A couple of years ago I was pushing my daughter on a swing in a playground in our small university town. With my brand new son strapped to my chest, and my girl's pigtails and joyous squeals flying through the air, I attracted a lot of happy attention. The guy pushing the swing next to mine, in a crisp white shirt and tie, his jacket slung over the stroller bars, seemed to wilt a little more every time his kid did not get the compliment.

Worried that the poor dad would be ostracized for parenting while male, as well as for being out of proper parenting uniform (where was his T-shirt with the stain on the chest? Where were the saggy jean shorts?), I struck up a conversation. He seemed grateful to be acknowledged, grateful for the attention and compliments to his daughter. We made small talk.

As in all small talk, we went down the list. "Good weather we're having." (Check!) "Nice playground." (Check!) "How long have you lived around here? Not long? Us too!" (Check!) "Where are you from originally?" (Check!) "Where did you go to school?"

I waited to make my polite rejoinder for whatever college he named. I waited for the satisfying little click in my head as I checked off this topic and moved on. But the conversation had screeched, almost audibly, to a halt. "Oh God," I thought. "Did he not go? Did he go somewhere terrible? What could be so terrible? Did I step in it somehow?"

After about 20 seconds too long, he finally admitted, busily rifling in the empty stroller pouch, that he had gone to school in Boston. "Oh yeah?" I said, gleefully latching on to the non-awefulness of the disclosure. "Me too!" "Really?" he said, perking up a little. "Where?" I felt the same almost audible grinding to a halt, and realized what was happening. "Harvard," I mumbled into my infant's downy head, almost inaudible. "Me too," he admitted sheepishly, not looking at anyone in particular.

This had happened to both of us before, but never with another sufferer. Our problem, which we discussed at length that day, was that there is no way to mention that you went to Harvard (that we've discovered) without coming off like a bragging SOB. And so it has become a common refrain. You ask an average Harvard alum where he or she went to school, and you get one of two euphemisms "in Boston" or "at a liberal arts school."

 I love Harvard. I had an amazing time there. So amazing, in fact, that I stayed for an extra year and got a Master's degree as unmentionable as my BA. I got an amazing education, enjoyed the resources and the community, and met my husband there. I got to hear Arthur Miller speak, and went to a party my professor threw for Etgar Keret. So I feel a gnawing sort of guilt every time I deny (or refuse to openly acknowledge) my academic roots. But I also hate the way I come off when I do mention it. 

Sometimes it really pays to make the mortifying admission that I went to Harvard. My husband calls it "H-bombing." When my daughter's dermatologist insisted on dismissing my concerns, I got him to perk up and listen by playing the education card. When I want my students to believe they can do anything, I remind them that if a short pudgy Russian girl with a public school education could go to Harvard, so could they. 

But more often than not, all I get are polite congratulatory mumblings and stares. When my daughter's gym class invited all the kids to wear their parents' alma mater T-shirts for a prize, I put the Harvard T shirt on her after long deliberation, and got glares and comments on the street for flaunting my husband's education (no one guessed I was complicit) or for having such early and intense pressure on my kid. When someone, in making small talk, pushes past the fact that I went to school "in Boston" and demands an actual answer, the conversation is doomed. All I ever get in response is "you must be really smart" and "I gotta go."

Had I known all of this before I chose my school, I would have still gone to Harvard. It is an honor and privilege to go. It is also great fun, and the experience of a lifetime. It's true that even people in the public eye refuse to flaunt this accomplishment. Just read the intro to Carolyn Hax's column. But now that I have kids, who I hope will love and be proud of their own educations, I think I am ready to disclose, without undue mortification. Yes, I went to Harvard. I'm crimson and I'm proud.