Word: compe
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...September, I knew my plan was doomed. The PBH program I joined was poorly run, I didn't have time to comp The Advocate and I couldn't sight-read choral music. So much for advance planning...
Most of all, in none of the organizations did I feel the kind of instant community I had expected. The Crimson's executive editors seemed old and jaded; though I quickly fell into the rhythm of the eight-week comp, I wasn't sure that this was where I belonged either. People smoked too much, argued too loudly and ate too many greasy grilled cheese sandwiches from Tommy...
What was I going to do at Harvard, the land of opportunities? Maybe try for Phi Beta Kappa. Not. Or maybe try to become president of The Crimson. Too much work. Or maybe attain the esteemed title, King of the Comp...
...began to spend more and more time at the paper. I finished my comp, took a beat--women's and minority issues--and was soon too busy to worry about the whole niche business any more (presumably a sign that I had finally found...
...comp" seemed like an evil concept before I arrived at Harvard. It was described in those Fiske-esque, ultimate-insider guides to college as the embodiment of typical Harvardian ruthlessness. Harvard: so high-powered, so many superstars, that there's not only cutthroat, steal-the-books-from-the-library-and-hide-them-und er-your-pillow competition in academics--but you've got to fight for your right to join extracurriculars as well. Scary stuff...