FOR ALMOST A YEAR I've been sharing one shower in South House with 10 other undergraduates. Beyond the ceiling pipes dripping with condensation and the muddy floors, the single most unappealing aspect of the arrangement was the shower curtain. The luminous green was almost completely overwhelmed by black and dark green growths of such variety that it would have made a senior thesis just to classify them all. For a while I felt I was neglecting my academic duty by not calling the Biology Department to let them know what a good cultivation medium rubber sheets made.

Pleas to my superintendent's sense of hygiene failed. Then two days ago, I got into the shower. Instead of being greeted by my old friend drawn together in a "V" at the pleats by the sticky gook, I found a brand-new curtain spread majestically across the opening. I was startled, but the answer came to me. The alumni are in town.

The story isn't surprising to anyone who has witnessed the annual migration of reunion classes and other nostalgic visitors. Its only special significance this year is personal; in a few days I'll be an alumnus, and I'm frightened.

It's not facing the world beyond the College that makes me apprehensive--I am worried about how Harvard will start to treat me. I am worried about being taken in.

The University tries to be a very good to its alumni, pampering them every chance it gets. The reason is clear to see: if the grass is particularly green this time of year, then maybe the grads will remember how green the grass was in their day and shell out a little money for some more fertilizer.

But it's a sham, and I don't want to forget it. For most of my four years, the grass has been brown and my shower curtain has been covered with scum. I have memories of this place, some good and many bad; I want to keep them all. When I'm riding a special bus to a reunion Boston Pops concert, I want to remember the days I trudged through snow or rain because the shuttle service is insufficient. When I'm eating at the Union again, I hope I'll think about the 11 days Harvard kept me from my diploma and also closed down the dining halls.

Mostly I want to recall how all the pomp and circumstance afforded alumni affects the people still working toward that distinction. When I'm marching past John Harvard in the alumni procession, I hope I think about some senior's brother or grandmother who isn't at Commencement because there aren't enough hotel rooms and seats for all of us.

This isn't to say I won't end up giving money to Harvard. But when I do. I want to do it because of all my own memories, not some institutional version rolled out on a red carpet. And the tax write-off.

So if anyone in the alumni office is listening, just send me a blank envelope every year. Spare me the full-color pamphlets; I'd rather stick to my own mental pictures. As for my 50-yard-line seat at The Game, pass it along to someone who might like to actually see the guy in his Lit and Arts section score the winning touchdown.