Now that I think about it, what is it that Harvard students have against ballot-based elections? In almost every organization I can think of, the leaders are chosen by what can only be described as a formalized gossip session. The current leaders of the group go into a room, dish about the nominees, air out their dirty laundry and eventually settle on compromise candidates. It all sounds very noble, but inevitably ends up turning into a vituperative venting of insecurities, an exercise in exorcising. (Sample justification for rejecting a candidate—and I swear this is verbatim from a recent election: “I just don’t think she has the intellectual capacity to be a vice president of this organization.”) True, it is often quite satisfying to see the world in this light—to have that fleeting sense of righteousness and omnipotence while withholding our stamp of approval. But our love affair with hierarchies ends up pitting us against one another, amping up the volume on our inner critics instead of drowning them out.

By the end of the four years, though, I think we all learn the most important lesson that college—and perhaps, even life—can teach us. I might have suffered my crisis of faith midway through sophomore year, but it took me only a little while longer to figure out what it all meant (and no, I didn’t get this off a fortune cookie): Follow your own path, no matter what people say. Sure, it’s a cliché, but for good reason. If you’re complacent, if you let your inner critic overwhelm you, then Harvard can pummel you into submission, into bidding for conformity. But who comes into college saying “I want to be a gov jock!” or “I want to be a Pearl Girl!”? If you can take your lumps, if you can be motivated by the rejections, if you can just find a way to trust yourself, then this place will toughen your spirit. And in one of life’s delicious ironies, Harvard becomes the place to learn uniqueness.

Soman S. Chainani ’01, an English concentrator in Lowell House, was arts chair of The Crimson in 2000.