Don't Forget to Write

Intro - A Little About Out Narrator and His New Home

Have you ever seen those cheesy college comedy movies? The first scene shows two happy parents dropping their kid off at a big university. They pull up in the family SUV and walk onto campus. The mom and the younger sibling lead the way, not carrying anything as they gaze up at the beautiful architecture and try not to act surprised by frat bros walking around campus with a half-crushed beer can in one hand, a blunt in the other, and wearing ridiculously colored shorts accompanying a skimpy sleeveless shirt. The dad stumbles behind with a large stack of boxes containing clothes, a hot plate, books, and (to the father's ignorance) his son's bong and other pot paraphernalia. The family brings their blessed son to his dorm and meets his new roommate - an unorthodox but charming young man who constantly calls them "Mr." and "Mrs." while using manipulative dialogue to ensure that he will take great care of their son. Eventually, the parents say it's time to leave, and they get teary-eyed and say lame things like "don't forget to write!" "See you on Thanksgiving!" "We're so proud of you." The moment the family gets back into the car and out onto the street, the real college life is fully unveiled, and by the next scene, our 18-year-old protagonist is doing keg-stands, smoking copious amounts, having sex with promiscuous college girls, and having himself a damn good time.

Well, my first day of "real" college was nothing like that. First of all, I was not the ripe young age of 18. I was 20, quickly nearing 21, which might as well be middle-aged for anybody in their teens. I didn't get dropped off at a huge fancy dormitory with "bros" and "hoes" alike strutting their stuff on the college green. My family was not the silly, SITCOM type of family. To break it down, let's start with my age. My family is what some university students would call "poor". I honestly didn't think we were that poor. We had a house, and my parents almost always maid their mortgage on time. We had not one, but two working cars. There was never a shortage of edible food, and we even had cable TV and internet. If you asked my dad, who grew up in a poor village in a post-revolutionary country who had just overthrown a totalitarian government, and spent his nights sleeping in the same building as his family's livestock, drinking wine and beer since he was a child because there often wasn't clean water to drink, our current life was filled with luxury. And, honestly, it was hard for me to argue with him on that (despite arguing with him one everything else). I thought I lived a rather comfortable life. But, despite feeling rich with the likes of color TV, bottled water, and multiple pairs of shoes, the cost of college was still too much for anybody in a family of janitors and construction laborers to cover, which meant I was on my own. College is expensive. To save money, I spent my first two years at a community college, a wise choice that I would suggest to anybody in high school who isn't made of many and/or isn't entirely sure what they want to go to school for. Between my good grades in high school and the socio-economic status of my family, I was able to attend community college for free mostly through scholarships, but with some added assistance from government grants and financial aid. This allowed me to work and keep the money stashed under the mattress from the multiple jobs I'd worked since I was thirteen as an auto mechanic, a bartender, a landscaper, a line-cook, a handy-man, a store clerk, and so many more. It also gave me the opportunity to play soccer. Our team did fairly well, we even competed in some intense national tournaments amongst great teams that most county schools would have no business competing with. During my time there I played goalkeeper and was the captain of the team, and was scouted by a few coaches from big schools. Though it would have been a dream come true to go to a big university, all of the D1 universities were far too expensive for me, even with any of the small scholarship offers and financial aid. So, I took the offer of the school I could (somewhat) afford with the class options I would enjoy in an area I wanted to be in.

That culmination of factors brings us to the City College of New York in Harlem, one of the greatest institutes of learning our country has, and most people don't even know about it. It was a true diamond in the rough in every conceivable way, from location to cost to its ability to produce great graduates. Now, rather than drop me off at the dormitory on campus, my parents were dropping me off over 20 blocks away. The dorms were too expensive, so I moved into an apartment with an older teammate, Bruno, on 151st street between Fredrick Douglass Avenue and Bradhurst Avenue in/near (the geography is disputed) a pocket neighborhood that some people called Sugar Hill (where Hip-Hop was invented - some may know the rap group Sugar Hill Gang - and I don't just mean the music, I mean the culture. Real hip-hop fans will know). Brick buildings towered over us on the three sides, what people call The Projects, and on the fourth side was a long thin park with basketball courts and chess tables and walkways. The streets were lined with old beat up cars that had multi-colored bodies. My dad pulled his pick-up truck behind a beige/silver/red 1995 Toyota Camry with a parking boot on its wheel and a garbage bag replacing a broken window.