Perhaps the primal scream conflict is tired, but did it get enough discussion initially? The day of primal scream, I overheard several White students behind me discussing, “Someone said that if it were all Black students streaking, the cops would get called.” “That’s dumb.” “That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not what it’s about.” That night, one group of students protested while another group streaked. We all know the story. Some students chose to make their voices heard.

They assaulted. (There were, in fact, reports of physical assault.)

They bludgeoned the silence with chants of “USA! USA! USA!”

They spat obscenities.

We've heard qualification. Perhaps the protest was poorly planned. Perhaps there was misunderstanding. But there is no misunderstanding that some students at this university took in the peaceful message of “Black Lives Matter” and responded less sad Sandra Bullock at the end of “Crash” and more boldface Joel Chandler Harris.

Hate is a powerful thing.

But it is also really, really sneaky.

There needs to be more conversation, but that’s been said. There needs to be more self-analysis, but that’s been said. There needs to be more dialogue and empathy, but that's been said. All of that has been said.

But selfishly, so selfishly, I cannot help but think about me.

In that movie theater I thought, “Even at Harvard.” But then I self-corrected, “Especially at Harvard.” Most days I think “Although at Harvard,” and though it is not the first thing on my mind, it is certainly there, and though I often personally think about and talk about race in classes or with friends, something about race at Harvard still seems so foggy.

And while I am struggling through this fog every day, it seems unfair, confusing, and concerning, that there are students who do not even think about it. And in that fog, if I let it get as dense and unclear and big as it truly could and perhaps should be, any kind of happiness becomes difficult, indistinct.

There is no resolution here. But at least, unlike back home in Georgia, where I have only ever had unforced conversations on race with my dad and the Black friend with whom I saw “Selma”, I can appreciate that I even recognize the fog here at all.

Madison E. Johnson ’18 lives in Wigglesworth Hall. Her column appears on alternate Wednesdays.