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Don’t Be a Bro, Yo

Rhyme and Reason

By Mireya Sánchez-Maes, Crimson Opinion Writer
Mireya Sánchez-Maes ’24 is a joint concentrator in English and Theater, Dance, and Media in Currier House. Her column “Rhyme and Reason” appears on alternate Mondays.

Once upon a time
In a land not far away
There lived a humble bro-man.
For now, we’ll call him Jay.

Jay always scoffs at tourists.
And grunts while at the gym.
He thinks that everyone he meets
Is way less smart than him.

He calls all women “females”
And wears his collar popped.
He rants about his startup,
Then consulting, when that flopped.

He cries, “It’s the professor’s fault!”
When he receives a B.
He only hits on freshman girls
And yeah, he punched the Spee.

But Jay was not always this bad,
No, his descent was slow.
I’ll tell you how this freshman lad
Grew up to be a bro.

When Jay got into Harvard
He was happy as can be.
See, Jay believed with all his heart
In meritocracy.

“Hell yeah, they finally picked me!
They clearly were impressed.
Privilege? Ha. That’s not a thing.
I’m here ‘cause I’m the best.”

And so he came to campus
With a confidence unbridled.
The sort of poise that only comes
To those who feel entitled.

Jay started classes quickly
But whined and pouted plenty
“I hate that Harvard makes me
Take this stupid Expos 20!”

“Humanities are cute
If you don’t mind being poor.
But I don’t need to study art.
That’s what hobbies are for.”

And so Jay studied Econ
Or CS, or maybe Gov?
“But in the meantime,” Jay announced
“I think I’ll look for love.”

So Jay hit up the gym a lot
To try and get a date.
‘Cause someone told him good things come
To those who sit and weight.

When mirror selfies didn’t work
Our Jay got rather vexed.
“Why are women not entranced by
Pictures that I text?”

And so, when he got old enough,
He did what some boys do
When they need validation
But don’t know who to turn to.

Jay punched all of the final clubs.
Our boy was well connected!
But when his friend found out his plan
They quietly objected:

“You know those clubs are sexist, right?
And don’t let women in?
Unless it’s for a party,
In which case, they pack ‘em in.”

They pointed to a study
Which, in 2016 found,
That sexual assaults in final clubs
Tended to abound.

But Jay was like, “Dude, chill alright?
The vibe there really rocks.
Sure some women have been assaulted,
But I wanna join the Fox!”

So Jay turned to the party scene
And tried to win regard
But being white and privileged,
Well, it wasn’t all that hard.

He pissed on ol’ John Harvard
And he ran in primal scream.
He dove into the Charles
And partied to the extreme.

He hooked up with a lot of girls,
It turned into a sport.
He’d brag about it afterwards
Like some weird-ass report.

But worry not! Though he had fun,
Jay didn’t just relax.
He probably learned a lot ‘cause
He was always in the stacks.

Traveling through the Yard,
Self-assurance filled each limb.
He knew deep down that Harvard
Was designed for bros like him.

Jay man-spread to his heart’s content
And grew a trifle haughty
His Tinder bio read, “Just
lookin’ for the perfect shawty.”

The classroom was a stomping ground
That helped him stand apart.
He talked like a Thesaurus
Just to prove that he was smart!

Now Jay would never cheat, of course,
That’s wrong, without a doubt.
But should the pset prove too hard,
His friends could bail him out.

And every time Jay spoke, he
Just assumed that he was right,
Well dressed in Patagonias,
His front was quite polite.

But in the dusty clubhouses,
Outside the realm of class,
Jay had a different side to him.
One frankly, far more crass.

His jokes became misogynist.
And though he felt elite,
With every sexist word and act
His journey was complete.

Now, if you see yourself in
Any part of this here tale,
Or if you’ve seen such actions
In some other, haughty male,

Just know that there’s a million ways
Someone can be a bro.
But they’re all pretty bad,
So like, don’t do it, yo.

Mireya Sánchez-Maes ’24 is a joint concentrator in English and Theater, Dance, and Media in Currier House. Her column “Rhyme and Reason” appears on alternate Mondays.

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