Flavor of Harvard Day 3
The seed of the concept grew in my mind like a weed. Then, it built root systems and spread until I could think of nothing else. I barely knew Wesley, sure, but England was too far.
On my way to Logic class, I passed the famous statue of John Harvard in the quad. A small group of tourists were rubbing his shoe which was supposedly good luck. He sat straight up in his high-backed chair like an immovable king. His lucky toe kicked slightly forward for his minions to rub for good fortune, though in orientation, a few upper classmen shared that they frequently pee on that foot after dark. They laughed when they said it, but I didn’t think it was funny at all. As I passed, I saw a father hold his toddler up high enough to kiss the foot for a photo.
I walked into my Philosophical Logic course a minute early, but the professor had already began teaching. Everyone else in the room had arrived much earlier, it seemed, since they were rapt. I found one of the last seats in the large classroom far in the back left and I took out my things as quietly as possible, but the boy next to me told me to quiet down.
The professor himself looked exactly like I would have expected him to look. His hair was white and wispy. His glasses wiry and shaped like octagons. And his sweater vest fuzzy. Speaking of fuzzy, the phrase FUZZY LOGIC was written on the board, each letter as large as a full-sized poster board.
“Fuzzy logic is a dangerous concept,” he spoke in a deep Irish accent that you really had to listen to understand. “Many bad men over the centuries have abused it. Why do you think that is, my young friends?”
A very attractive blonde girl in overalls raised her hand. “Fuzzy logic gives wiggle room to concrete truth. Bad men, as you say, can bend societal rules and justify them with the philosophy of fuzzy logic.”
“Too right, you are, Ms?”
“Rachel Daugherty,” she said with the calm confidence of knowing what she was talking about.
“Thank you, Ms. Daugherty,” he said with a small bow. “I already like your mind. Anyone else?”
A thin boy on the front row raised his hand. “Fuzzy logic makes me think of a Bible verse about wives and submission.”
“Ahhh,” the professor interrupted. “I know it well. Can you recite it from memory, Mr.?”
“Abraham, and no sir,” he replied. “But I can find it though.” He tried to do a search for the verse but was interrupted again. This time by the red-haired boy from seminar.
“Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church, his body, and is himself its Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit in everything to their husbands. Ephesians 5:22,” the red-haired boy said looking very much like the John Harvard statue. “And my name is Deacon Livingston the Third.”
“Ah, yes,” the professor replied seemingly not impressed. “I do believe I taught your father in my younger years.”
“Yes, Sir,” Deacon said with a self-satisfied smirk. “I am sure that it the case. He’s known throughout Cambridge.”
“So,” the professor started. “You are a legacy then.”
The room seemed to become quieter than it was before which should’ve been impossible. The tension was thick, and students began to wiggle in their seats. I wasn’t sure why legacy was such a sensitive topic, but I did remember reading a novel with a legacy Princeton student as a character, and he was not written in a great light. But in the class at that moment, it felt like an afront. Even an insult.
“Yes, but…” Deacon began.
“Let’s move on,” the professor interrupted. “Who can tell me what solipsism means?”
When several hands went up, I began feverishly taking notes. Between intricate concepts about the human psyche, I thought of Wesley. Packing his dorm and flying across the ocean never to be seen again. I kept trying to pay attention but at the top of the page, I wrote Flavor of Harvard in big block letters.
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