Harvard in the spring is usually a beguiling vision of academe as it
ought to be. Blossoms and youthful aspirations flower under the warming
sun; the beauty of old buildings and young people complement each other
in striking harmony. This year is different. TIME'S Boston Bureau
Chief, Gavin Scott, offers this description of the concerned, uncertain
and defiant mood of the Cambridge campus a week after the occupation of
University Hall. HARVARD Yard was a mosaic of confused activity as the university moved
into its second week of crisis. The throb of rock bands echoed from the
old walls, sometimes drowning out the rhythmic chants of black
militants, often punctuated by the harsh rasp of bullhorns blaring out
strike messages. The walled yard had the air of an ancient red brick
city under siege. White sheets emblazoned with STRIKE in bold red
letters hung from the windows of freshman dormitories and classroom
buildings. Strike posters and copies of the antiadministration
underground paper Old Mole were stapled to the venerable elm trees and
pasted to the great door and massive columns of Memorial Church. Spotted here and there were improvised tables on sawhorses, manned by
enthusiastic undergraduates and burdened with pamphlets and
revolutionary literature. Students, many with the red strike symbol of
a clenched fist silk-screened on their shirts, stood around in groups,
arguing the issues, advancing theories as to the outcome. The trampled
turf of the yard was littered with many of the 750,000 broadsides
mimeographed by S.D.S. As one cynical grad student put it, “Getting the
grass to grow again is more important than any of their demands.” Lesson for the Day. Observance of the strike varied widely. Some classes
were half empty; others were nearly at capacity. In front of Sever
Hall, 75 pickets patrolled with signs reading “U.S. Out of Viet Nam”
and “The Corporation is the enemy of the Vietnamese and American
People. Don't Scab.” To avoid violating the picket lines, some
professors moved their classes outdoors. In one physics lab, someone
had chalked on the blackboard: “No classes today —no ruling class
tomorrow.” The instructor told the five students present that the
phrase constituted the day's lesson. The atmosphere at S.D.S. headquarters on the top floor of Emerson Hall
was a little like that at one of Fidel Castro's Committees for the Defense
of the Revolution in Havana. Emerson buzzed with frenetic
activity, the intense conversations punctuated by the thunk, thunk,
thunk of two hard-working-mimeograph machines. On the wall hung a great
poster portrait of Lenin, and stairways were decorated with slogans and
placards. One sign read: “A revolution without joy is hardly worth the
trouble.” Members of “political brigades” churned frantically up and
down the stairs, hurrying to and from endless “rap sessions” with
students in dining halls and junior common rooms.
