>After completing my first semester here at Harvard, I have arrived at a solution to all of our institutional woes--state liquor laws should be callously disregarded and we should all throw caution to the wind. The student body needs a stiff drink.

No, I have not joined the over-crowded ranks of the party-starved masses. I don't think that a riotous keg bash will serve our purposes. My proposal is more surgical, and I do not carelessly invoke medical imagery. This campus suffers from a malignant tumor. We are being consumed by a rampant competitive instinct.

This observation is by no measure a new one. We all know that we are a competitive bunch. Most acknowledge that this instinct, which admittedly has contributed to our success, is a strong factor in shaping this school's environment. We all should have recognized this characteristic of Harvard life when we decided to attend. However, the pathological behavior which I have witnessed in the past six months lies far beyond the realm of tolerance.

I shall begin my case history in a rather idyllic setting--Harvard Yard at midnight, covered in freshly fallen snow. A few weeks ago when winter was still winter, some friends and I decided to recapture the abandon of childhood by frolicking in the winter wonderland. Unfortunately, we made a fatal error. Our recreation included some playful snowball tossing. Across the Yard some fellow students caught notice of this apparently provocative activity. The observers descended from their dorms to take up the contest.

"What contest?" you may now be wondering. Quite honestly, I'm not sure. These newcomers to the wintry fun seemed to be driven by the conviction that they must prove themselves superior snowball warriors. They constructed icy cores for better momentum. They recruited strong-armed friends from the baseball team. They actually organized themselves into military-style formations in order to prosecute their attack. I am not ashamed to admit that on that chilled night, my unprepared friends and I were utterly vanquished. Our supply lines must have been too long.

A week following that sad incident in the Yard, I sat in the Geological Lecture Hall waiting for my Ec 10 unit test to be graded. Such tests are enrichment exercises that have no impact on class standing. They are evaluated in a small group with other test-takers. My name was called and I went with a grader into the hallway with two other first-years. The grader asked that we rotate in answering the questions. Halfway through the test, we reached a problem concerning the notion of the prisoner's dilemma. The fellow to my right explained that his section had not yet covered that concept. The grader accepted this excuse and began to move on to the next question. The third member of our group abruptly interjected.

Turning to her ignorant classmate, the girl across from me announced, "I'm in your section and we did cover the prisoner's dilemma. You should know the answer." Satisfied that she had caused harm to another, a smug smile appeared on her face as she awaited the grader's reaction. The student, who genuinely did not recall covering the material, merely sat in silent disbelief.

I am intrigued by these incidences and the phenomenon that they exhibit. Is competitive drive a trait that inherently cannot be selectively applied? Is it impossible to rein in our classroom instincts? I do not believe so. Rather, Harvard students seem to have made a collective choice. We view it as safer to maintain a cut-throat edge at all times and so we have permanently locked ourselves into a defensive posture. Lowering our guard might mean certain death, or worse, a lower slot on the curve.

Perhaps it is true that any university which values excellence is bound to produce a competitive atmosphere. Here at Harvard, the stakes are higher than the norm, and the competitors know it. However, no one seems to be concerned with the aftermath of our exciting little rat race. The reality of that aftermath is that we live in a place where even a snowball fight turns into a battle for supremacy. Many of our peers conciously sabotage the success of others even when it garners no gain for themselves. Harvard claims to produce the leaders of tomorrow. If so, we are all going to need a flak jacket in the coming milenium.

There is no easy way to cure ourselves of this plague. I do not call for an organized response. Instead, some brave individuals are going to have to take the lead. Those who care more about the strength of their character than their GPA need only to modify their own behavior. Some reposed kindness can go a long way. Slowly, one person at a time, we may be able to salvage Harvard's soul. In the past we have only paid lip service to the "unfortunately competitive atmosphere." Starting today, let's all try to relax. At the very least, when we leave the last lecture of the day, let's deposit some of our psychosis at the door and head home to raise our glasses in congenial merriment.

Noah D. Oppenheim, a first-year living in Thayer Hall, is a Crimson editor.