Word: tarre
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...lucky enough to meet Mr. Tarr in person over winter break. He and his family organize an annual banquet in New York City to meet and keep in touch with new and old Tarr Scholars, a group made up of Harvard students on financial aid from New York or Maine. I was the youngest person in the room by far, my peer scholarship recipients either out of town or otherwise busy, and I felt out of place. I talked to an I-banker about math courses. I scanned the room...
...Then Mr. Tarr came over, and he took me by the shoulder and beamed at me, asked me all about myself. I told him about playing baseball. He told me about the football, and that he played baseball too, that he’d actually even tried out for the Major League once in his playing days. He’s older now, but you can see in his thick back, his curved fingers, once he must have been able to take a tackle, to turn a double play. We marveled together about how different the school was. I pictured...
...tried to write my letter to Jeff Tarr. I looked through the sample phrases—things like, “I am grateful for my opportunities.” “I could not have done it without you.” I am. I couldn’t have. I am extraordinarily lucky...
...also wouldn’t be here without my real family. I reread the explanatory letter. Frank Tarr believed in the importance of education. He was very pleased that his son attended Harvard. I picture my own father, my mother, my brother, and our twin heritages...
Even in meeting Jeff Tarr once I know that he is a person of the very best order: a kind man, a good one. That day in Ticknor I wrote my thank-you letter to him happily, if dutifully. His generosity and that of those like him make this school, and its squadrons of alumni, feel like a family. We take care of our own. But I can’t shake the feeling that this notion of money is dirty, as is indebtedness. And sometimes the Harvard family makes it easy to forget that we came from somewhere before...