The Red Book is officially called the Harvard College Class Report, dating back to the mid-19th century. But everyone calls it the Red Book, because of its consistently imposing crimson covers.
It is not to be confused with the Red Books of Georgian landscape designer Humphry Repton, or the posthumously published Red Book of psychoanalyst Carl Jung.
For me, it is essential reading – be that bedside or bathroom. When you start to read, you just can’t stop – and that’s not just because your friends (and maybe even a few of your former enemies) are in it.
It drops on my doormat with a satisfying thud every five, ten, years or so. Although I am British, this happens to me every few ‘big’ years, following my American college graduation.
My latest has just arrived, comprising over 500 fact-filled pages of revelations of ‘Whatever happened to...’ And more.
The way it works is that all of us from our graduating class are asked to contribute a few paragraphs about what we have been up to since the last report, which in my case was ten years ago. The result is a sort of autobiographical Seven Up! – but, in this case, five, ten, 15, 20, 25 and now 35 years on from graduation. What happens, what changes, and what people choose to say (or not to disclose) about themselves as the anniversary years unfold is a sociologist’s dream – wherever you choose to read it.
Even in these modern times, the Red Book is reassuringly printed and delivered as hard copy.
Keenly anticipated by the 1,500 of us in our class, it is published by the alumni association and makes its way to mailboxes and doormats across the United States and the world.
Of course, some entries still read like boastful Christmas round robins, but looking back over 35 years of Red Books reveals a progression from best-life braggadocio to a much more reflective tone.
Entries this year include the touching, witty and self-deprecating. One confesses that he ‘sucked’ at being married but is determined to ‘kick ass at being divorced’. Another almost bought a house with a man who ran away with her estate agent.
‘Where did the time go?’ is a common refrain, along with Covid, divorce, empty nests, grief and aged parents.
‘Are we officially old now?’ asks one former classmate.
More than 60 of us are dead. One who knew that her cancer was terminal died between her writing and her Red Book entry’s being published.
But there is still humour and optimism and, in place of wild-eyed career focus, there is a growing appetite for retirement and an appreciation of values and personal relationships. Contentment is replacing ‘challenge’.
There are new opportunities, too. During the pandemic, one of us bought an abandoned church and turned it into a circus school.
Another, who had always suspected that she was adopted, was ‘vindicated’ on discovering that she had been a ‘well-kept secret’ for nearly 55 years.
The last word goes to a creative classmate from my old department who reports that she recently ‘reunited with my college crush ... and we are living together in almost paradise’.
For the record, it isn’t me.
Richard Howells (Emeritus Professor of Cultural Sociology at King’s College London and a member of the Harvard Class of 1989)
