Unlike many people who go to college, I came here for an education instead of future wealth. I also came here because I had heard that this was a place for intellectual discourse, for deep exploration of the problems that shape our world and ourselves. I came here expecting to find people who loved to learn.

But they love something else more: those silly little things we call grades that lead to higher honors (which equals a better job, more money, etc.). The mad scramble for "gut" classes and the ridiculous amount of stress on campus during finals will bear me out: grades, not actual amount of knowledge, are the most important aspect of classes to Harvard students.

Is this a real problem? I mean, most of the world feels that status, not actual accumulation of knowledge, is important. True knowledge is superfluous when a little bit of nothing will get you what you need just as easily. A Harvard degree is worth its weight in gold, right? It's not what you know; it's who you know, right? As long as the stock market doesn't crash or the house on the hill doesn't fall down, you're pretty much in the clear with a lot of bluffing and little bit of truth.

This is a real problem because a large portion of America has fallen into this mindset, and that's why we're always in hopeless search of mental and spiritual fulfillment. Harvard students are no better than anyone else is. We have the same mental and spiritual desires that every human being has, maybe more, and we're not talking about them. And when we graduate and start those lucrative jobs that we're all so in search of, we still won't be talking about them.

Since I came here, I've been on a desperate search for intellectualism. I don't understand enough about the world, and I'm hoping that my peers here--people from all over the world and all types of backgrounds--will show me their little corner of it, their little piece of the whole that makes them special. Every once in a while I strike gold--the study session that turns into a debate about inter-racial relations, the meeting of two individuals waiting in line for a professor's office hours that turns into a passionate discussion of what really matters in a work of art. But these lucky chances are just that--lucky chance. I've been digging with a lot of people, people who I know have some-thing intelligent to say, trying to get them to feel comfortable enough to say something deeper than "how's the weather?"

Most people show their brilliance in reluctant flashes. It's almost as if they're afraid to get into intellectual discourse, afraid to show what they think, what they know, what they feel. I'm frustrated with shallow conversations because I've seen a few of those flashes, those little examples of openness between people, and I know that my peers can do so much better.

We can't learn from each other if we're unwilling to teach each other. That corny brochure that we all received in the beginning of our days here (the one that said, "The best learning you will receive at Harvard will be from your peers") could be true--but only if we take intellectualism seriously. That means extending what we know to another person, opening ourselves up for criticism and skepticism and all sorts of other uncomfortable things that could easily be avoided by four years of brainless talk about classes and the weather.

It means letting other people in, letting them see how we feel about issues and listening to them, listening to why they feel differently. Hopefully this also means appreciating why they feel differently. It's harder than it seems--it involves thinking, and putting your thoughts out on display for others to shoot down. Our fragile egos are threatened by criticism, but the only way for us to get stronger is to be criticized, to be shot down, to see that we don't hold the right opinion on everything--and more importantly, that there may be no "right" opinion.

Perhaps you feel, for example, that my opinion on this issue is wrong. If so, feel free to share it with me. It'll be a growing process for both of us.

Caille M. Millner is a first-year and a resident of Matthews Hall. Her column will appear on alternate Mondays.