Before my classmates and I even set foot on campus as students, we had already received an impressive collection of school merchandise: a Harvard cap, a Harvard phone pocket, a Harvard t-shirt, a page of Harvard stickers. I was thrilled to finally be a part of this community, and I appreciated Harvard’s gesture. But this also marked the beginning of something far less exciting: a seemingly never-ending barrage of free merchandise that masks environmental damage and overconsumption under the guise of school spirit.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to collect a few items of clothing and other accessories that represent one’s school. And at Harvard, students aren’t the only ones demanding loads of logo-filled accessories — as illustrated by the numerous gift shops around Harvard Square catering to tourists who want a material souvenir to bring back from their visit. Everything from sweatshirts and shot glasses to dog leashes and infant onesies, adorned with the Harvard name and crest, line the walls of shops throughout Massachusetts Avenue and John F. Kennedy Street.

Perhaps, for tourists, merchandise sells because people like to have some sort of proof that they have been here or merely want to feel more in touch with a storied institution (after all, some of those onesies do read “Future Freshman”). But as Harvard students, our belonging to this community is not in question. We have no affiliation to prove, no need for souvenirs. Yet we continue to rely on excessive amounts of merchandise as some sort of manifestation of our belonging — to the College and to our houses, concentrations, and clubs.

It’s time to reexamine our reliance on merchandise as a student body. I expect we’ll find that any intangible benefits pale in comparison to the very real costs. The creation of a single cotton t-shirt requires around 2,700 liters of water and produces nearly 15 pounds of carbon. That means that producing t-shirts for every undergraduate enrolled at the College ends up costing more than 19 million liters of water and 106,000 pounds of carbon. These numbers feel distant when students are faced with the offer of another free t-shirt, but they drive at the heart of the climate crisis, with the fashion industry fueling up to 10 percent of carbon emissions across the globe.

One could argue that merchandise is a crucial way of showing the pride we take in our school —, of demonstrating our commitment to the College and our different communities within it. That is true, if we allow it to be. But we can also choose a different path — one that accepts limitations on the material goods we demand in order to help out our planet.

Perhaps the first Class of 2025 t-shirt did make me feel closer to this community, more like an actual Harvard student. But can most of us say the same about every subsequent Harvard blanket, water bottle, freshman Yard t-shirt, House t-shirt, Harvard-Yale game sweater, and plastic Housing Day medal we may receive (to name just a few)?

Our excessive consumption of free merchandise has offered me more climate anxiety than it has school spirit. It is particularly frustrating that one of the world’s leading research institutions, whose first and foremost role is to educate future generations, in some ways appears apathetic to that future.

I feel no closer to Harvard by being in a sea of crimson-colored sweatshirts, and I feel no closer to my House by wearing a t-shirt featuring our (admittedly great) polar bear mascot. At the end of the day, we can still be the loudest supporters at sports stadiums and the most united Houses on Housing Day without relying on merchandise to prove it. What binds our community together, rather, is the time we spend together, the activities that unite and inspire us, and our capacity to include and learn from each other.

The most compassionate thing we can do to show support for ourselves, our classmates, and the future of our school is to take care of the earth that we live on. That would be a much stronger show of solidarity and mutual engagement than the performativity of identical t-shirts. And if Harvard is looking for ways to spend its $50.9 billion endowment, it might consider investing in our future through climate-positive action.

School spirit is great — but so is the need to preserve the environment of the only planet we have. I’d be willing to trade in a few sweatshirts for the latter.

Mie L. Holm ’25, a Crimson Editorial editor, is a Social Studies concentrator in Pforzheimer House.