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{shortcode-be29865d8a9c7908fa05930b7f2d42574eaa573c}n a neuroscience lecture at the end of her sophomore fall semester at Harvard, Soleil E. Golden ’24 took out her phone to film a video clip.
“What are you recording for?” a student sitting next to her asked.
“Oh, I’m vlogging for my TikTok,” Golden replied, after which the student pulled up her profile (which now has more than 500,000 followers). She promptly suggested the two meet for coffee. The student turned out to be the president of the Exister Society — or the “X”, a women’s final club. Shortly after, Golden had completely bypassed the semester-long “punch” process and was initiated into the club the next weekend.
“I didn’t go through a single round. It gave me an immense amount of privilege in that regard, having a social media platform,” Golden says. “Some people were not happy because they had to go through all of punch and had to see their friends get eliminated, and then I just got in without even being interviewed.”
A representative of the Exister Society declined to comment on the punch process in previous years because Golden joined before any current members were in the organization.
Golden’s story is unique, but as more and more students take up the role of ‘Harvard influencer,’ social media success is increasingly shaping students’ life on campus.
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The road to influencer status typically starts with the same formula: an emotional, moving video of a high school senior opening their Harvard acceptance letter draws millions of viewers on YouTube or TikTok. Those who choose to continue making videos quickly learn that the Harvard name is an unparalleled marketing tool — garnering them tens of thousands of followers hoping for a glimpse of the most exclusive college experience in the country.
John A. Fish ’21-22, one of the pioneers of Harvard social media content, says the University’s engagement boost is undeniable.
“My first viral videos all had Harvard in the title,” Fish says. “Harvard pretty much gave me my career.”
He now has nearly one million YouTube subscribers.
As these students expand their followings, they approach celebrity status. Some receive free MacBooks or $10,000 from one TikTok brand sponsorship. They get stopped by strangers in public and field frequent interview requests from zealous (student) journalists.
But as the more than 20 Harvard influencers interviewed for this piece attest, student internet stardom still feels like uncharted territory, forcing them to consider questions that no Harvard student has had to ask before.
How do they navigate severe judgment, both online and on campus? Do they want to springboard from their social media success and start a full-fledged admissions consulting business? When Harvard enters a global spotlight, are they free to portray the University however they want? Who is really benefiting from the college influencer economy, if anyone?
No one’s quite figured it out.
I’ve Seen You On TikTok
{shortcode-8c0dd475ea3269f67b1a4d37d27db5cc232a1fc2}hen Mary Catherine H. LaPlante ’25 arrived on campus as a freshman, she was able to skip the typical first-day introductions — her internet presence preceded her.
“Initially when I came to Harvard, a lot of my reputation on campus was as the girl who went viral,” LaPlante says.
“People would come up to me like, ‘Oh my gosh, I’ve seen you on social media,’ probably once a day at least,” she adds.
For many influencers, the things they’re lauded for online change the fabric of their in-person social lives. As much as selfies with strangers and online clout might boost their ego, anonymous online vitriol can call into question the authenticity of their interactions with fellow students.
Before even moving into Harvard Yard, Santi Salazar ’26 had built an empire of more than one million TikTok followers by posting study videos in Spanish. Seemingly, he was just a few crimson-hued student life videos away from astronomical growth.
But when Salazar arrived at Straus Hall two years ago, his account went dark.
“Having a camera around, recording all of it would be weird — for me, at least,” Salazar says. “I wanted to also meet people that didn’t know me through that account."
He says he was initially just “burnt out” from making so much content in high school, but as college went on, the idea of starting up again grew less and less attractive. He said the potential impact on his social life was one of the biggest reasons for abandoning his account.
“I wanted to be my own person, away from that character that sometimes you have to play on social media to become popular,” he adds.
Salazar also noticed a “stigma” among the student body about Harvard social media content. “A lot of Harvard students see that and are like, ‘Oh my god, that’s so unrealistic,’ or ‘That is so not the way that our lives look,’” he says.
Helen L. Piltner ’25, who has more than 50,000 YouTube subscribers, agrees that many students are judgmental. “They have an internalized — not hatred, but somewhat of a dislike toward the content creators on campus,” Piltner says. “Because they think all they’re trying to do is flaunt the fact that they are at an Ivy League.”
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The more you purport to speak on behalf of all Harvard students, it seems, the more your peers might judge you.
Harvard students “hate on a very specific kind of creator, and I’m also one of the people who hates on those creators,” Golden says.
“I have them blocked,” she adds.
Most influencers agreed that the judgment manifests primarily on Sidechat, an anonymous social media app for undergraduates.
Olivia Zhang ’27, who recently surpassed 100,000 TikTok followers for her lifestyle and productivity videos, says Sidechat hate has become routine.
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“Every year, somebody copy-pastes the same message, like: ‘Incoming freshmen, don’t do content creation, everybody hates the content creators, it’s so cringey,’” she says.
When Elise M. Pham ’26, who has more than 900,000 followers across YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram, opened Sidechat in the spring of her freshman year, it was flooded with hate comments about her videos — some with hundreds of upvotes.
“I basically became a pretty good trend on Sidechat for a good two weeks or so, and then people made a lot of crazy assumptions about me,” Pham says. “Or they made a lot of lies, like, ‘She’s cheating on her boyfriend,’ ‘She bought 200,000 followers,’ ‘She’s coming from a rich family.’ I was like, whoa.”
Pham says the negativity on Sidechat made her consider discontinuing her content altogether.
“There was a good few weeks where I just didn’t go to Annenberg, because I was just really socially anxious,” she says.
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Offline, campus influencers say they rarely hear anything other than support and praise from their peers. Still, they say they’re wary of how their internet fame precedes them, especially in what some see as an already superficial social environment.
“It’s not so much that people want to be in your videos — it’s more so people want to be around you because they associate you with the cool Harvard social media brand,” says Indiana Vargas Avellan ’27, who has gained over 100,000 followers on TikTok since finding her audience during college applications.
With everything from your morning routine to your college admissions essay at every Sidechat troll’s fingertips, is there any way to avoid judgment and guarantee authentic connection?
For Aaron R. Thompson ’27, who now has more than 32,000 TikTok followers, the answer is posting lighthearted content.
“I don’t think anything’s ever been cringey for me because I’m making a joke of myself, so you can’t really make me feel any worse,” he says.
“The videos I post are me. I’m not trying to portray anything else,” he explains.
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Thompson’s approach also helps to grow a loyal audience, according to Golden. “I noticed that the more you let your personality show through in your videos, even if you have a particular niche, they will become more absorbed in who you are as a person,” she says. “I was able to turn my TikTok account essentially into a personal diary.”
But authenticity isn’t the only answer. For Pham, who says she is two different people in person and online, the judgment seemed to disappear as the numbers grew.
In the year and a half since the anonymous posts about Pham circulated, her accounts have skyrocketed in engagement — and the tune about her content has changed.
“She has that dog in her,” Thompson says. “I don’t think anybody can call it cringe if it works.”
TikToker A. Ada Cruz ’24 says she initially found vlogging “cringey.”
“But then I’m like, ‘It’s actually paying my rent,’” she says. “And I’m like, OK, I can be cringey.’”
Perhaps financial success acts as a bulwark against peer judgment — which, for many Harvard influencers, is plentiful.
‘Making That Bank’
{shortcode-34e8f2b114f673286f89210f17c56443a91cd7ed}ome budget my income with me as a college sophomore,” reads the caption of a TikTok video Pham posted in March 2024. She smiles at the camera before cutting to a spreadsheet, where she types her total income for the month:
$46,015.
The video put numbers to the growing rumor that between classes and psets, some college students are leveraging their social media success for staggering profit.
“She’s making that bank that all of us want,” Jenny E. Ng ’28 says.
For many budding influencers, the first paychecks come from making advertisements. A TikTok of Cruz shopping for her favorite snacks at CVS brought in a $2,800 paycheck. A 14-second video of Golden wearing a pair of Reebok shoes, posted on both Instagram and TikTok, earned her $12,000 last November.
More followers and engagement gives influencers increasing leverage to negotiate brand deals — and a deluge of companies eager to work with them. Harmoni Turner ’25, a viral Harvard basketball player, uses a management team to maximize her profit from social media. “I told them from the get-go, I was like, ‘Listen, I want to make a lot of money. I want to be wealthy,’” she says.
In selecting brands to work with, students weigh factors like relevance to their audience and genuine interest in the product. “I never want to be one of those creators who do anything for the money,” Zhang says. She has previously made advertisements for brands such as Microsoft, Grammarly, and Tinder. “I am very adamant about working with brands if I actually use their products or I really like what they stand for.”
In addition to brand sponsorships, creators can make money directly from social media platforms through view monetization — but many say it’s rarely lucrative. Vargas Avellan, who receives tens of thousands of views on her college lifestyle videos, says she “will get maybe 50 bucks every two weeks” from monetizing TikTok views.
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It doesn’t help that only videos over one minute long are eligible for monetization on TikTok. When one of her videos goes unexpectedly viral, Golden thinks to herself, “Shit, I hope it’s over one minute.”
“I’ve had videos that have literally gotten millions of likes, and they’re 59 seconds,” she says.
Some creators choose not to bother with this system of monetization entirely. Zhang, for example, only does brand deals.
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Ultimately, Golden says being a creator on its own doesn’t offer financial stability. “I’ve never made what would be considered a livable wage off of TikTok. If it was my sole source of income, I would be really fucked, because it is so unpredictable and sporadic,” she says.
Today, Pham’s income is neither from view monetization nor brands. Pham’s videos, including the budget breakdown, never stretch past 59 seconds, and she no longer posts advertisements. “Now, I decline all sponsorships,” Pham says. “I had $5-10K offers, and I was like, ‘No.’”
Where, then, does monthly income on the order of $46,000 come from?
“I’m really focused on growing my personal brand, because that is a lot more sustainable for me in the long term,” Pham says.
By ‘personal brand,’ she means Ultimate Ivy League Guide, the college admissions counseling service she founded and owns. “Since March, I got a co-owner, and then we scaled. Now our team is around 10 full-time employees, and then we have a legal team, media team, and finance team.”
Pham is taking a gap semester this fall to launch a new program for the company. “Hopefully by the end of the semester the program will be successful, and I’ll have the right systems in place and the right training in place so that I can give my management role to someone else and focus on more high leverage executive decisions, rather than quality checking coaches,” she says.
She’s not the only Harvard student who has turned virality into a business around college admissions coaching.
Kelsey A. Hoskin ’21, a current medical school student who goes by the moniker ‘Harvard Honey’ on TikTok, has published two books about getting into college. She charges high schoolers $12,975 to be their personal coach, or they can pay $675 for a 1-hour private strategy session.
Pham and Hoskin both say that their social media presences are now tools to promote their business ventures. “I definitely see social media as a way to just leverage the business, really,” Pham says. “I don’t see it as a personal thing at all.”
‘Not a Very Moral Thing to Do’
{shortcode-097912bcb5705790fe60eafaa545d1c65c60540e}espite the trend of student influencers making content about how to get into Harvard — and charging tens of thousands for it — Cruz steers away from posting admissions advice.
“I don’t have the secret formula,” Cruz says. “Every person’s entrance story is unique to them. I wish I could give you the exact recipe to how to get in, but I don’t have that.”
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Several other influencers agree, leveling critiques against Harvard students who claim to be admissions experts.
“Just because I got into Harvard does not make me an expert on college admissions or how to get into Harvard,” Vargas Avellan says. “I feel like it’s not a very moral thing to do because you’re charging people a lot of money for expertise you don't have.”
But Hoskin, who has built her brand around college admissions advice, disagrees with this logic. “Whoever is saying that is kind of silly,” she says. “You know what you did and then you got in. So you can obviously be helpful.”
Still, beyond their personal admissions experiences, those with consulting businesses earn credibility through other means.
Pham agrees that Harvard students aren’t inherently good coaches, so she extensively researches elite admissions. “If I’m not working on my business or coaching my team or training people, I’m always learning about the admissions space,” she says. “In that sense, I’m a lot more confident in my ability to understand college admissions, because I’m not just bullshitting answers.”
(Hoskin’s TikTok bio also cites her work as an “Ex Harvard Interviewer.” She explains, “I had signed up to be an interviewer and did it for one or two students, and then I realized I had done enough of it and didn’t really have time for it. So I did briefly.”)
But in positioning themselves as experts, Hoskin and Pham might just be trying to meet the seemingly endless demand for admissions insight.
Even at the age of 18, Salazar was inundated with messages from high schoolers, college students, and Ph.D. candidates — all requesting admissions advice.
“I was like, ‘I have no idea how to get into med school, or any of these things,’” he says. “But just the idea of getting into Harvard gives you enough credibility to give advice to this whole slew of people.”
Many influencers respond to this attention by posting ‘stats’ videos where they list their high school courses, grades, test scores, and extracurricular activities.
“There’s a democratizing element of this, where if I want to talk about college admissions, I can share that in a free video that anybody can watch,” Fish says.
But for some desperate high schoolers, this isn’t enough — they want individualized advice.
Thompson says he tries to respond when followers ask him for essay help. “I’ll help them if I have the time to. I’ll do it for free.”
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Beyond time constraints, Thompson sees a deeper conflict. “I don't believe in charging people to get into a great school,” he says. “There are people who are really desperate, and I don’t want to take advantage of that.”
However, creators like Pham and Hoskin see the free advice they post on their channels as leveling the inequalities across college admissions.
Although some of their content is still behind a paywall, Pham says, “I think a lot of college admissions counseling businesses just target rich parents. That’s not what I’m trying to do. I think that just perpetuates a type of elite admissions.”
The range of influencers who haven’t taken the business route also see a purpose in their work.
“People do it for views, people do it for money as well, but if that’s the only thing you’re doing it for, then you’re obviously in it for the wrong reason,” Piltner says. “People who are not content creators at Harvard should realize that we have an underlying mission that is greater than that.”
Zhang, whose TikTok documents her experience leading the non-profit Cancer Kids First, says she “really wanted to dismantle the stigma around youth-led nonprofits.”
With her women’s basketball content, Turner says she hopes to bolster the reputation of Harvard athletics. “We are actually good at sports, we just happen to be smart as well,” she says.
And Matt Travaglini ’25, whose YouTube vlogs show daily life at the College, says he wants to “humanize Harvard.”
“I’m not creating legislation and curing cancer every day,” he says. “I’m going to my math class and getting a coffee, and I’m stressed about homework, like every other college student.”
Harvard Unfiltered
{shortcode-be29865d8a9c7908fa05930b7f2d42574eaa573c}n April, Rachel A. Richey ’27 posted a video joking that she was enrolling in a Harvard course titled “TikTok Rizz Party: An Analysis.”
Many of the video’s 3.4 million viewers missed the joke.
“So many people were commenting on it, not understanding that it wasn’t real, and being like, ‘Harvard is falling off, I can’t believe they’re offering these classes, this education is a joke,’” Richey says.
She started to consider what impression of Harvard she might give her audience.
“Sometimes I get a little worried about how I portray Harvard,” she says. “Because I don’t want to get in trouble, but also I feel like it’s important for people to still take Harvard seriously.”
Richey’s concern is shared by other student influencers. As these students reach more and more outside viewers, they must decide either to uphold the glowing image many expect, or attempt to dismantle Harvard’s fairytale aura.
Hoskin, who takes the former approach, says she’s even doing the University’s brand a favor.
“Harvard should like when their students talk about them on social media — obviously in a glamorization, publicizing them in a positive light — which is all that I do, really,” Hoskin says. “It makes Harvard seem cooler — puts it on a pedestal, more so than it already is.”
According to Golden, though, it simply makes sense for some influencers — especially those who consult on elite college admissions — to glamorize Harvard.
“It’s lucrative for them to portray the school in a positive light,” Golden says. “Because if you portray the school in a positive light, more people are going to want to get in.” And more Harvard applicants means more potential clients for admissions coaches.
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Of course, not all students want to portray Harvard positively.
Thompson, who gained traction for a series of humorous interview-style videos like “Asking Black students how they got into Harvard,” says he is unafraid of making a critical video about aspects of the College that strike him as “crazy” or “insensitive.”
Thompson mentions videos showing his shock at his annual tuition bill and criticizing a special February undergraduate dining hall menu “inspired by Harriet Tubman’s travels in the American South.”
“Like, the tuition thing always gets me,” Thompson says. “I’m like, this is crazy, they’re insane for that. Or, they really had the audacity to serve a ‘slave-inspired’ meal.”
“I portray Harvard as a great place, but it's also kind of comical,” he adds.
Travaglini says that though he hasn’t made much content critical of the University, he hopes his audience understands that he recognizes Harvard’s shortcomings. “It’s much easier to get on a camera and talk about the coffee you're going to get than it is talking about protests, or the way that your friends have been treated poorly by administration,” he adds.
Especially after Harvard faced nationwide scrutiny this year over the resignation of former University President Claudine Gay and ensuing pro-Palestine campus protests, some influencers say it was important to them to discuss their view of the administration’s decisions.
Currently, Golden’s first “pinned” video has 10.5 million views and 2.7 million likes. It depicts her chanting in a crowd of more than 1,000 Harvard students walking out of May’s Commencement ceremony, in protest of the College’s decision to withhold diplomas from seniors who participated in a pro-Palestine Harvard Yard encampment.
“A lot of my family members who followed me on TikTok, they were like, ‘You know Harvard’s stance on all this, and yet you’re still posting stuff that goes directly against that. Do you not worry that it’s going to affect you somehow?’” Golden says. “I was like, ‘I think I see more of a value in putting that information out there, as opposed to just not saying anything — not doing anything — because I’m afraid of the risk.’ Especially since it was my last year.”
Golden says she hoped her videos provided contrast with the administration’s public statements, shaping the way people view Harvard by adding to the national narrative.
“CNN asked for the video, Daily Mail asked for the video — and I gave them all the rights and everything,” Golden says. “I feel like people think globally that the statements that Harvard is putting out is reflective of students’ views, and it’s not. It’s clearly not.” The College reversed the disciplinary sanctions in July.
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Piltner, who directly condemned the College’s disciplinary action against encampment protesters in a June YouTube video, says it was a “hard decision” to include criticism of the administration in her content.
“I didn’t want to make it seem like I was ignoring any issues that were happening on campus at the time,” Piltner says.
The social media portrayals of campus this year also shaped the impressions of some incoming students.
“Just because Harvard’s been in the news a lot this year, I think that plays a huge role in the perception of prospective students for sure,” Content creator Ahmed T. Eldeeb ’28 says of student influencers’ content.
Eldeeb adds that he watched content from Harvard students even before his admission to the College. Indeed, several influencers say they’ve heard from prospective students that their content got them excited about applying to Harvard.
In a year where the word “Harvard” was extra clickable, the influencers became a sort of representative for the University.
Harvard’s Brand Ambassadors
{shortcode-471488a28f98f055581c84571bdaf7c7378242a3}hould Harvard be worried that uncensored and enormously popular social media content could impact their public image? Might all the filming on campus even violate Harvard’s campus use policies?
Of the influencers interviewed for this article, only three said they had ever been contacted by resident deans or administrators about taking videos down, and all for considerably specific or personal reasons.
According to a College spokesperson, administrators are not “actively scanning” students’ social media accounts, and will typically reach out to students about online content only when “issues are raised” with administrators first.
William A. Hu ’27, who makes content primarily about the video game Valorant, says one of his TikToks nearly landed him in administrative hot water. “I got AdBoarded for being toxic in a video game. I’ve got some opps, bro, I’ve got some fucking haters,” Hu says.
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Hu’s freshman resident dean reached out to him last November to discuss the video, though no further action was taken.
“I was like what? I’m not saying any slurs, I’m not saying anything particularly offensive, I’m just being a little angry at some people,’” Hu says. Since Hu spoke with his dean, he has “significantly” toned down the aggression in his livestreams.
In other words, despite the mountain of content that exists online about Harvard, any administrative response is largely muted.
Instead of cracking down on TikTok-style representations of the University, as of November 2023, Harvard has begun generating their own college-life content on social media.
The College’s reels match the style of so much Harvard content — clips in Annenberg Hall, panning shots of foliage in the Yard, “#Harvard” in the caption. But unlike most videos buoyed by the internet’s fascination with Harvard, some have fewer than 100 likes.
Welcome to @harvardcrimsoncreators, an Instagram account created by the College’s ‘Social Media Street Team.’
Around eight undergraduates are employed by the Communications office as Crimson Creators. Paid $16 an hour, these students are required to make two to four videos each month on College accounts.
Yet if Crimson Creators is the College’s attempt to control its image online, it lacks the critical components for virality, according to several other influencers. Without a unifying personality, full freedom to lean into internet-friendly humor, or even the copyrighted audio clips that define TikTok trends, the account has only just over 800 followers.
But Sabrina Debrosse, the College’s senior assistant director of communications, isn’t worried at all. Apparently, the College is entirely unconcerned with followers and growth.
“I’m not creating content to go viral and for it to be picked up by any old Joe Shmoe,” says Debrosse, who oversees all College social media accounts. She wants current students to be the ones following and liking these posts because it’s “important that there is a channel dedicated to students while they are here.”
Debrosse says her job differs significantly from social media directors at smaller colleges where applications and enrollment are dropping.
“Harvard doesn’t need to be sold,” she says.
Eli C. Bostic ’27, who has made “day in the life” social media content for the Admissions Office’s instagram account as an intern, says “there’s not a lot of censorship” from the Office.
“You pretty much have free will,” he adds. “But of course, if I’m doing a day in my life, I’m not going to post 30 videos of me at a protest, like that’s just crazy.”
In terms of external student influencer content, Debrosse says criticism of Harvard is “fine.”
“It is important that people are critical of Harvard, because that criticism will help us ultimately learn and grow, and so that's fine,” Debrosse says.
Travaglini says the negative media has only brought “continued buy-in” to Harvard from curious viewers: “I guess it’s like that quote that’s like, ‘All press is good press.’”
‘The Next Harvard Influencer’
{shortcode-21cc3534b02e5a90dd1b6e61be0fe28423896a7e}sked if she would become a content creator full-time, Cruz replies, “As much as this is fun, it’s not intellectually stimulating enough.”
Hu, who made a living as a gamer during his gap year before coming to Harvard, agrees.
“I legitimately cannot see myself doing this — being a creator, video gamer, whatever — 10 years down the line,” Hu says. “I feel like I have so much more to do.”
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In fact, every influencer interviewed for this article doesn’t see content creation as a long-term career.
When they look beyond the Yard, these influencers might be forced to consider what being an influencer means outside of Harvard’s endless fountain of internet clout. Without overwhelming demand from scrambling high schoolers, they might start asking bigger questions.
“This is something I’ve struggled with more than anything on social media,” John Fish ’21-22 says. “Is this actually good for anyone involved?”
Looking back, Fish has some regrets.
“Having so many eyeballs on me in certain times in my life, especially being on campus, definitely influenced me as a person,” Fish says. “Sometimes I wish that I had had a more normal college experience.”
For Cruz, the draining part of college internet fame was not only editing and posting videos, but also constantly consuming them — to the point where she deleted TikTok entirely for eight months.
“There’s tension with me being a producer of media, and then trying to not consume so much of it,” she says. “I was just so fed up with being a mindless consumer and I wasn’t making the most of my life.”
Even if individual creators recognize the costs of making content, it doesn’t change the broader platform dynamics that incentivize attention-grabbing content.
“If you want people to watch all your videos, you should make really addicting content,” Fish states.
But Jack W. Schwab ’25, a non-influencer who tries not to use social media at all to increase his productivity, says “I don’t think it’s immoral for somebody to become an influencer.”
He says the responsibility to regulate against addiction falls primarily on the consumers.
“I think if you give somebody that much of your time that’s on you, not on them,” Schwab says.
Whether or not these students bear the moral weight of the attention economy, becoming a Harvard influencer remains as alluring as ever.
Especially since — as LaPlante writes in a TikTok that has DJ Khaled’s “Major Bag Alert” playing in the background — “all [harvard students] have to do is make a tik tok and they’ll immediately go viral.”
Some freshmen, like Jenny Ng, are already taking advantage of this apparent loophole. “Every time I use the word ‘Harvard’ in any one of my TikToks, it gets over 10,000 views,” Ng says. “I might actually be the next Harvard influencer.”
Seemingly, the Class of 2028 has more enthusiasm for influencing than ever. “In my grade, I would say there’s a lot of people that have posted reaction videos and got like, a million views, and they’re riding on that wave of new followers,” Ng explains.
And the Class of 2029? Well, it might have even more aspiring influencers.
“You can see it in elementary schools,” non-influencer Luke S. Schofield ’27 says. “Back when we were there, on career day they would ask, ‘What’s your dream career?’ and people would say an astronaut, police officer, whatever.”
“Now, people do say ‘Influencer,’” Schofield says. “It’s on the rise. I don’t know if it’s quite in college yet, but it’s going to come.”
— Magazine writer Kate J. Kaufman can be reached at kate.kaufman@thecrimson.com.
— Staff writer Azusa M. Lippit can be reached at azusa.lippit@thecrimson.com. Follow her on X @azusalippit or on Threads @azusalippit.
