Jeff Elman, a junior in Eliot House, organized the Harvard Education Project, a study of all aspects of the College sponsored by the Harvard Policy Committee.

At some time during the four years as an undergraduate at Harvard, nearly everyone asks himself whether or not he really belongs here. For some, this uncertainty may occur only briefly during the freshman year; others experience it more intensely as part of their "sophomore slump." And there is always the small--but disturbingly increasing--number of seniors, who even at the end of four years feel vaguely out of place. They suspect that what they wanted from Harvard was not what Harvard wanted to give them.

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Harvard probably never has been free of such discontent, and dissatisfied students are to be found at any college. Sometimes the school is at fault, but when the dissatisfaction is confined to a small number, one tends to think the problems lie with the students. What perplexes and dismays many at Harvard is that this number has been growing past the point of comfort.

Most faculty members and administrators here blame this situation on the draft. Until now, Harvard's solution for unhappy students has been to suggest a leave of absence. David Riesman, Harvard's guru-in-residence, expressed this attitude when he said that "in the absence of the draft, dropping out is a very good thing, both for the student and for the school." After a year or so of living in the big outside world, the student decides that either pumping books is preferable to pumping gas, in which case he returns, or else it isn't, in which case he stays away. For a long time this alternative remained Harvard's ultimate therapeutic trump card, a sign of flexibility the school pointed to with great pride. Director of the Bureau of Study Counsel William G. Perry often refers to himself as the "head of Harvard's drop-out program."

The draft has messed many things up, not the least of which is the "drop-out program." The war is on, draft calls are up, and the students who insist they march to a different drum than Harvard's must do their marching in the Yard.

But the crux of the problem is not that these students can't get out--it's why they got in in the first place, and once in, why they should feel cheated. When a significant proportion of a school's students are unhappy with the school's education, then one must either revise the admissions policies which accepts them, or revise the educational policies which instruct them. To quietly encourage them to leave is an easy way out, but it in no way solves the basic problem.

Middle Class Pattern

Harvard is not alone in having to deal with a new kind of student population. Since World War II, there has been a gradual but steady change in the character of incoming college classes. Thirty years ago, only a small proportion of American college-age youth actually went to college. Today, over 50 per cent of high school graduates attend some sort of college or technical school. It is fast becoming an established middle class pattern for American youths to complete high school, go to college, and frequently pursue post-graduate professional training.

The result has been that many students go ot college today who wouldn't have thirty years ago. The opportunities are greater, the motivation different. During the Depression, only those who were highly motivated academically or very rich could afford a college education. Today, the typical college student ends up on the campus because social pressure drives him there, and also because of the vague feeling that the more education one has, the better a

The result has been that many students go to person one is. He tends to be less of a pure scholar than his predecessor, and because it was relatively easier for him to get to college (despite comparatively more stringent admissions requirements), he is less likely to be docile about his education.

Whatever one thinks of this situation--and there are many Old Guard educators who deplore it--the fact remains: the modern American college has gone a long way toward redefining its function by the mere process of redefining its student body. The college was yesterday what graduate school is today in the educational step-ladder: it has become what high school used to be. Students don't go to college now to become teachers or professional academics, although they may later go to grad school for this purpose. They go with all-defined but very real expectations, recognizing that the complexity of our society demands more education than high school can provide them.

It is entirely to the credit of the Office of Admissions' Chase Peterson and his predecessor Fred Glimp that not only are the more able and creative members of this new student pool admitted to Harvard, they are sought out and encouraged to come. Board scores and academic brilliance are not ignored, but selection is made increasingly on the basis of "feel." What kind of person one is often means a lot more than what kind of grades one got in high school.

Keeping Up

Harvard's problem is that, while its admissions policy has kept up with the changing context of education in society, its educational policy has not. Most of the Harvard Faculty, trained at a time when college meant something vastly different from what it means today, have difficulty in understanding just how radical those changes are. The commotion which followed President Pusey's unfelicitous report to the Overseers illustrates that the problem is not simply one of lack of communication: there are very basic differences of opinion as to what a university should be like.