There is a you buried under this oil sheen, but there is also you that is you lost in the patina, dripping crimson, capitalizing everything you touch. Which one, however, is the real distortion?
Did this make you cringe—did it evoke an uncomfortable squirm, a loosening of the tie—how about a swallowing of a gulp of air, in appreciation of the privilege of its clarity? Even worse: Does it sound commonplace, ordinary—like it could have happened here at Harvard?
I wasn’t. The HUDS workers had just begun to assemble themselves in a circle, strapping fluorescent orange Home Depot buckets to their necks like armor, steeling themselves with drumsticks in one hand and picket signs in the other. They began to march, chanting in both Spanish and English. Reporters arrived and the area was suddenly swarming with cameras, people vying to get a quote from the workers on strike or their supporters. All the while, members of the Student Labor Action Movement handed out flowers to strikers as a sign of solidarity.
Everyone graced by this epitomal “here” wants to taste success. Thus, they learn the way to be here; they subject themselves to the hustle and bustle of Harvardian life, hoping to skim to the surface of this higher aim. The University, in turn, utilizes their students’ desires for the future to rhetorically guide the tide of the campus, to build the most faith in the administration and dedication to the policies of the school.