Contributing writer
Garam Noh
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The Word: Yard
My family had recently moved to the United States. We lived in a beige condominium in Bergen County, the most mundanely bourgeois county in New Jersey. It was surrounded by nothing but stretches of concrete. My parents, not too familiar with English themselves, wondered how they were supposed to immerse me in the English language.
Professor Fragrances
Maybe she’s born with it. Or maybe it’s Malan. Have you ever dreamed of smelling like your CS50 professor? No, we haven’t either. But we have wondered what it would be like if professors’ essences could be captured, bottled up, and sold on the open market.
Jukebox
We’ve all done it: Sitting in one of the candy-colored chairs in the Yard or barely making it to class (even on Harvard time), we pop on a pair of headphones. We crank up that one song—the soundtrack to our Ivy League angst, the one we secretly sing to in our underwear when no one’s around, the one to which we can’t help walking at least a little in time. With classes just getting into full swing, FM yanked headphones out of unsuspecting ears in all corners of the Yard.