On sectarian lines

As an undergraduate, I stuck around Harvard Yard and various corners of Hilles Library at the old Quad dormitories of Radcliffe, the women’s campus. Radcliffe has since effervesced into a research institute, a small blow to the egos of some Harvard women like me. I still preen that Radcliffe students took classes from Harvard professors from beginning, an Ivy League education for women decades before any of the other universities. Yalies, take that. On the subject of establishmentarian tribes, I recollect Harvard Law as a dingy patch of scorched earth. The grass was nonexistent, the buildings were dimly lit. The College, while full of nicked furniture and untidy students still learning laundry, at least inherited the grace of old buildings. The B-School, full of finance and capital, was on the other side of the river, essentially, the other side of the planet. Its lawns were so lush they must have been on performance enhancing drugs. Horticultural steroids were priced out of the budget of the college and the law school. We should have loosed some environmental activists on those MBA’ers. To draw further distinctions, I recall a recent rainy reunion. I passed by the event of a few classes behind me. Poor schlobs. They had hot dogs and burgers, maybe bags of chips. At least we had barbecued meats and veggies as we chowed down at benches under tents, accessible only after slogging through the mud. Ah, but by accident I wandered into the presence of more senior alums. They were inside an actual building – a gymnasium – no mud there. A pang of desire ripped through my heart. I recollect Virginia Woolf wishing for a room of her own. My own repast seemed as a bare cold supper in a drafty garret room, as compared to the sumptuous roasts and wines enjoyed by the college masters. You see, you might have though we were all alike, haughty Harvard. But, you are mistaken. Even on the inside, we manage to be on the outside.