The Law School’s Hemenway Gymnasium has been graced by law school legends ranging from Barack Obama to Ted Cruz.
It’s hard to imagine the hub of Harvard’s campus without the beautiful red-brick colonial structures (and Canaday, I guess) we recognize today, but things weren’t always this way.
As dusk descended on the Ides of March, 1980, Michael T. Hsieh ’80 distributed leaflets outside the neo-Georgian façade of the New College Theater, now known as Farkas Hall. He and other members of Harvard’s Asian-American Association gathered to protest the Hasty Pudding Theatricals’ use of a perceived racist character, Edgar Foo Yung, in their 1980 production, “A Little Knife Music.”
On the outskirts of Harvard Yard lies an incongruous yellow house. Lacking the domineering sophistication of the Faculty Club and the Barker Center’s frenetic influx of students, the yellow farmhouse is comparatively modest, with nothing but a small placard on the door to inform you that you are inside Warren House.
Before Powerpoint and Keynote appropriated the term “slide” to the flashy, digital rectangles that we dread in Monday morning lecture, slides were actual panes made out of plastic and glass. Professors would insert them into a slide projector and give their lectures.
Hey, get your mind out of the gutter! It’s not what you’re thinking. The busts we’re talking about are the ones mounted on the walls of Annenberg. As freshmen, rarely do we look up from our heaping piles of curly fries and carnival cookies to notice the many stern men staring down at us. Covering almost every inch of Annenberg’s walls, these devilishly handsome fellows are forever immortalized in smooth marble. While their busts are accompanied by a gold plaque detailing their major accomplishments and contributions to the University, we know you’ll never actually get around to reading them. Let us be your one and only source into the scandalous lives of Harvard’s elite.
She is the daughter of a shoemaker and so knows enough to wear a sturdy pair of loafers for the long trek from Brockton to Cambridge, Mass. She knows, too, that her request to study intensive Latin, Greek, and English at Harvard may be rejected. But it is 1878, and Abby Leach knows, above all, that she and other women now deserve to know more.
I am not the only one whose dorm has been graced by an up-and-coming star. Throughout Harvard’s history, budding actors, politicians, computer geniuses, authors, and other luminaries have slept (sometimes) and studied (occasionally) in the same spaces that students occupy today.
“Who here wrote a thesis?” Conan C. O'Brien ’85 asked the Class of 2000 during his Class Day address. “A lot of hard work, a lot of your blood went into that thesis,” he said. “And no one is ever going to care.”
It’s a semester and a half into your freshman year at Harvard: You’ve given up on three start-ups, stopped going to the gym, and come to the realization that this school has enough sausage to stimulate Upton Sinclair’s journalistic appetite. But Upton Sinclair hasn’t been born yet and the absence of females in your life isn’t the product of spitting bad game or being denied into the Fly.
Elizabeth A. Beverly-Whittemore ’70 considers her relationship with Dr. Robert D. Whittemore II ’69 an anomaly. When Beverly-Whittemore and Whittemore studied in Cambridge, Harvard men normally looked outside the Yard for potential love interests.
The roads are plowed, the students have stopped hibernating and started shuffling back to class, and so our latest “Snowpocalypse” is officially behind us. As dire as that name might sound, last Tuesday, Jan. 27, was in fact Harvard’s third closure due to inclement weather in three consecutive years. After Hurricane Sandy in 2012 and winter storm Nemo in 2013, it’s easy to imagine this becoming another of the College’s many traditions. But before 2012, it required nothing less than an actual apocalypse—“an act of God, such as the end of the world,” former Dean of Students Archie C. Epps III declared in 1977—for the University to close.