Dreaming of Harvard

By Ravi Mangla

My most salient preschool memory came in the form of adulation.

"Ravi, I wouldn't be surprised if you went to Harvard!" my teacher exclaimed. I, propped atop the jungle gym like a spider monkey, sensed the sheer verve and ebullience in her tone. I was uncertain, however, what I did to merit such a kind compliment, maybe it was my macaroni artwork. I did excel in macaroni art. Or possibly my block building, I
showed promise as a burgeoning young architect.

In time, I came to realize she probably said that to all the children, or at least all the Asian children, but nevertheless it filled with a distinct sense of pride and perhaps even a slight air of conceit. As for the next few week I could be seen parading around the playground
assailing classmates with such embittered remarks as, "Hey, Stanford, the glue's for pasting, buddy," or "Dartmouth, Ivy League my ass!"

I made few friends during my preschool years and as it turns out, many of the kids I showered with ridicule and vilification ended up at Yale, Princeton, Columbia, Brown, or Harvard. And as for me, things didn't quite pan out.