How have I been? About that--
This is taking an enormous amount of effort to compose. I will try!
This summer I was dismissed by my college. I kept this shameful thing mostly secret, telling it only with the trappings of a bad joke- "I was such a bad student they fired me." In some ways, I found this truer than "dismissal." Mostly, though, no one asked, and I was happy to let them assume. "Seth, don't you ever have class?" "Nope," smilingly, and no one asked further, because why should they?
My well-argued appeal was submitted after the deadline. I was pathologically incapable of caring about school. A sympathetic young counselor helped me start the appeal process and continued to meet with me. "It feels like I care about you more than you do," she told me. She was probably right. She is probably right.
I was academically radioactive. I drove to C. W. Post, a shiny expensive school for the wealthy but mediocre children of Long Island. A well-groomed transfer counselor there told me I'd need a semester somewhere, anywhere, first. C. W. Post runs ads on the fronts of city buses: "It's never too late at C. W. Post!" But there I was.
Community college, then. Queensborough was first. Taking the bus there I'd pass three high schools, including my own. Kingsborough was on Manhattan Beach, a long trip by bus and train and bus again. It was at the edge of a peninsula, a couple miles from Coney Island. Bureaucrats told me to speak to advisers, advisers to counselors, counselors back to advisers. I found an apartment nearby. It'd be a short ride to school, or in the opposite direction, to Union Square. The roommates: Greg, a European studying at Brooklyn College. Anne, a cute freckled kennel worker.
I embarked on The Moving-Out Talk with my father and Mary. He objected, repeatedly. He couldn't pay for me to move out. I wasn't ready. It wasn't worth it. I'd do what he did: Live at home, work two jobs, buy a house of my own. It was irresponsible and a pointless gesture. Mary tried to find some middle ground: Maybe I need to move out. Maybe there were aspects of this plan my dad hadn't thought about. Maybe for personal growth, moving out would be wise. It was impossible, though. I called Greg back and regretfully declined the room.
I had an anxiety attack the next day. I called again, and once more, at the bookstore to which I'd applied. I dropped resumes off elsewhere but heard nothing. After a few days of despair, strange things happened. The first: I received a letter of acceptance from City College, a fully-accredited four-year senior college within the CUNY system. I'd forgotten I'd applied. I tried out the morning commute: An hour and fifteen minutes. My father still thought community college would be best. "That's two and a half hours every day," he told me. I asked him to be happy for me, but he couldn't fathom that commute. "Eight hours of sleep, four hours for classes, a few hours for meals... that's still 14 hours unaccounted for. Think I could swing it?"
City College also has dorms. They are in Harlem- the school is in Harlem. I went on a cool, clear day and wandered. Everything seemed promising. I looked at this completely unknown place with new eyes. What places would become important? Where would I spend my time? After looking at the brutalist community college buildings, this campus seemed positively homey. By the end of the day, I felt excitement for school beginning to smolder somewhere near the bottom of my stomach.
I thought City had been a fluke, but I received a completely unexpected acceptance from Hunter College. Hunter College is generally regarded as the best school in the CUNY system. Many people I know go there. It has its own subway stop. I'd just spent some time at the dorms, there. They have dorms, too. I had gotten into all the schools to which I'd applied, even though I'd included them just because I could.
That's where I am now. I don't have to lie about school anymore. Lately, my writing has been waylaid by all sorts of unimportant nonsense. If you pardon, I will mend.
This summer I was dismissed by my college. I kept this shameful thing mostly secret, telling it only with the trappings of a bad joke- "I was such a bad student they fired me." In some ways, I found this truer than "dismissal." Mostly, though, no one asked, and I was happy to let them assume. "Seth, don't you ever have class?" "Nope," smilingly, and no one asked further, because why should they?
My well-argued appeal was submitted after the deadline. I was pathologically incapable of caring about school. A sympathetic young counselor helped me start the appeal process and continued to meet with me. "It feels like I care about you more than you do," she told me. She was probably right. She is probably right.
I was academically radioactive. I drove to C. W. Post, a shiny expensive school for the wealthy but mediocre children of Long Island. A well-groomed transfer counselor there told me I'd need a semester somewhere, anywhere, first. C. W. Post runs ads on the fronts of city buses: "It's never too late at C. W. Post!" But there I was.
Community college, then. Queensborough was first. Taking the bus there I'd pass three high schools, including my own. Kingsborough was on Manhattan Beach, a long trip by bus and train and bus again. It was at the edge of a peninsula, a couple miles from Coney Island. Bureaucrats told me to speak to advisers, advisers to counselors, counselors back to advisers. I found an apartment nearby. It'd be a short ride to school, or in the opposite direction, to Union Square. The roommates: Greg, a European studying at Brooklyn College. Anne, a cute freckled kennel worker.
I embarked on The Moving-Out Talk with my father and Mary. He objected, repeatedly. He couldn't pay for me to move out. I wasn't ready. It wasn't worth it. I'd do what he did: Live at home, work two jobs, buy a house of my own. It was irresponsible and a pointless gesture. Mary tried to find some middle ground: Maybe I need to move out. Maybe there were aspects of this plan my dad hadn't thought about. Maybe for personal growth, moving out would be wise. It was impossible, though. I called Greg back and regretfully declined the room.
I had an anxiety attack the next day. I called again, and once more, at the bookstore to which I'd applied. I dropped resumes off elsewhere but heard nothing. After a few days of despair, strange things happened. The first: I received a letter of acceptance from City College, a fully-accredited four-year senior college within the CUNY system. I'd forgotten I'd applied. I tried out the morning commute: An hour and fifteen minutes. My father still thought community college would be best. "That's two and a half hours every day," he told me. I asked him to be happy for me, but he couldn't fathom that commute. "Eight hours of sleep, four hours for classes, a few hours for meals... that's still 14 hours unaccounted for. Think I could swing it?"
City College also has dorms. They are in Harlem- the school is in Harlem. I went on a cool, clear day and wandered. Everything seemed promising. I looked at this completely unknown place with new eyes. What places would become important? Where would I spend my time? After looking at the brutalist community college buildings, this campus seemed positively homey. By the end of the day, I felt excitement for school beginning to smolder somewhere near the bottom of my stomach.
I thought City had been a fluke, but I received a completely unexpected acceptance from Hunter College. Hunter College is generally regarded as the best school in the CUNY system. Many people I know go there. It has its own subway stop. I'd just spent some time at the dorms, there. They have dorms, too. I had gotten into all the schools to which I'd applied, even though I'd included them just because I could.
That's where I am now. I don't have to lie about school anymore. Lately, my writing has been waylaid by all sorts of unimportant nonsense. If you pardon, I will mend.