Mercurial Constant
Honesty is Painful
Before this semester, I had never written an opinion piece. Hell, before this semester I had never taken the time to write—I actively distanced myself from it. If you had told me I would end up writing for The Crimson when I was a senior in high school, I would have called you crazy. But, here I am, and I am not just writing for the Crimson, but as of last week, I am also an editor at the esteemed institution.
I really had no idea what to expect when I began this process. I had just finished my football career, limping away with what was left of my health, needing a new crutch to hold myself up. When a friend of mine sent out an email about writing a column for The Crimson, I was intrigued. I was stuck on the self-deluding belief that college is where “you find yourself!” I applied, and by the grace of some higher power, I was accepted as a columnist. I came in believing I’d be able to write about anything, but after a semester, my wide eyes have narrowed.
Speak Before You Think
“The sky is falling, the wind is calling; Stand for something or die in the morning” -Kendrick Lamar
I got a waffle and coffee last weekend with my freshman year roommate. It was nice to catch up with my first friend at Harvard, and after a few awkward small-talk questions, we began to talk with the rhythm and depth that we had when we were still rooming together. The conversation was all over the place; it went from what comes after college to the surprising similarities between Flume and Future.
What to Do About Final Clubs
I got cut from a final club in the fall, and it sucked.
While both of my roommates joined final clubs and were off at events and feeling “accepted” into a community, I was at home honing my FIFA skills. At the time, I was willing to burn the system to the ground. Final clubs sucked. Harvard’s war against them was justified. But, after a semester of review and the opportunity to take myself out of the discussion for a while, I believe that, instead, Harvard should actively seek to expand final clubs.
Vulnerability and Communion
Yesterday I watched “Beasts of No Nation,” and I cried. I couldn’t tell you the last time I cried at a movie. Hell, it’s been a while since I’ve cried at all. Yet “Beasts of No Nation” induced tears.
I didn’t cry at the scenes where you’d expect me to cry. When the protagonist, a young boy named Agu, witnesses the murdering of his family, I didn’t cry. When Agu is forced by his commanding officer to kill innocent women and children, I didn’t cry. When Agu was raped by his commander, I didn’t even shed a tear. Oddly, I cried during the happy ending. I cried when Agu rushes into the ocean with his friends, a moment that signifies growth and the prospect of hope.
Bean Boots and Self Expression
I arrived in Cambridge last August a wide-eyed freshman from a beach town in southern California. I had a distinct style. It was half anti-establishment and half The Weeknd wannabe. I wore, and still predominately wear, minimal color. In fact, in the first week of college, my roommate told me my closet looked like that of a cartoon character because it was literally all white, gray, or black t-shirts. Same style choices go for my shoes, jackets, and sweatshirts. I do get a little crazy with my socks, but that’s about it.
At first, I found what east coasters wore to be comical. I chuckled when I saw my buddy show up to class in white loafers, blue shorts with pink whales on them, a white Lacoste belt, and a pink Lacoste button-down. But when winter hit, I was not prepared to deal with the preponderance of L.L. Bean Boots on my classmates’ feet.