I used to dream of living my life as a pianist. From the age of four, through many emotions, I studied the piano. Living room recitals, adjudications, auditions, playing with the Seattle Symphony, and a solo recital taught me that I am a performer. Nothing has yet compared to the high of giving food music to others.

Then came Harvard.

"So Ms. Shaw, why did you give up piano?" No less than a million investment bankers recently posed this stinging question to a me clad in gray wool and white silk, clutching a pocketbook. (What's the difference between a purse and a pocketbook?) Here came the question which wrote itself into my resume and comes to challenge me now:

WHY HARVARD?

What Harvard? Who Harvard? How Harvard? Yes, what is Harvard?

I see now, a me who arrived at Weld 31, having been convinced that Harvard would be the place for me: Try the East Coast, Come to meet the people, You can study piano privately, Boston is a real city, Harvard has everything. I came, to do somethingdifferent. In our rooming group of four, I was theWest Coast representative, one of two musicians,oblivious to things Jewish, and quiet. I began todiscover the yellow of my skin along with everyoneelse.

Through freshman year, I traveled every Mondayafternoon to take piano lessons. I was kicked offof the Union's Parlors for this and thatrehearsal, dutifully left the music building at4:45 on Fridays, and arrived at Paine Hall onSundays at 12:30 to ensure myself a piano at 1:00.And all the while, I comped Crimson Business.

I met the intimidating, insecure freshmen whomust have looked just like me. Everyone had done alot. Most people were doing a lot. Very few knewwhat they were doing. They were concerned withplacement tests, choosing courses, meeting membersof the opposite sex, and wanted to be eitheraccepted or not accepted. In their concerns, Irecognized mine.

I had never been an academic in high school.Somewhere along the way, I had missed out onlearning exactly what the exalted liberal artseducation meant. It meant you didn't have to takecalculus. It meant you had to be more thanspectacular to enjoy science courses. It meant Iwas destined for the humanities. Yet just as I hadregarded academics merely as a requisite in myhigh school, Ec 10 and Expos reinforced this wayof thinking.

"So Ms. Shaw. why did you start working atthe Crimson?"

To do something different. What could possiblybe more different from classical music? What doesmy father do all day at the office? How could theCrimson possibly have earned such a horriblereputation? What else will you fill your timewith? And encouragement. If I'd thought about mydecision to comp at that time, these might havebeen my considerations. But I didn't think aboutit, really.

Paradox though it was, the Crimson became aplace to belong. An inexplicable addiction kept meat a place where people were cold, seriousnessstifling and hard work prevalent; Crimson editorsand executives were indeed a breed untothemselves, regenerated each year through compsand production of a daily newspaper. I began tofunction within an environment which forced me tointeract with people who were quite different frommy friends outside. Here I learned again that Iwas quiet, hardworking, and easily intimidated.For three and a half years, I worked at theCrimson. I had to look elsewhere for my identity.

Attendance at two Chinese Student Associationmeetings told me that I wasn't Chinese. But itwasn't until spring of senior year that I learnedan appropriate label for myself: Asian American. Ideclared East Asian Studies as my concentrationfreshman year, and was awakened to academics bythe late Professor Fletcher's course on power inthe Early Ch'ing Empire. Yet, only the opportunityto participate in a Dunster House seminar on AsianAmericans, finally offered this spring, allowed meto see myself. Approximately 40 students of Asiandescent crowded into a seminar meant for 10, readyto "discover the issues" together.

"Critical communal awareness" explained why mywork in Boston's Chinatown had been so fulfilling.The concept of having something to give to acommunity which I could call my own, even though Igrew up three thousands miles away and outside ofChinatown, became a thrill. I now regret nothaving had time to recruit minority students forCrimson comps. I learned to smile and respond inan informative manner when complimented on myEnglish by the native public during my work at theMuseum of Science. "Well, even though I'm ofChinese heritage, I was born in America. In fact,my Chinese probably isn't too much better thanyours." What hasn't been explained to me iscrossing Mt. Auburn street to the strains fromtownies' cars of "Ch'ing ch'ong (sp.?) sianara(sp.?)" amplified and distorted by the Dopplereffect. More frightening was being accosted lateone night by very drunk and white Harvard men with"Hey China girl, let's see what's in yoursleeves." Ha, ha, ha, ha, HA. "What makes youthink you're any better than me?" my mind screams,as my silent Asian face burns red, turned down tothe ground. Things haven't changed so much sincegrade school.

Yet, I've been to Harvard. And my experiencehas brought me to life. I've been stimulatedacademically yet haven't become an academic. I seemore than the hard surface of Crimson members.I've had the opportunity to interact both withpeople who will continue to be my closest friendsand people who will continue. Boston's presencehas provided me invaluable education and starkawakening. I've been able to teach many about theculture that is half mine. Everything that theysaid came true.