"It was early morning yesterday, I was up before the dawn / And I really have enjoyed my stay, but I must be movin' on." --Supertramp. 1979.

A couple nights ago, I joined a group of about 10 fellow graduating seniors sitting in the Eliot courtyard beneath the starry sky. The mix of celebratory alcohol, cigar smoke and nostalgia wafted through the air as a midnight breeze swirled around gently. It was a moment I'll remember forever, one of those priceless gatherings of community. There aren't enough of them at Harvard.

This University applies rigorous intellectual standards in admitting students, then it grinds them into servants of the governmental and business elites controlling American society, democracy and capitalism. Its prevailing emotional standard, however, is simply to ensure that everyone is capable of making it alone. It's always been considered too corny, too rah-rah for Harvard to build a sense of community. We have no mascot, no real nickname, no football bonfires, no communal weeping for good old whatever. And while there are strong ties created among certain people within certain Houses, randomization causes only additional atomization and isolation.

That's what made our Tuesday night meeting both rare and special. Though we were Crimson editors, Fly Club members, Hillel associates and Lampoon staffers, we felt the warmth of community that Harvard often represses. With theses graded and exams finished long ago, we finally had time for song and dance. Some of us hadn't seen each other in years, but conversations drifted back to where they'd paused. Suddenly we found ourselves with some breathing room. Suddenly we realized that the cycle was not completely closed, that we had a break before plunging into lives of corporate boredom. Suddenly we felt free, with everything wide open and with bold new directions to walk in.

But we felt a twinge of sadness. It finally sank in that our days in the academy's sheltered confines were over. We recognized how much we really liked each other, but we knew we'd be scattering across America, probably never to see each other again. We aren't kids anymore. Many of us are renting apartments where we'll crash after working 12 hours each day in steely offices lit long after dark. Most are worried that the boardroom, the surgical room or the courtroom will squeeze the life out of us, even as it pays us handily. Almost all wonder how we would keep our innocence, our beauty, our soul. We fear our hearts will die.

We're afraid because four years at Harvard taught us about competition, but not about community and relationship. Since we're all aiming for impressive positions that are in short supply in society, such as United States senator, chief of residency or mutual fund manager, we must fight for what we want. This means some of us are going to lose. Competition's very nature, then, fosters the feeling that life means surviving in fundamental and existential solitude. "I am alone," a friend told me once. "If I don't fight to get on top, somebody else will get there first."

And so all too often we wrapped ourselves in our own little world. We ignored classmates' cries for help as they drowned in loneliness and self-doubt. Or walked past the homeless begging for money to eat. Or looked past the maids, janitors and cooks toiling each day in our midst so that we need not. We forgot that to whom much is given, much is expected.

Still, we often came together and affirmed our truest selves. We set down our books, stopped being critics and became artists. We supported each other, learned from each other and redeemed each other. We went to The Game, the formals and the parties. We sledded down the steps of Widener into piles of freshly-fallen snow. We shared intramurals, journals and meals. We fell in love and out of love, and we forged lasting friendships. Cherish those memories. They're what make us human.

Richard C. Marius, senior lecturer on English, reminds us that "human beings are incomplete unless they can stare out windows, seeing a world beyond what the eye can behold." Speeding along the highway between downtown offices and suburban homes, living in rooms with incredible views, we will be sheltered from America's latent racism, sexism, homophobia, poverty and moral uncertainty. It's really there. And unless we remember that many among us live sad lives of quiet desperation--and that we are who we are because someone loved us, cared for us and lent us a guiding hand--then our entire education will have been for naught.

Sitting on the dais today, watching us enter "the fellowship of educated men and women," are some of America's most powerful and influential leaders. We've been trained to follow in their footsteps, and five years from now we will write entries for the Class Book detailing our material successes. At least one person, however, will step forward bravely and confess that his or her life hasn't turned out at all like expected. Our hearts will skip a beat as we wonder how our former classmate failed. The truth, of course, is that the only failure is the person who loses their inner moral compass, who gives up hope, who becomes part of the system instead of a voice urging--sometimes in the face of public opinion--to change it. It is of no use to profit in the world if we lose our soul.

Today's commencement reminds me of how, when I was a kid, we used to play softball in a vacant lot behind our grade school. The worst moment in the whole summer was the last day of vacation as the sun began to set. Slowly but surely people would drift away, leaving the rest crying: "Stick around, guys! One more inning, one more time at bat! We can't break up this team!" We wanted it to stay light forever, so we could keep playing forever. But the sun always went down.

And now it's almost dark. "Goodbye Alissa Sue! Hope your dreams will all come true!" "Goodbye Danny, goodbye Fran! Will we ever meet again?" As we leave Harvard, we take the moments embedded in our souls that made us human. If we keep them alive, then we'll move on into America pursuing a mission beyond our selves. Seeing beautiful things, loving and being loved, never letting our heart die. Otherwise we will pass through this world as drudges, surviving day to day, aloof and alone, never truly having lived.

Christopher R. McFadden '97 of Eliot House and Joliet, Ill., was senior editor of The Crimson in 1996.