In light of all the discussion of campus divisions on racial, ethnic and various other lines, I would like to propose the following solution: Stock the Yard with more squirrels. Yes, not dialogue, not another panel with Cornel West, but squirrels are the key.

Several months ago, a squirrel created a moment of campus unity outside Widener Library, that bastion of cold impersonality. As I walked by, I noticed a large, and perhaps more noticeable, extremely diverse group of people all standing completely still, their attention fixed on something I could not see. As I drew closer, the situation became clear. A dog and a squirrel were locked in a mortal struggle.

There we all stood, hypnotized by what we had found. The wind blew, but no one shivered. A woman who, in retrospect, sounded quite zombified, quietly said, "We have to save the squirrel." Yet no one moved. I was going to be late for an Expos conference, but it didn't matter. Slowly the dog advanced. The squirrel stopped nibbling, cast a disdainful glance over his shoulder and went right back to munching. The dog took another step, and the squirrel, who didn't appear to be looking, took off like a shot, arriving safely at a nearby tree just before the dog.

The crowd, which had been growing throughout the incident, let out a collective sigh of relief. Then a funny thing happened. Everyone started smiling. Have you noticed how few people smile as they walk through the Yard? Maybe it's the midterms or the hundreds of pages of overdue reading on their minds, but whatever the case, I just don't see a lot of smiling faces. Another Harvard taboo was violated that day--people who didn't even know each other started talking. Weird, eh? (Sorry, Canadians.)

These squirrel incidents (attention psychology concentrators) are perfect for making observations about the Harvard community. To name a few: 1) Harvard students are really, really bored, and they desperately need amusement. 2) Harvard students, much like the Romans, enjoy blood sports. Since we can't have a gladiator match with the Yalies, we settle for the next best thing, namely dogs vs. squirrels.

These ideas work, but I think there is a deeper principle here. When we look out of ourselves, when something more than petty concerns is on our minds, cooperation and even unity, to some degree, is possible. The crowds of people I saw squirrel-watching probably had reasons different from mine for their interest, but that doesn't change the fact that all of us, young and grad student, for a split second were united by a common concern. Our divisions come from our self-centeredness. As long as I worry about me and mine, and you worry about you and yours, the split between us will always be large. What the squirrels show is that if you and I can get together--our attention not on our concerns of the moment but on the concerns of an entity other than ourselves--it is possible to close the rift, to end the reign of impersonality, to lessen the alienation.

Look out, and look away from self. That is the lesson of the squirrel. I accept the criticism that what I say might work on paper but not in the real world. Still, I ask, does that lessen its truth?

The next time you are walking through the Yard and see a tourist taking a picture of a small furry creature, stop for a moment, enjoy the commonality that comes from being a curious human being, and let your fancy be captured by something other than your run for president.