I have come to terms with the fact that I take my life in my hands when I walk out of my dorm and into Harvard Yard. I accept my fate, and I know that one day, when I least expect it, I will become a victim.

I’m not talking about property theft, mugging, or any of the other mildly terrifying crimes that the Harvard University Police Department warns us about during the first weeks of school. I’m referring to the acorns that cascade down from the trees in the Yard when you least expect it—small but surprisingly powerful pellets of force clocking the heads of tourists, small mammals, and unsuspecting freshmen.

I call the Harvard community to arms. Harvard: you’ve stood up against war, you’ve stood up against opponents of the living wage, and you’ve stood up to grade inflation. Now is the time to stand up to acorns.

The fact that not one red cent of Harvard’s $25.9 billion endowment is being used to protect its students from falling foliage is outrageous. We come to Cambridge from all corners of the globe expecting an institution that practices what it preaches: a devotion to excellence and unabashed superiority. If we wanted an acorn-induced concussion or to get wet when it rains, we would have gone to Yale or Princeton. But at Harvard, we expect something more. In fact, we are entitled to it.

Take the weeklong Nor’easter that hit our campus in October. As I’m sure we all noticed, the slant of the wind and rain made it impossible not to get soaked during the long walk from building to building. I see no reason why we had to spend two days sitting in lecture with our wet jeans plastered to our shivering thighs when we have $25.9 billion at our disposal to protect us from inconveniences like the weather. If the United States of America—which doesn’t even have an endowment—can build a shield to protect us from incoming nuclear weapons, the least we could expect from a school such as Harvard is research into the feasibility of stretching a Star Wars-esque force-field of Saran Wrap over the entirety of campus.

Admittedly, the chance that one is going to be struck by an acorn while traversing the Yard is slim. Yet it is also completely random, much like getting struck by lightning, or being sentenced to death in Texas. This is disconcerting, as it means that the “best and brightest” in Cambridge—as we were not only the winning sperm but also a member of the top ten percent of Harvard applicants—are as vulnerable as anyone else. In fact, we are just as likely to get hit on the head by an acorn as is a student at MIT, if not more so because of our increased tendency to leave our rooms.

Due to these facts, among others, we must make sure Harvard spends a proper share of its endowment on its students. After all, it is our presence on campus that makes this institution of higher education the beautiful Ivory Tower that it is—and surely there are no people more deserving than ourselves of the benefits of Harvard’s economic superiority. So I stand up and raise my voice in favor of the protection we are entitled to.

They say money can’t buy happiness. I say we give it a shot.



Emma M. Lind ’09, a Crimson editorial comper, lives in Grays Hall.