Searching for Veritas
It happens every year. Dartmouth meets Harvard in an athletic contest, and within a week letters to the respective editors have been printed and reprinted in The Crimson and The Dartmouth, letters regarding the nature and habitat of the Dartmouth beast.
This year, of course, was no exception; make the Harvards come all the way up to Hanover for a football game and there will surely be grumblings. This time around, a youngster from Cambridge took the time to pen 570 words explaining how unimportant Dartmouth and Harvard-Dartmouth encounters are to the patrons of Tommy's Lunch (evidently such things weigh heavily on the minds of those who eat elsewhere).
He spoke of Dartmouth's "prep-school" atmosphere and supposed inferiority complexes and expressed relief at not having to spend his college days in Hanover.
In return, Dartmouth students wrote discouraging socio-economic statements regarding Cambridge, and made claims of bovine necrophilia on the part of the Harvard gentleman. An exchange student, taking what he called an impartial stance, defended Dartmouth as the "finest undergraduate school in the nation," and referred to Harvard as a haven for "elite wimps and mentally undernourished football players." Somehow he worked Vietnam into the muddle, so I switched to the outrage of a female freshman who was pleased that the author indeed did not "have to spend four years in Hanover."
When I came across an attack upon the Harvard's gentleman's polysyllables, I began to grow suspicious that the Dartmouth side wasn't playing fair - "O wow" was the most incomprehensible of the young man's imprecations. My fears were realized when I read that a group of students had loved the "pin-striped jerseys and Brooks Brothers athletic undergarments" that attired the Johns. I was too high in the stands to see whether the jerseys were striped, but I knew that Brooks Brothers had discontinued its custom department.
However, I'm an open-minded sort, and I assumed that just as the Harvard gent may have mistaken a fraternity house for a cow barn in creating his pastoral image of Dartmouth, the Hanoverites may well have mistaken J. Press for Brooks Brothers. In any case, I knew that the only way to see which side had the stronger argument was to go to Cambridge myself. Only when I had first-hand knowledge of both environs could I clearly see the merits of each position.
And so, I packed my bags one Friday afternoon, and headed out onto Interstate 89. Having gone but 20 miles, my troubles began. Not only was the blood-red generator light glowing in indication of imminent engine failure, but I realized that I had packed clothing which would immediately identify me as a Dartmouth student. Although any amateur anthropol- ogist could have told me that gaffe was dangerously analogous to going black-tie to a native village, I continued warily on my way.
Forgetful, perhaps, but surely not stupid. I had made arrangements to spend my weekend at a Chestnut Hill women's college, from which I could foray into Cambridge, and to which I could retreat in safety at night. The car held out, and I discovered that my Dartmouth clothing did have some utility in Chestnut Hill, if not in Cambridge. "Finally someone who's not from Harvard," sighed one of the girls, who had not known before coming East that her school was the playground for those Harvards who could not reconcile their differences with the Cliffies. "They're just horrid - the first thing they say is 'come on, baby - I've been studying for six months straight - now my body needs some exercise.' " I was amused, but noticed that a girl I had seen on a previous trip was missing from the group. When I asked where she was, I was told that she was at a dance at Eliot House at Harvard. Score one for the men of Cambridge - a percentage point.
That night, three of us went into Cambridge to listen to some jazz at the Oxford Ale House. I must admit that the music was good. How many times, though, have we all been told that in order to be a real artist, one must suffer? The proof is in the Ale House. Jazz like that I've never heard in Hanover; then again, I've never seen people like those who frequent the place. I realize that they may not have been Harvard students, and in fact may have dug their way up from M.1.T., but I have never seen such an unhealthy group. Pallid, unshaven women. Dirty, emaciated men. "Harvard intellectual wimps," intoned one of my beautiful bodyguards. Harvard? Maybe. Intellectual? Perhaps when nourished. Wimps? If only they could be so fortunate.
When I had heard enough music, we went to the Club Casablanca: Scotch instead of beer, sportcoats instead of polyester muscle shirts. Everyone still seemed unhealthy. "Filthy, just wretched," said one of the girls. "Yes, they do look sick," I replied. "No," she said, "I'm talking about the line that preppie just fed me." When she said "line", I realized the problem. The denizens of these places were ill from waiting so long to get in. We decided to see what was happening on campus.
I have several acquaintances at Harvard. To call them friends would be to open myself up to ridicule, but on the second night in Cambridge, one of them was gracious enough to offer us a tour of the club system. These clubs are very prestigious; from what I've heard, a former Massachusetts governor risked considerable political damage to take over leadership of the overseers of one such club, considering this the pinnacle of his lifetime achievements. So, we jumped at the offer, and my acquaintance responded by handing us a map of the campus, with the clubs circled. He further allowed that those students who are not "punching," as entrance antics there are called, or are not members, are barred from entrance. Guests from outside the Harvard community, he assured us, would be made welcome.
The clubs certainly were nice. Too bad that our friend couldn't join us; how undemocratic that not all Harvard students are given the opportunity to destroy the insides of their social facilities. For various reasons, score one for Harvard and one for Dartmouth.
Though I lost track of the tally, and could not really claim victory for the social atmosphere of either school, it seemed a great relief that night to return to Chestnut Hill. The next evening, as I drove up to Hanover, first seeing stars 12 miles out of Boston, and able to roll down my windows safely another five miles north, I cracked a smile and sighed to myself, "If I spend any more time fighting Cambridge, I'll never get into Harvard Law."
