His Side

John B. Trainer

In this crazy, topsy-turvy world of ours, the problems of two people don't amount to a hill of beans--except on the anniversary of the death of St. Valentine.

Isn't this ironic? Marketing--celebrating, even--the death of a Catholic saint by agonizing over what to do for that special love/lust of your life?

(On second thought, Catholicism is big on suffering, martyrdom and all that jazz. I take it back.)

However, suffering and redemption aren't the issue. Here's what I really want to know: What exactly did St. V do to get this holiday? I mean, just how arbitrary is this?

St. Valentine has as much to do with romance as a Mack Truck has to do with the aesthetic sensibilities of French Impressionist painters. What if Hallmark had settled on a different day to trot out its "Be Mine" cards? Just think:

Boy: "Sweetheart, I love you forever. Will you be my Fillmore?"

Girl: "Oh...of course, my darling."

Boy: "Happy Millard Fillmore's Day, angel."

Girl: [swoons]

No, there's nothing inherently romantic about St. Valentine. The legends I've heard involve a third-century martyr stuck in a jail cell accepting tokens from little kids. Not exactly the stuff of hearts and paper doilies.

But for some reason, this has become a romantic holiday. And while chivalry is supposed to be dead, the burden of romance still falls hardest on men. As Valentine's Day draws near, we start to think that St. Valentine had it easy.

A macho tough guy is supposed to act sensitive. He's expected to get in touch with his feminine side on a romantic night out without feeling like he looks really stupid. (Sometimes he'll succeed, sometimes he won't. His companion will know the difference.)

And for men who are already kind of sensitive and romantic (or at least believe that they are), Valentine's Day can be even tougher. These guys are expected to produce.

A candlelit dinner and dancing is cliched. February is too cold for a picnic dinner on a hill watching the sunset somewhere. And there's usually not enough snow for a good sleigh ride, unless you're willing and able to fork over serious dough.

What's left? You won't find any tips here. Where romance is concerned, St. Valentine's Day separates the men from the boys.

So start thinking. You know who you are.

John B. Trainer '95 is sports editor of The Crimson. We asked him to write because he's a cynic.

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Michael K. Mayo

So, what is it again? There was this massacre, right, and then people fell in love and sent cards, and then there was a clucking bunny and a chocolate egg. Right? Which day is it again?

Who knows. There's plenty written about the lack of love at Harvard, about the measly dating scene and the cold, foreboding social life of Harvard. But what about those of us who have everything we want--everything--and still manage to screw things up?

The most wonderful part of my relationship is the bond that holds us together through thick and thin, the way we boost each other to get through the day:

Sarcasm.

It's a constant nudging and ribbing and teasing, our relationship, 24 hours a day, without fail. So when Valentine's Day comes and the stakes get higher, when signs of true love are due like drafts of a thesis, unless you're paying careful attention, you're bound to ruin something.

Sure, I could be nice to her for a whole day. I could call off the teasing, be nice to her from dawn to dusk, hand her the napkin without pretending to sneeze on it, hold myself back from feigning a sigh when she asks me to sit next to her in the dining hall. I could make her day a perfect Valentine.

Fat chance. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day and I can't tell whether I should send a card or baste a turkey.

Flowers? Candies? Arched eyebrows and professions of love? She'd burst out laughing. It isn't me, and it isn't us.

Maybe it's like the Quaker tradition about Christmas--we should be celebrating Jesus' birth every day, not on one lone day in December. If I stopped teasing her, and if she stopped having the opportunity to look shocked and get sympathy, that would simply mean that every other day of the year I MEANT what I was saying, that I was really wiping my mouth on her napkin and really meant it when I didn't want to sit next to her at the House Grill.

Anyway, she's the one who garners coos from everyone at the dining hall table, not me. She gets to make puppy dog eyes, while I'm the bad guy. I get the thrill of making jabs. She gets the sympathy.

There may be plenty of you out there who must think I'm crazy, or that she's crazy to stay with someone who's such a constant pain in the neck. But in the end, we're happy. That's Valentine's Day for the strange, I guess.

Michael K. Mayo '94 is associate editorial chair of The Crimson. We asked him to write because he's attached.

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Joe Mathews

Being a man on Valentine's Day isn't easy. You're full of anxiety over the need to do something wildly romantic. But I'd rather be a man on this or any other day than have to be a woman on this campus or any other.

Others will try to sugarcoat it, but the fact is this: For a woman, the Harvard social scene is nothing more than an intellectualized meat market. A few principled women refuse to put themselves on display, but many more give into the market, spending more time than is healthy worrying about butts that are too big and breasts that are too small.

And Valentine's Day just adds to the insecurities, particularly those of the young woman who is beauless.

It's not that Harvard is very different in this respect from the rest of the world. And men are certainly not immune to insecurities about their looks and their place in the social scene.

But I, for one, am disappointed by many of the women I've met here. It's sad that some of the world's brightest, most engaging, most attractive people waste so much time trying to look better.

Worse still, this obsession with appearance makes it especially hard to get to know Harvard women. Many raise their guards around all men, large and small. I'm not dumb--I know there are reasons for this. Some men deliberately try to take advantage of women. And men can be particularly cruel to women who don't look good.

But in all of the crash diets, Stairmaster sessions and cold glances shot to any man who dares to advance the conversation past classes or the weather, a romantic ideal has been lost. Sure, most guys are creeps. But a few of us aren't, and it's worth your while to try to find out which are which.

So for Valentine's Day I offer, with all due respect, a suggestion to some of Harvard's women. Take a break and let your guard down. Find a male friend--it doesn't have to be someone you're interest in, just someone you like--and take a walk, bake a cake, shoot some hoops, or just find a quiet place to sit with him.

And while you're there, tell stories. Touch. Hug. There's no pressure. Sharing is just about the most romantic thing I know of, and it might even burn some calories.

Joe Mathews is an investigative reporter for The Crimson. We asked him to write because he's sentimental.

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Jonathan Samuels

Most anyone referring to Valentine's Day will tell you sappy tales about romantic evenings or fourth-grade kisses behind the oak tree. Some will plea for pity because they haven't ever had a date. It's safe to say that your average American male will always manage to blurt out one story or another.

But who really cares?

I prefer Valentine's Day tales of the home-cooked variety, stories that touch on deeper affections. My Valentine's Day memories extend beyond Cupid's arrow and puppy love. Mine are the sort that says blood (the color of valentines) is thicker than water.

Just check the Coop's card section, where the color of red long ago replaced the sea of Christmas green. Sure, there are a number of cards for that significant other or the new name in the black book.

But Hallmark and its competitors have slated a majority of their cards for a myriad relatives.

My fondest V-Day recollections come from my formative years. I remember waking up on those February 14th mornings for Mom's special breakfast--with the kitchen table all decorated in red. My family made a ritual of reading aloud cards sent from our dearest relations.

Heck--I bet if my family had celebrated Christmas, I would have looked forward to the candy hearts and Valentine's cards more than the candy canes and stockings. Who needs Santa Claus when he has sisters, grandmas, and a mom?

The past few years in Cambridge, I've managed to drag myself out of bed on February 14th--but it hasn't been quite the same. The phone calls and mail have had to do the trick.

At least I remembered to send out my cards this year--to Mom, the sisters, the grandmas, the aunts--and even the cute little cousins.

So what do I plan to do this Sunday? I haven't figured it out yet, although I may even go out on a date. But I'll tell you one thing: I think I'll give mom a call tomorrow night to ask her how the breakfast went.

Jonathan Samuels '94 is executive editor of The Crimson. We asked him to write because he has family values.

Her Side

Nancy E. Greene

My construction paper Valentine's Day mailbox was completely full by the time I peeked inside. I was the fastest girl in all of Mrs. McKay's fourth grade class, having been clocked with the best 50-yard dash time (except for Celia Hanley, but she was my best friend so that was okay). Because I was so fleet of foot, I was the first one finished handing out all those valentines I'd made.

So full! Fourth grade teachers invent the best traditions: Give a valentine to everybody if you're going to give one to anyone at all. I'd stayed up until 11 the night before finishing my hand-made valentines, thinking of just the right thing to put on Rolf Lundmark's pink, red and white heart. Mushy stuff probably wouldn't work. But I had to think of something special.

Rolf was the most popular boy in all of fourth grade, and that included every fourth grade class at Belvedere Elementary school. In third grade, a bunch of friends had gotten together and paid Rolf (I think it was about $5) to make a list of his favorite girls in the class. That note was passed around the whole class, and my name was at the top of the list! So he must really like me, right?

Sifting through my box, I got to three of those owl valentines first. You know, the ones that say, "It'd be a HOOT if you'd be my Valentine!" They're the friendship valentines that card companies need to make so that you don't have to worry about people getting the wrong idea. Turtle valentines are pretty good for that, too, as I recall.

I tossed aside the cards until I finally found Rolf's valentine. A bear. Sigh.

We went to see Supergirl together later that year. Of course, he went with my friend Celia and I was with Benjy Cook. I kept the bear valentine, though.

Nancy E. Greene '95 is design editor of The Crimson. We asked her to write because she runs as fast as the wind.

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Alessandra M. Galloni

On February 14, nobody could wait until lunch period. Only then were the rubbery hot dogs and soggy ice cream sandwiches accompanied by an extra sweet dessert--a carnation (or two) sent via the high school student council.

It was quite an affair--for days everyone filled out order forms during homeroom for red (love), pink (secret admirer) and white (friendship) carnations, and mused over sappy messages to wrap around the (by the time they got to you) withering little flowers.

Inevitably, the reds held the most prestige and generated the greatest envy. The pinks triggered endless whispers and speculations in the locker rooms. And a fragrant assortment of reds and pinks was a true symbol of status and reputation.

And the whites? They peppered the hallways and sat on most trays, but they carried little distinction.

This week, red and pink have consumed our thoughts. Love and lust and romance (or lack thereof) has been on everyone's mind. Many conversations have been complaints, lamenting the absence of a significant someone with whom to share an intimate moment, a tender kiss, or an amorous evening.

Boyfriends and girlfriends have planned romantic evenings and hesitant admirers have decided to reveal their long-kept secrets.

Does February 14th belong only to couples, flirts and clandestine lovers who melt in each other's arms? Should everyone else just stay in bed?

Certainly not. Valentine's Day celebrates the bonds between human beings, affection for people close to us and people who care about us. For couples, we have proms, weddings, anniversaries, and frankly, any day of the year. But when do we celebrate friendship if not on Valentine's Day?

Tomorrow, don't worry about red roses and declarations of love--send someone a white carnation.

Alessandra M. Galloni '95 is a beat reporter for The Crimson. We asked her to write because she's sweet.

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Molly B. Confer

February 14, 1978 (kindergarten)

Dear Diary,

Today was the afternoon kindergarten's Valentine Exchange. Made a fashionably late appearance in the multi-purpose room; all the movers and shakers were there.

Jennifer was wearing Oshkosh B'gosh overalls to die for. Michael had too much punch and was acting silly. Boys are yucky.

February 14, 1981 (third grade)

Dear Diary,

Today was our homeroom Valentine's party--black tie, of course. Katie's mother brought elegant pink-frosted cupcakes which were sublime.

At recess, I was chatting with Joey under the jungle gym when he asked me, "Molly, would you go with me?"

Go with him? Where?

I don't understand men.

February 14, 1985 (seventh grade)

Dear Diary,

Today was Valentine's Day. No social events of note, but in health class we're studying the atria of the human heart. I suppose that's Valentinesy, Somewhat.

Susie mentioned a gathering last weekend where they played a parlor game, "Two Minutes in the Closet." Two minutes with a boy, I gathered from her description. "Two minutes for what?" I asked her. "For talking? Did you have to talk for two minutes?" Susie just raised her eyebrows.

February 14, 1990 (twelfth grade)

Dear Diary,

Today was Valentine's Day. I attended school, came home, did homework, and now I'm going to retire.

February 14th will be simply lovely in college, I'm sure.

February 14, 1991 (first-year student at Harvard)

Dear Diary,

I received a rose from an admirer; a boy. This is the first day of the rest of my life.

February 14, 1992 (sophomore at Harvard)

Dear Diary,

This is the first Valentine's Day that I've had a significant other. We exchanged gifts, and I realized how happy I was to be in a healthy, mature, adult relationship.

I'm wondering where I should put the gifts he gave me. I might put the Pla-Doh on my vanity table; perhaps the rubber frogs could be displayed on my dresser.

February 13, 1993 (junior at Harvard)

Dear Diary,

Last night I was at one of those charming little Dunster galas. So was he--the gentleman I met last week at Adams House. But he'd had too much punch and was acting silly.

Boys are yucky.

Molly B. Confer '94 is magazine editor of The Crimson. We asked her to write because she's funny.

*

Joanna M. Weiss

There's something wrong with the color pink. You can't walk into a card store these days without stepping into pink paradise. Pink is the color of chalky heart candies, valentine envelopes and stuffed bunnies.

I can find pink in the drugstore, too. Pink is the color of Pepto-Bismol.

My room at home is pink. Pink bedspread, pink pillows, pink ruffled curtains. Tiny pink flowers all over the wallpaper. When I was in sixth grade and moving into a new house, I thought a pink room might be nice. In seventh grade, I reconsidered. But it was already too late.

I had been deluded, I guess. In sixth grade, the boys and girls suddenly stopped wielding invisible cans of "germ spray" and started to dance--arms outstretched and planted tentatively on the other's shoulders--in the multi-purpose room. At that point, I decided it was important to live pink.

What I forgot, in my brief shock of discovery, was that I'd never been a big fan of the color before. It wasn't that I was a tomboy--I was too wimpy for that. And it's not that I didn't do my share of pink activities, playing with Barbie dolls and with pink games like Candyland.

But the pink stuff paled in comparison to the Lincoln Logs, the Tinkertoys and the Bristle Blocks. They were primary colors. And you could build things with them.

Valentine's Day is supposed to be red. But sometimes it turns out pink. Red is the color of gender-neutral, deep-felt energy and excitement. Pink is the color of saccharine sweet forced-feminine girl stuff. Pink is the color of mush.

Not to knock mush. Mush in small doses can be very nice. But mush-for-the-sake-of-mush can get a little absurd. Mush isn't exciting; it's squishy and fake, and it makes me a little uncomfortable. Most importantly, you can't build anything with mush.

Like pink cotton candy, mush disappears as soon as it's touched. Flowers wither, candies mold. Far better to reach for the red. Forego the sugar coating. Try for substance.

Otherwise, you might be blue.

Joanna M. Weiss '94 is editorial chair of The Crimson. She gets to write because she's the editor.