My freshman year, a sophomore told me that I—along with one other girl—had the legendary status of being a ‘freshman of value.’ He said, “Of all the freshmen, I only care what you and Lassandra Springsteen think of me.” This brief interaction was one of our first, a preamble to our soon-to-blossom friendship. I was special; someone I didn’t know cared what I thought.
What I think he meant– discernible from our previous lack of rapport—was that I was interesting and potentially important. Lassandra Springsteen certainly was. Even though I hadn’t met her, I had heard things—good things—about her writing and wit. She was supposedly awesome, possessing much of the confidence and prowess of an upperclassman. Part of the freshman experience at Harvard is discovering that your peers are already world-class researchers, child actors, poet laureates, and prodigies. When you first get here, there’s something of collective desire—sadly inherent—for those people to like you, because hey, they’re going to do (and have already done) big things. Lassandra was among that crowd of ones to watch. I was flattered by the parallel.
The Harvard economy runs on potential. Timmy got this internship and Tammy is in this club—their careers are set. Betsy Snuffles won a prize from the department of History of English and is now the global ambassador of wheat germ—she’ll run for president soon enough. This school feels like a stop on the train to success; obviously, you’d want the passengers next to you to help you get off at the right place. Sometimes it can look like this:
Is this Porter Square?
Yes! Do you want to form a band and possibly a start-up and also have babies?
And sometimes like this:
Is this Downtown Crossing?
This is the Amtrak.
It’s not always intentional—people often gravitate towards peers who happen to fill in their gaps or serve them in some way. But sometimes there’s a level of deception that sneaks into the mix, mostly in spaces that surround organized group activity or shared interest—performing arts, pre-professional clubs, etc. I have listened to the breaking voices, seen the tears and rage of kids realizing that their prized friendship was less mutual, more transactional.
Turns out this whole time she was just trying to get me to be her lighting designer! And I HATE jukebox musicals!
How counterintuitive is it to feel the most mistrust towards the people who GET IT, the people who love what you love?
Perhaps this is more of an issue with humanity at large (or not an issue at all), but there’s something to be said about what it means for potential (or fame) to act as a foundation of friendship. Because Harvard intrinsically promotes this expectation of benefit. The fog that wafts through the yard certainly whispers… are you a freshman (or person) of value? Will you be of use to your peers when you graduate? Will you be the future hook of a networking event?
And this is not all bad. It’s not all good. One of the things I hate about some cultural criticism is the vague condescension, the teaching of a moral lesson that suggests that everyone thinks one way and you should think another.
But I can’t help but wonder about the tragic beauty of someone else saying:
Seems like you are going to do big things. Let me be near it… and maybe ride the wave?
Because it really can be lovely to hear… confidence boosting (or ego stroking, however you look at it) and warm. But it suggests a certain marketability and necessary tangible success that most people cannot unwaveringly sustain… and that shouldn’t be the benchmark for a great friendship. Sure, I hope to be the person my potential suggests I can be, but what about who I am right now or tomorrow or the day after? When I get rejected from another club or internship and my screenplay is shit and I lose myself in rejection and fear? When I can barely keep my head above water?
Even though the sophomore from above and I are no longer friends (long story) his words still spark tingles of pride. He was older than me and funny (clearly qualified to judge everything) and he had crowned me, eighteen and new and now glorious, a freshman of value. At the time, it was a small but clear victory—an indicator that I deserved to be here. If I could go back in time and delete that interaction, pull the strings of his puppet-self, I don’t know if I would. What I do know is that at places like Harvard, it’s incredibly easy to feel less-than and worthless, wasteful and stupid. As a freshman, these feelings are concentrated and relentless; as a junior they’re the same, with added guilt for still feeling them.
Now don't worry, I don't have this constant 24/7 feeling of inadequacy lurking in my noggin that informs my every thought—I have incredible friends (who notably have different interests than I do) and make new ones without considering their intentions. At the end of the day, I don’t have some wise solution to the problem of needing constant “value” to deserve love. But I think it’s important to write down the confetti of life—the seemingly wonderful moments that need cleaning up in the morning. Writing itself is a form of cleaning, though it doesn’t guarantee freedom from picking up annoying confetti pieces in the near future. Because as frustrating as it can be, there's something so nice in being one of two or one of one, in words of exclusionary affirmation. In being the parallel, however brief, to the illustrious Lassandra Springsteen.
2025