When the chapter in Harvard’s history about the presidency of Lawrence H. Summers is written, there is little doubt that much of it will focus on his top initiatives, his public image, his comments on women in science, and his battle with the Faculty of Arts and Sciences and subsequent resignation. I fear that some of the most important sides of his multifaceted presidency will be lost in an effort to dramatize an unquestionably tumultuous five years. In particular, the prejudice of history may overlook his tremendous commitment to undergraduates, an aria of Summers’ tragic opera for which I was lucky enough to hold a front-row seat.

You see, by some strange alignment of the stars, President Summers was my freshman year academic adviser. I’m not quite sure how or why it happened, although luck and my interest in economics played a part. Whatever the cause, for nine months I was invited into the world of Mass. Hall, an opportunity I took advantage of a dozen or so times. On those days, he transformed from President Summers, a somewhat high and mighty figure, into Larry, a trusted adviser, mentor, and friend who genuinely cared about my undergraduate experience and, by proxy, the entire student body.

I first met Larry on my third full day at Harvard for my first freshman advising meeting. I still remember walking through the big green door at the end of Mass. Hall, my stomach in my throat and my hands somewhat fidgety as I nervously awaited his arrival. The next thing I knew, I was trailing the most powerful man at the University, who seemed 10 feet tall, to go out to lunch.

But Larry broke the thick ice with ease. Instead of interrogating me about my academic credentials, as I had expected he would, we spent the first 15 minutes chatting about our families. He told me about his daughters and son, whom he had promised the biggest singles at Harvard if they came here. “In ‘Elmwood Hall,’ my house,” he deadpanned. And he asked all about my sister, my best friend but a bit of a rival. This was a detail he remembered a few months later when he signed a dollar bill for her, “Your brother is great, but you are better—Larry Summers,” which delighted her for months.

During chats in his office, Larry was surprisingly frank. He never told me what not to take, but his enthusiasm for the courses he recommended was so strong that his guidance was clear. He talked casually about his life as an economist and what molded his worldview, giving suggestions about life, possible career paths, and concentrations as he went along.

As much as he advised, he also questioned, and it became clear to me that I was one of his windows on the undergraduate experience, along with the question-and-answer sessions he held at each residential house, his meetings with Crimson reporters, and various other interactions with students. His questions about what I and my peers thought of various aspects of Harvard demonstrated a tremendous thirst for understanding of the undergraduate experience and a passionate desire to fix what he saw as a subpar education.

And then there was his dedication. When I first found out Larry would be my adviser, I expected that he, like many other freshman advisers, would barely do more than sign my study card, particularly because of his busy schedule. I never expected him to meet with me every four to six weeks—more often than nearly all of my friends met with their advisers for academic purposes—or to get better quality advising than they did. That he did all that he did says a lot about his character and passion for undergraduate education.

One anecdote, however, speaks louder than all of my visits to Mass. Hall. In late October, I fell sick on a week when I had several papers due. Not wanting to bother Larry, I went to my proctor, who suggested I ask my freshmen dean for extensions on my papers, but informed me that I had to get Larry’s approval to do so. I gingerly called his office and talked to his secretary, who said he was very busy that day but that she would try to squeeze in a quick phone call at some point in the day. Five minutes later, Larry was on the phone, and for a few minutes we discussed exactly what I should do, down to the minutiae of when I should ask to turn in each assignment. He could have just told his secretary that he would approve anything I proposed, or he could have waited until he had a few extra minutes in his schedule. But like on so many other occasions, he put undergraduates first.

To this day I’m saddened by Larry’s resignation. I believe in his vision for Harvard and am impressed with his understanding of the University and his analysis of matters of University policy. And I must admit that I’ve looked up to him as an economist and a leader. On the other hand, I am unquestionably prejudiced in his favor, and the Larry I saw in his office was, by all accounts, not the same President Summers that deans and faculty saw. I will never completely understand the perspective of those faculty members who fought for his ouster, nor will I ever have enough information to offer a definitive judgment on his presidency.



But if there is one thing that I am certain about after this whole to-do, it is that Harvard’s next president—whatever other qualities he or she holds—must have the same zeal and care for undergraduates that Larry does. If Larry is a king, as his critics allege, that is the brightest jewel in his crown.



Adam M. Guren ’08, a Crimson associate editorial chair, is an economics concentrator in Eliot House.