A woman from Connecticut said she doesn't mind the political quiescence. "If there was a demonstration, I wouldn't really get involved in it, because I really don't have any complaints." When asked about her feelings concerning Harvard's stock in corporations with holdings in the Republic of South Africa, she said, "That doesn't bother me, there's nothing wrong with South Africa." She was put off by rioting in New York this summer following the Great Blackout, Round II: "I thought it was disgusting. This is the United States, why did it have to happen?" She said she was not aware that unemployment in some of the looted areas is over 50 per cent. She is an extreme case, perhaps, but nonetheless a case in point.

Another woman claimed she didn't know where she was politically. A black man from Michigan said, "I follow the same politics as may parents do--don't most people? I'm a Democrat." The same man said he wants to go to medical school, because "I'm interested in science and math, and also, I guess there's a lot of money in medicine." He said he is satisfied, so far, with relationships between blacks and whites at Harvard, and of the school itself, "It's beautiful. I really love it."

But it is difficult to concentrate on political questions when there are so many new people around to meet, and you can't blame everyone for that. People are trying hard to have the proverbial "good time," though not everyone seems to be succeeding. Nervousness and self-consciousness abound. "All the Harvard stereotypes are here. Everyone I've talked to is nervous," one woman declared.

An understated sexual tension is in the air. "Everyone here seems to be looking for someone, just about. I'm amazed at some of the people here," One woman said. "It's strange, really. These parties are so bizarre, so superficial," another said.

A group of jocks stand on the Weld stairs. "Soccer!" one shouts, "What kind of wussy sport is that? Look no hands! Nah, I'm just shittin' ya." His companions laugh. Someone spills a half-empty can of warm beer all over the steps. It runs down to the pavement and puddles at the feet of a pretty blonde, surrounded by six or seven men. She is listening to them, but the look in her eyes says she really isn't there.

Someone actually says, "Hey, honey, where've you been all my life?"

Around one a.m. the crowds start to thin out. Groups head back to their own rooms, still boisterous, shattering the sudden quiet in the Yard, but outside Weld some late hangers-on continue. Off to one side, a group of Wellesley freshmen waiting for the last bus out exchange giggles about the people they've encountered. "Did you see that guy? He was such a jerk! How come everyone is so insecure here?" one asked.

There's good reason to be insecure. The transition from being a highschool hotshot to a lost freshman is an enormous one, and in the first few days it's all too easy to feel intimidated by the seemingly-brilliant people here. A freshman describes here roommate: "I don't think it's going to work out. I mean, she just rattled off all the A.P. courses she took, how she'll probably take sophomore standing, how much she's read. I have to ask myself what I'm getting into here; she's already made me feel inferior."

The feeling, apparently, is not uncommon. Some thrive on the atmosphere. But for many, you can tell it's going to be a long, hard year.

In the middle of a truncated interview a man asks me, "If you're not a freshman, what the hell are you doing here?" I can't answer him, because watching the experience is almost too painful.

At the height of the partying, I look up to see someone looking down on the action from a second-floor window. The person does not look happy. A woman in the crowd notices the observer too, and waves, shouting a cheery hello. Instantly, the face disappears from the window. The woman below shrugs her shoulders and returns to the fray.