So I'm taking a final exam in one of my Economics classes and I suddenly realize I can't answer any of the questions. I start to panic, wishing I had attended lecture or at least read the book I had bought at the Coop for $79. I'm biting my pen and randomly filling in blanks with formulas I learned in EC-10 when I suddenly realize that the entire class is starring at me because I am wearing nothing but underwear.

Then the phone rings and wakes me up.

It's someone calling from University Hall about random Crimson administrational stuff. In my daze I manage to answer the woman's question and sound somewhat coherent. I think.

I hang up the phone and grab my portable alarm clock off the adjacent shelf. It's 9:13 a.m. I drop the clock to the floor, roll over and go back to sleep.

Whatever. It was reading period, so I was planning on sleeping until at least noon without interruption; I got up, spoke and despite the call, went back to sleep. No big deal.

But for some reason the event stuck in my mind. What was this administrator thinking, calling a student during reading period at 9:13 in the morning?

Granted, not everyone lives on student-standard time. And the truth is, if she called me at 3:15 in the afternoon she might have woken me as well. In fact, it would probably have been a better bet to call me during Hong Kong business hours (the country or the restaurant) than during Eastern-Standard working hours.

But what irks me about the incident isn't the phone call itself; it was my response to it. I remember thinking to myself, in my half-conscious state, "Oh well--just another unsurprising example of a college administration completely clueless about the lives of students." Although I'm sure many undergraduates are awake at 9:13 a.m., as a student, I would never dream of calling one of my peers that early, just as I would never dream of calling a teaching fellow after 11 p.m. The University Hall phone call alone was harmless; as an indication of the disconnectedness of the administration, it was worrisome.

Sometimes I try to convince myself the administration is not out of touch. Maybe they know students often sleep past 10 a.m., but nevertheless find it necessary to wake them anyway. I like to think College officials know how important things like universal key-card access are to us, but have some logical and secret reasons for denying us our requests. I like to think they are concerned about reading period being nothing more than an extension of the semester, but don't know how to avoid the recurrent problem. I like to think they care about students having a healthy mix of academics and leisure, but don't have a way of insuring this balance.

However, if administrators actually are in touch with students, then the only logical way to explain their seeming unconcern with our voiced desires is that they just don't care.

Do they care? Individually it seems they do. When I visit University Hall and talk with administrators, they listen, they nod, they at least humor me. They seem to be very nice people.

But as an institution, I don't feel Harvard cares. I don't feel wanted or listened to. When the College sets policies, such as the recent one that delays the opening of houses in the fall, I feel stepped on. The reduction in the number of days before the semester begins is not just a hassle for leaders of student organizations. It also makes College life that much less enjoyable by eliminating the few days of leisure we all once enjoyed. Yes, it was just a regression to an old policy, but it was still a regression, an inconsiderate regression.

Regardless, debating whether the College is out of touch or just doesn't care about students is useless and irrelevant. The fact of the matter is that as a student, there is little way for me to be heard. As far as the administration is concerned, I'm just some guy passing through for four years.

The sad part is, I'm beginning not to care.

I'm beginning to just accept the fact that any fighting I do will be in vein. In The Crimson, we lambaste the administration for its policies time and time again, and on only the rarest of occasions do they respond with something that vaguely resembles an accommodation. The result is as obvious as it is depressing: the lack of true student-administration dialogue makes me apathetic.