[Following much discussion, debate, and disagreement ...]

Me: “Quite frankly, I would be TERRIFIED to do a threesome with you, and there is NOT a lot of sexual stuff that terrifies me.”

Him: “Terrified?”

Me: “Yes. Terrified.”

Him: “I don’t see why though …”

Me: “I’d just hate for you to view me differently.”

Him: “And?”

Me: “That’s it.”

Him: “Really?”

Me: “I mean, look, I don’t want to get all sappy on you, but you were the last guy I was with pre-everything. Every guy after has known me as “that girl”, you know?”

Him: “Oh.”

Me: “And it’s fine and I’ve dealt with it and whatever … but I just like the way you look at me.”

Him: “No, I see.”

Me: “Sappy, right?”

Him: “Nah, acceptable.”

I don’t know what the typical college experience is like, but whatever it is, I certainly haven’t found it at Harvard, nor did I expect to. Here, our girls get decked out in pearls, and our guys party in loafers. Your standard dorm room comes equipped with an 18th century fireplace. Everyone writes a thesis. Half of us graduate virgins. Dartmouth may have inspired Animal House, but Cambridge is no frat party.

In fact, sometimes I forget altogether that I’m in college. At a place like Harvard, it’s easy to get caught up in the future, so much so that you overlook the present. I’ve only been here a little over two years, but I feel like I’ve grown at least four. Maybe growing up is supposed to feel exponential at this age, but I’m positive that the effect has been heightened by the adult-sized pressure everyone at Harvard places on themselves.

More often than not, my friends act too old for our own good, so much so that sometimes I actually yearn for a bout of immaturity. Sure, we’re geniuses, future leaders, the American dream, whatever, but a ton of us are also hitting the gas on life and going way too fast to enjoy the ride. For all that we get accomplished at Harvard, we miss out big on just college. I’m not even talking about parties and sex and all that cliche stuff that goes on in the movies, but about important things, like penciling in time to do absolutely nothing or figuring out each other instead of problem sets.

Last night was a good reminder of what Harvard might look like at its best. Harvard played Brown in our school’s first nighttime football match and everyone showed up to watch. We won, but I’m not sure that even matters, because the number of students in attendance was a victory in itself. And here I thought we were too jaded for that school spirit bullshit. My peers regularly inspire me with their talent and intellect, but I think the most impressive thing they’ve done in a while is putting away the books to attend a football game. Yesterday, everyone bled Crimson. I really hope this is indicative of the rest of the year, that it’s not just autumn optimism but a lasting desire among my peers for balance between 20-something kid-dom and post-grad adulthood. Because really, Ivy League or not, Harvard is still just college.

I’m sick of the post-summer follow-up questions everyone (including me) has prepared for September. Perhaps it’s sheer politeness, perhaps it’s lack of creativity, but for some reason, we’re eagerly inquiring about the corporate adventures of every person we rsee, despite the fact that we’re barely acquainted with most of them and could care less. Are we really going to repeat this routine every time we run into someone? If we actually gave a damn about them, we probably would already know where they were and what they did. And if we don’t give a damn, then the mention of a random investment bank or NGO is not going to offer any real insight into their personality anyway.

The generic discussion topics of the past few days have left me so frustrated that I’m thinking of cruel ways to fuck with people instead. For example, I’m tempted to start off conversations with “Who did you do this summer?” which should garner interesting responses or at least an entertaining facial expression. Or I could give wildly inappropriate greetings: “You look fabulous! Did you take up coke over the break?” It’d be a hell of a lot less mind-numbing than the two-minute obligatory blurb-swapping that’s been occurring at social events everywhere.

Then again, perhaps I’m irritated because my own response to summer inquiries is hopelessly boring: “I managed editorial content for a new media startup in New York. Lived in the East Village. Loved it! Can’t wait to go back.” Every time I have to repeat this statement, I think I actually hate my summer a little.

What I wish I could say — if I had the time and a genuinely interested listener — is that what I did and where I lived didn’t really matter. What did matter was that things were different. Unlike last year when Summer Guy defined my time in an otherwise drab Los Angeles, this summer has been less about a guy and more about my exploration of a city and of myself. If anything, my summer was great not because of what it included but because of what it didn’t: my parents, my friends, and a steady man — three things I love but have never done without, especially simultaneously. I think it took leaving them behind to figure out some issues on my own.

It wasn’t even until I arrived in Cambridge a week and a half ago that I started to get it. As much as I love my friends (and hell, as much as I’m starting to like Harvard), sometimes it is terribly overwhelming to function under their well-meaning supervision. I understand now why Jules was so important to me this summer and what every guy I’ve dated in the past year has meant to me. It wasn’t about infatuation or sparks or natural chemistry, though certainly those are necessary prerequisites. It was about having someone who saw me differently than all my friends, who I could disclose my insecurities and faults to because they wouldn’t judge, who gave me enough credit to let me make my own decisions and fuck up a little. If the men I’ve dated since Summer Guy have anything in common — and on paper, they’re a diverse bunch — it’s the fact that none of them tried to reign me in. Assholes or not, respecting my independence was one thing they got right but constantly eluded both my friends and family.

There are things I did in New York that the great majority of those closest to me will never know about. I didn’t blog very much about my summer, on this journal or on my private one, nor did I get into its details because I didn’t want to share it with anybody but myself. But there are a lot of stories that have gone untold and remain unrecorded, and I think I like it better this way. It might not make sense to anyone else, but it’s the secrets about this summer that really mean everything to me, not because any one of them is particularly significant, but because I’ve managed to keep them protect them as something that is private and just my own. Whether I did something great or something terrible, no one can judge me for it but myself.

By the way, my summer was amazing. It was no doubt one of the best times of my life and the experience deserves more than to be reduced to a one-sentence summary of a job and an apartment. But when it comes down to it, though I would love to sum up the summer with some sort of profound insight, the truth is that there is not much to say besides the fact that I was in New York and by August, I had already learned to love being alone.

War? Really?

Since IvyGate has gone the ad hominem route instead of responding to my email privately and professionally, I thought I’d explain just why I’m so irked by their lack of attribution for my previous blog post.

They wrote, “We received the tip in our inbox, probably because we’re a real blog. Gawker used the same text.” Further, they claimed they scooped me.

What they failed to mention is that the “tip” they and Gawker received was from the Bostonist who first heard about the story from me. Bostonist confirmed via email this morning that they were tipped off by an unattributed copied/pasted excerpt of my entry and that they later sent their entry to IvyGate and Gawker. (They also apologized and gave me credit on their website). If IvyGate did their homework or actually contacted the Bostonist before writing their inflammatory post, they would’ve realized this too.

Even if other people sent in a tip to IvyGate, the fact remains that there were only two online sources with the original excerpt: Harvard OTR and Sex and the Ivy, both written by students with access to campus mailing lists. (If you look at the timestamps, the first to break the story was Harvard OTR followed by this website). And based on a couple omissions in the excerpt I posted, it’s clear where IvyGate’s excerpt originated from. Even if the ad was on Craigslist, it was pulled long before any of the editors could’ve seen it so a source should’ve been named since there were few people with access to the actual excerpt. I don’t think my writing an email to inform them of this fact was presumptuous at all and I was trying to be informative rather than “indignant”. At the very least, they should’ve credited the Bostonist for the full text they obtained (and Gawker did credit Bostonist, I should note). But IvyGate didn’t even do that. Of the the three, they’re the only ones with the story posted sans attribution.

When it comes down to it, I’m irritated by not being credited but more insulted by the fact that IvyGate chose to handle the situation in the way that they did. They didn’t have to be douchebags about it, but for some reason, they decided to. Breaking news may not appear on this site but whether I write about sex is neither here nor there. I reported in high school, in college, and for professional publications. I applied to Medill for god’s sake. Being a public figure doesn’t exempt me from credit where credit’s due. There are rules and etiquette for a reason; and even if I’m never writing for the Times, I know enough to realize that even if they think I’m “boring”, “slutty,” etc., that doesn’t make me less right in the sense that journalistically, IvyGate fucked up. Journalists don’t copy things, get informed of their origin, and then attack their source’s reputation and call her “fat” like this is grade school. What they do is what the Bostonist did — offer belated attribution and an apology for the oversight.

Quite honestly, I’m a huge fan of IvyGate. I thought it was a genius concept when it started, and I’ve had them on my blog roll since my website’s beginning (and will continue to have them there even though they removed SATI from their blog roll today). After spending a summer immersing myself in new media and learning about the industry, I have a newfound respect for those who work in the blogosphere. I’m especially fond of its collaborative elements, but it seems like IvyGate prefers an almost petty competition instead. What’s unfortunate is that I’ve begun to realize how little credit blogs get and how much they deserve, which is why basic journalistic courtesy is especially crucial. When IvyGate pulls shit like this and is sloppy about sources (and even acts like a bully about it), it’s not just a snub to me; it discredits the entire medium.

Found out just now that the excerpt from the last entry was reproduced on IvyGate, Gawker, and Bostonist without attribution to my site, but at least one of those blogs got it from Sex and the Ivy. I can tell the excerpt was taken from here because mine had two peculiarities. First, it left out the reply-to address which a copy/paste would’ve included. Second, it originally omitted the word “Black” from the last paragraph (I accidentally deleted it when removing a line break). Also, the ad had been pulled from Craigslist by early morning, before any of the later entries went up and likely before any of the editors for those sites checked in, so that left almost nowhere to look for a copy.

If they dug hard, they would’ve found the screenshot, with the reply-to address and all, on Harvard OTR, which was the first online source to report about it. [Full disclosure: I worked as the managing editor on this website over the summer].

On one hand, I’m pretty irritated that neither OTR nor I got credited for this story. So Sex and the Ivy isn’t exactly a news source, I’m still due net-courtesy. On the other hand, I’m amused that someone with an editorial job read my blog (probably not for professional purposes) and deemed an entry newsworthy. And here I thought I wasn’t safe for work.