The View From Here

A Danish zoo recently concluded a special exhibit of rarely displayed primates--the unpredictable and somewhat mysterious homo sapiens. Yes, the Copenhagen Zoo invited a Danish couple to live, fully clothed, between the baboons and the lemurs. Some reports claim it to be the first such "human captivity." Alas, another Harvard first goes unrecognized.

I live on the ground floor of Hollis South. My windows are conveniently placed between the Hollis Hall historic sign and the steps, where the likes of Emerson and Thoreau dropped cannonballs used to heat their rooms. Tour groups consider Hollis an excellent starting place for a Yard tour, and can be found dutifully listening to their guide, or staring into my room at all hours.

I must say that the idea of tourists cupping their hands on my windows, to see a "Harvard Student's Room," whatever that means, was quaint for the first few days. A dorm-mate from Corning, New York, birthplace of Timothy A. Plerhoples '00 and Corning-ware, said all the tourists reminded him of home. In the unsure time of move-in day, tourists, who turned out not to be "somebody's parents," walked the halls, snapping pictures and asking questions.

Yet novelty only lasts so long. Whenever you need to change or quickly rush to class without answering questions and being photographed, it is tough to be a celebrity--a Harvard Student on display. First-floor living means captivity--the need to shut out the scant sunlight that enters the room because your half-naked physique might offend a passer-by. And, if it is afternoon and you can reasonably assume no "inappropriateness" will be going on, your open shades are greeted by telephoto lenses and the criss-cross pattern of the window screen on a stranger's nose.

What are they gawking at anyway? Are they surprised that we don't look somehow "different"? Are they trying to capture the essence of a Harvard student, an esoteric trait of creativity or dedication that marks those who attend this hallowed institution? There is the sense that we are something exotic, not to be bothered or confronted, but observed from a distance. Since there is no moat (anymore?) separating the tourists from Harvard students; as separates them from other rare beasts including okapis and Bengal tigers, they seem to create their own barriers. They watch from a distance as people walk through the Yard and try to tell the Harvard students from the simply mundane Cantabrigians taking a shortcut.

Harvard students are a very diverse group, whether we are talking about political leanings or favorite clothing catalogues. Many of us are out to contradict real or perceived images of the Harvard Student, a figure passed down in high school lore by people whose contact with Harvard students was a Crimson Key tour and a round of Yard gawking, or a U.S. News and World Report headline. Maybe that is why the genuine article is so arresting--because we aren't walking CD-ROMs or obsessive newsmongers. The distance isn't a real one; all that separates us from the tourists is a few feet and an awkward situation.

In many ways, it is we that end up standing on the outside. As members of "the real world," even the tourist who never picks up a paper or sits down to watch the news will likely know more than we about everything current, from Eastern Europe to the economy. The Crimson can only tell us so much, and Harvard is so coddling that it is easy to lose a sense of the world that extends beyond the Charles.

Additionally, Harvard itself can be a barrier; it seems one place that by any other name might smell sweeter. My entryway discussed it the first week from the instant we applied here, the curtain descended and the barrier the tourists bring home cut us off from our classmates, even our friends. Others wear college paraphernalia ad nauseum yet even the mention of Harvard isolates us, because everybody falsely assumes we want them to feel left out. In the end, we are the ones who are isolated.

Tourists can be as much a curiosity to us as we are to them; always try to determine what language the tour is in, watch for interesting license plates and scan the group for the newest innovations in video technology. Harvard Yard, and the University in general, are beautiful places to visit, and there is definitely enough room for Harvard's historic importance to share space with the needs of its students. I really would like to answer the tourists' questions assuming I wasn't running to a section or carrying my laundry.

Almost every Harvard student was one of those tourists once, being photographed next to the Statue of the Three Lies, squinting at the Science Center to make out its Polaroid influences or cupping their hands over a window, trying to glimpse the lifestyle and secrets of the Harvard Student. Harvard is a place of tradition, and tourists, I gather, are a perennial tradition. So we should let the tradition continue. Just let them know the only barrier between tourists and Harvard students is something that they create--and something that traps us as well.

Adam I. Arenson '00 will be auditioning for the next season of MTV's The Real World.