Fueled by a desire to become a teacher, Loren Mayshark entered Hunter College in 2008, with the intention of gaining a master's degree in two years. Six years and tens of thousands of dollars later, he abandoned his studies without attaining the deg...
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When I left for New York City I had set up meetings with Professors Angelico and Rosencrass. I could not get hold of Professor Rodriguez or Professor Stein; I would have to do my best to seek them out when I got to New York. When I arrived at 68th Street and Lexington Ave. on Tuesday, August 28, I went up to the fifteenth floor of the Hunter West building, to the history department, and met with Professor Rosencrass. I found out that I was unable to get hold of Professor Stein because he was on sabbatical that semester, a surprising revelation that immediately eliminated him as a potential advisor. I told Professor Rosencrass that I had a meeting with Professor Angelico later in the week and if he was unable or unwilling to advise my thesis then I was out of options. It was at this time that I suggested that he advise my thesis, since he was the only remaining full-time faculty member that I had any relationship with. He seemed surprised at first, and then I explained that Professor Rodriguez had mentioned that he would consider working with me on a potential project. He sat back in his chair looking pensive, and then said, "First talk to Professor Angelico, and if he will not undertake the project, then I will consider making an exception . . ." He trailed off and I eagerly awaited the rest of his response. "I will consider being the de jure first reader, if this professor . . . what is his name?"
"Rodriguez," I replied.
"Yes, Rodriguez. If he would consider being the de facto primary reader, we could possibly work something out."
I thanked him and vowed to spend the next few days vigorously pursuing a tenable thesis plan, but I knew I had my work cut out for me. These professors had no problem blowing me off, and I was rapidly running out of options.
The following day I met with Professor Angelico. When I stepped into his office he wore a smile and was extremely friendly. He was a jovial, gregarious, razor-sharp Greek-American who had studied at Hunter himself. I explained my situation and he was sympathetic. However, he said that his area of expertise was very far from anything that I could integrate in my field of study. He contended that I would be better off finding someone who worked more closely with my area of interest. He did add that he would be willing to work on something if I had absolutely no other option, but he truly believed that for my sake I should seek someone else. I thanked him for his candor and kindness, and left with a cloudy feeling of uncertainty.
I returned to my friend's apartment in Brooklyn. It was my second-to-last night in New York. I had a meeting the following morning with Professor Rosencrass that would determine my fate at Hunter College. I was tired and stressed out. My friend suggested we relax and get dinner and a couple of drinks. That sounded perfect. We met up with some fun friends from undergrad. The night of sharing tales and laughter was refreshingly soothing, but I lost track of time and drinks. I did not return to sleep on his couch until well after midnight. When I awoke the next morning I had a hangover and was painfully unrested after squirming around for hours, trying to get comfortable on his couch. I was already running late for my appointment. My buddy gave me a bottle of water and I dashed to the train. The hour-plus ride to Hunter was torturous. I was nervous and felt that I had really fucked up. It was that kind of creeping guilt which one gets after a night of debauchery, but this was worse. I was not staying as focused as I should, and was jeopardizing my future.
When I got to Hunter I procured an apple and banana from the kindly man at the fruit stand out front. I forced down both pieces of fruit, but still felt uneasy. I thought that a cup of coffee would straighten me out and sharpen me up for the meeting. As I mentioned earlier, I am extremely sensitive to caffeine so I generally only consume coffee in a pinch. I got a large cup of joe with cream and hustled up to Rosencrass's office. When I arrived he was with a student and there was another grad student waiting to meet with him. I collapsed on the floor outside his office and quenched my thirst with the hot coffee. My heart beat wildly and the stress was cutting into my stomach like a sharp blade. I started to feel woozy. The fellow graduate student standing outside his office happened to be one I had taken a class with in my final semester. I was shocked that he was still in the program. He recognized me and struck up a conversation. I did my best to listen and act normal while adjusting to all of the changes going on in my body, anxiety mixing with guilt and caffeine. I mostly listened and gave the occasional nod or one-word remark as he told me about the particularities of his travails at Hunter. His story was not as absurd as mine, but it seemed that Hunter was not making it easy on him either.
He droned on, and in the midst of the conversation I began to feel legitimately sick and the hallway began swimming. While he was in midsentence, I abruptly stood up, muttered "Excuse me," and walked hurriedly down the hall. As I got to the door that said "History" on it, the department headquarters, I felt that awful telltale tingling under my tongue that told me that I was going to vomit. It felt like the harbinger of death. I broke into a sprint, hoping I could make it down one flight of stairs to the men's room. I couldn't. I started to puke in my mouth as I ran to a garbage can with flaps on either side. I pushed one of the flaps back and stuck my head inside the can so I could vomit a long, painful spew. When I pulled my head out of the trash I looked around, half-expecting the entire history department to be standing there laughing or staring at me in disbelief and admonishment. Thankfully, the coast was clear. I immediately headed down one flight of stairs to the men's room. I washed my hands and face. Then I looked into the mirror, feeling like a ghost. This was my strange reality. What was I doing? What had I become?
