“Do you ever”—I broke eye contact for a second—“Do you ever run out of breath?”
One thing I have gotten better at over the past few years is letting go: of calculus, of dance classes in which you get called out for wearing anything other than your leotard and tights, of the size zero jeans that I outgrew in 8th grade and somehow managed to fit into again in 11th grade, of drinking coffee exclusively on Fridays. In a word: discipline.
Maya M. Park is a junior history concentrator in Dunster House. She loves chunky scarves and books, but has recently lost a pair of each.
On weekend afternoons in cafes over lattes or weeknights over drinks during the semester, I’d often put lecture notes aside to share my half-joke revelation about how to best savor time at Harvard: books, I declared, would always be here, but the electricity of connection between people around us is only now.
In March 2004, Harvard’s Calendar Reform Committee released a report recommending that the Faculty of Arts and Sciences move exams to before winter break. Gone would be the days of returning to campus for final exams barely a day after the ball dropped for the new year. Instead, FAS would allow for 62 days of classes each semester, five to eight days of reading period, and eight days for exams. It was suggested the longer winter break this schedule opened up could potentially house its own mini-term.
In conversation at Harvard, be it over a dining hall meal, a problem set, or a drink, it is not rare to learn that your fellow interlocutor is an athlete. Of the many responses or follow-up questions that might arise, a natural one is whether the person walked on or was recruited.
As midterm season round two sneakily morphs into the semester’s home stretch, try not to let work blind you from the remaining days of sunshine. Here’s a list of songs Flyby put together to accompany you through the rest of fall—from crisp struts through the Yard, to cozy cups of tea at your desk.
Long hair, full beard, a hoop in his septum, a flower stud below his lip. Upwards of six feet tall and quite thin, he wears a black t-shirt revealing two arms sleeved in dark blue/black ink tattoos, with open circles exposing each elbow. On the knuckle of his right pinky is the letter “O,” and the rest of his name is spelled out across the next three fingers: O-W-E-N.
In 1964, a truck used to roll through Harvard Yard selling sandwiches. One day, when the truck arrived, a freshman asked the vendor, “But where can I get a beer?” Without hesitation, the driver gave the student the name and number of a “business.” Within 15 minutes, another delivery truck rolled into the Yard with a case of beer, delivering it to his freshman dorm.