By Olivia Perce
After some deliberation, I decided to bomb my Harvard interview. The story of how isn’t that important—I may have made a tasteless joke about the “Poo Fighters,” and then laughed too hard in my interviewer’s embarrassed, middle-aged, Harvard alum, face—but I thought about the gut hostility I’d felt towards this total stranger for a while. After I’d finished, stepping out of the Harold Washington Library into the icebox Chicago winter, I’d felt almost proud—take that, Ivy League! My jab at the Establishment was in, before heading off to meet destiny in some still-hazy dream of art school....