I remembered this morning that I live in the Northeast. Put bluntly: it's too damn cold. In November. Already. Wrenching myself from bed I lumbered to my dresser in search of a sweatshirt. I found one quickly, the letters T-U-F-T-S printed squarely on its chest, and, once again, was filled with a sense of pride. Call me romantic, emotional or whatever else you want, but as I traverse campus it's exciting to spot Tufts sweaters, Tufts LGBTQ pins, Tufts hats, Tufts canteens and the occasional Tufts student. My cherished collegiate sweater almost makes me welcome the cold weather. Almost.
This particular morning, however, I noticed something off-kilter, something remotely disturbed within our student body. I noticed a Yale sweatshirt. Stricken and dumbfounded as to why anyone would wear such a false article of clothing (no, that is not your institution), I continued on my way in confusion. Coincidently, the more I looked about campus, the wider the range of universities I saw represented at our, just to clarify, one university. Middlebury, Harvard, Lehigh, Wesleyan, UConn, McGill, UCLA and other alternative-college paraphernalia were present. Dare I say shown off. I was taken aback by this spectrum to such a degree that I decided to uselessly do the one thing I could: report.
Meet Harry Weissman: An ethnic Jew from Syosset, NY, a resident of South (hit him up!) and the proud owner of a confounding, worn, Yale T-shirt. It was time for a virtual interrogation. I bombarded Harry via text, where over "hahahaha"s and "Lololidk"s we contemplated the perplexing issue at hand. Why does he wear such a false, misleading T-shirt? How does it make him feel? Conspicuous? Special? Does he feel accomplished shocking overly sensitive, whiny university students? How has he interpreted his Jewish heritage throughout the angst-y teenage years?
Harry answered these questions with grace I had previously assumed foreign to the sober IM-er. His replies were concise and honest. "It's already obvious we go to Tufts," he mused. "I like the feel and design, I don't support those colleges over Tufts." I mean, "why not?" was the gist. Awkward and nervous laughs aside, Harry had a point, an elementarily simple but profound point. Why not? Why shouldn't he represent Yale and its summer program he attended a few years ago? Why shouldn't he dress in the most illustrious of the Ivy cotton? I won't risk sounding like a nefarious fascist-overlord and make a rebuttal. Though, to play devil's advocate, the cotton quality argument does sound like a bunch of horse manure.
While Harry graciously spurred the conversation with his experiences, our correspondence left me thinking about mine. I scrutinized my emotions, my sensitivities, my vulnerabilities and my ability to conduct an efficient, fluid interview. Why did I construct competition between these prestigious universities? Must education be such an antagonistic sport? Did I merely intuit rivalry? Did I really just use the word "intuit?"
I pondered and pondered and finally got that preachy countenance common to public-speaking rabbis. I realized how detrimental my close-minded thoughts were to the universal academic environment. I remembered that academia requires camaraderie and collaboration to progress. Neither vying nor rivaling will lead us to our aspirations. Competing will only stunt our evolution. Nothing similarly synonymous, not even the ol' college rivalry, belongs in the university setting. Especially not on the Tufts campus.
So yes, it's still fall, and yes, we live in the Northeast. As Tufts sweatshirts begin to appear snug on our student body so will the inevitable, "wrong" Yale hoodie, and that's okay. I'm not as perplexed by our spectrum of represented institutions. I would much rather ask you Yalies for help editing this column I'm writing.
