemorate my alma mater after I’ve left.

It doesn’t stop there: the Office of Career Services hounds seniors with emails and events about finding jobs, writing essays for fellowships, and applying to graduate schools. The registrar gently asks us to confirm the date we are expecting to receive our diploma. The Harvard Alumni Association solicits us to become involved now for post-graduation responsibilities. When friends see me in formal clothing, they ask me if I am going to an interview. I’m probably not, and nor am I, hopefully, what Professor Larry H. Summers alternatively accused the Winklevoss twins of—I’m just low on laundry.

These are all reminders of our future lives. When we graduate, we will be paying bills for utilities and Internet; hiring a plumber when we have a leak; finding libraries with the books we want to read; looking for apartments. College provides these and many other resources for us, giving us a happy ignorance of the inconveniences to come. But now that we are seniors, we receive daily reminders of our impermanence.

But what’s the rush? I, too, feel a sense of urgency to prepare for next year, when I will enter a horrible world without HUDS and Yard Ops. But right now, Harvard institutions—and we seniors—should be less concerned with graduating than with the time we have left. College is a unique experience; we ought not be so ready to leave that we waste it. Applying to jobs and graduate schools is, of course, important, but getting ready for the real world doesn’t have to come at the expense of making the most of our time here. For we may realize that one of the greatest challenges we face after graduation is not what we will do outside of Harvard, but what we will do without it.

Elizabeth C. Bloom ’12, a Crimson editorial writer, is a social studies concentrator in Currier House. Her column appears on alternate Fridays.