Second division team
Harvard
I never have understood why Harvard went coed. Lots of thanks they get. Carroll Bogert, Harvard alumna Class of 1983, in a May 25, 2008, NY Times op-ed piece, urges fellow Harvard alumni to enjoy reunions but “skip the check.”
Harvard could have stuck with all-male classes, mostly anglo, or mostly saxon, or possibly some combination of the two. Lots more thanks they would get. Last month David Rockefeller, Harvard alumnus Class of 1936, pledged $100 million, the largest gift in Harvard’s short and undistinguished history. So much for “skip the check.”
Intelligent alumna sees a problem with mushrooming, underutilized endowment; unconcerned alumnus, through eyelids heavy with single-malt, sees only his school colors underneath the cigar ashes on his tie, precariously balanced on the ridge line of his paunch, horizontally enfolded in the leather cushions of his club chair just off Fifth, amid paused reading of the Wall Street Journal, its open page barely held in the hand glacially slipping off the outer edge of the chair’s good right arm.
Are they stealing our signs?
I never have understood why Harvard went coed. Lots of thanks they get. Carroll Bogert, Harvard alumna Class of 1983, in a May 25, 2008, NY Times op-ed piece, urges fellow Harvard alumni to enjoy reunions but “skip the check.”
Harvard could have stuck with all-male classes, mostly anglo, or mostly saxon, or possibly some combination of the two. Lots more thanks they would get. Last month David Rockefeller, Harvard alumnus Class of 1936, pledged $100 million, the largest gift in Harvard’s short and undistinguished history. So much for “skip the check.”
Intelligent alumna sees a problem with mushrooming, underutilized endowment; unconcerned alumnus, through eyelids heavy with single-malt, sees only his school colors underneath the cigar ashes on his tie, precariously balanced on the ridge line of his paunch, horizontally enfolded in the leather cushions of his club chair just off Fifth, amid paused reading of the Wall Street Journal, its open page barely held in the hand glacially slipping off the outer edge of the chair’s good right arm.
Are they stealing our signs?
