When I walk into Boylston Hall and turn left, I’m confronted with a table; the moment I’m within the threshold of Ticknor Lounge, two school officials ask me, monotone, for the first letter of my last name. I say “C.” I look around. The place is filled with sunny silence. Dotted around the room, among the couches and deep-cushioned chairs, there are students with their heads down, some scribbling furiously, others underlining passages on the pages in front of them. There are boxes of pizza in one of the corners. I’ve found myself at the 2010 Financial Aid Thankathon Open House.
Over the past decade, Harvard has increased its scholarship aid to students by 155 percent, according to the FAO website. This year Harvard is awarding a record-breaking $145 million in need-based scholarship assistance. There cannot be enough said about the University’s middle-income initiatives, or the fact that it waives fees for families earning under $60,000 a year. Harvard is perhaps the most generous university in the world, and it has led other universities to similar levels of generosity. I, for one, would never have been able to attend Harvard 10, 20 years ago, and that’s true for many other students.
A good portion of this financial aid assistance comes from the generosity of individual donors who establish scholarships for various slices of the student body—in other words, they give money to students like me. The Thankathon is an event at which we show our appreciation for these benefactors, many of whom are shadowy, sometimes anonymous figures whose names come up only on the bill every term.
When you walk into Ticknor, one of the two officials (presumably associated with FAS Donor Relations) hands you three pieces of paper after carefully marking down your attendance; one sheet has information about your particular donor, the second has example thank-you notes, and the last is blank, scrap. Then they motion to the boxes full of cards and envelopes and the boxes of pizza. Take one, take one, they say about both.
All the exemplary letters seem to be written by graduating seniors. I sit down by the window. On page two: “These small accomplishments, of which I am very proud, are in no way just my accomplishments; they are also yours, for you have given me the opportunity to pursue my dreams. For this, I thank you deeply.” In the preceding paragraphs the writer talks about said accomplishments: traveling to the Rift Valley in Kenya, the experience of establishing five mobile malaria testing and treatment clinics. At the very bottom of the instruction sheet, in perky alarming bold, it says, “Please leave your envelope open so that we can make a record of your participation for the FAO!”
My donor is Jeff Tarr, who established the Frank Tarr Memorial Scholarship in honor of his father. Frank Tarr didn’t graduate from high school (sheet number one tells me) but he believed in the importance of education. He was very pleased that his son attended Harvard. Jeff Tarr was in Winthrop House when he was here—as am I—and he played on the freshman and Winthrop football teams. He was active in the Dems.
I was lucky enough to meet Mr. Tarr in person over winter break. He and his family organize an annual banquet in New York City to meet and keep in touch with new and old Tarr Scholars, a group made up of Harvard students on financial aid from New York or Maine. I was the youngest person in the room by far, my peer scholarship recipients either out of town or otherwise busy, and I felt out of place. I talked to an I-banker about math courses. I scanned the room.
Then Mr. Tarr came over, and he took me by the shoulder and beamed at me, asked me all about myself. I told him about playing baseball. He told me about the football, and that he played baseball too, that he’d actually even tried out for the Major League once in his playing days. He’s older now, but you can see in his thick back, his curved fingers, once he must have been able to take a tackle, to turn a double play. We marveled together about how different the school was. I pictured him walking through Winthrop. He made sure I sat next to him when we started eating, and he made sure to introduce me to everyone: politicians’ aides, economists, doctors, entrepreneurs. The conversation was smart, and in lulls in the political discourse, we could always return to joking about the Core or playing House intramurals. It felt, at the end, like a family.
I tried to write my letter to Jeff Tarr. I looked through the sample phrases—things like, “I am grateful for my opportunities.” “I could not have done it without you.” I am. I couldn’t have. I am extraordinarily lucky.
But I also wouldn’t be here without my real family. I reread the explanatory letter. Frank Tarr believed in the importance of education. He was very pleased that his son attended Harvard. I picture my own father, my mother, my brother, and our twin heritages.
The feeling that I was stumbling around had a word, and it was “obsequious,” with all its ugly and uncomfortable connotations. And also “ungrateful,” shameful overtones in tow. The thank-you writers seemed to make full use of the scrap paper, just so they could meander the line between the two words carefully.
Even in meeting Jeff Tarr once I know that he is a person of the very best order: a kind man, a good one. That day in Ticknor I wrote my thank-you letter to him happily, if dutifully. His generosity and that of those like him make this school, and its squadrons of alumni, feel like a family. We take care of our own. But I can’t shake the feeling that this notion of money is dirty, as is indebtedness. And sometimes the Harvard family makes it easy to forget that we came from somewhere before.
Mark J. Chiusano ’12 is a sophomore English concentrator in Winthrop House. The first one to make a joke about his Italian surname and his obsession with family gets his knees capped.
