According to Merriam-Webster college is defined as an educational institution or establishment, in particular one providing higher education or specialized professional or vocational training. In basic terms college is a place where young men and women go to learn about who they are in the world and society. The losing of one's virginity and hangovers come along with the package. Unfortunately, I never had the time or the luxury that most of my peers had while attending college. My four years at BMCC (Borough of Manhattan Community College) was spent playing hopscotch between college student and co-parent. Mixed emotions tend to flare up when I think about all the memories and experiences I could've had. There's beauty and fulness in struggle, so they say.
August 29, 2013 was cloudy for a summer day. On the 2 train I'm on my way to lower Manhattan, clueless as to what will be in store. My feet touch the Chambers Street platform and my existence would change forever. Stepping into a world filled with cold stares and high nose I would need a voice of wisdom. Professor Jill Richardson taught the ENG (English) 95 course. Getting up to attend a 10:00am class couldn't feel so exciting. Young black men and women who are attending college need the advice and guidance of older black people who are seasoned veterans in their selected fields. Pro. Richardson would pat us on the back (metaphorically) and tell us that what we were going through socially comes with being black in America. Although myself and Pro. Richardson haven't crossed paths in a number of years I am still thankful for her impact and influence on me and others.
Misty winds and snowflakes ruled the day on January 29, 2014. The ride on the 5 train from Baychester Ave to Fulton Street matched the mornings climate. Under no more than five minutes I walked through the doors of the Murray Building. Waiting on the elevator line I grew eager as it regarded what I would be doing in my Speech 100 (SPE 100) course. Choosing a seat myself and my fellow classmates were stunned to see that our instructor was an Harvard educated black woman. Professor Antoinette Nwandu taught me to stand in my own choices and to keep pushing even if failure is ahead. I would have never thought that Miss Trunchbull from the film Matilda (1996), would ever teach a college course. Dr. Cheryl Fish was rude, passive, and high-minded. Each class felt like living under Satan's toenail. It was either her way or the highway. The stories and articles were picked by her. And she also had the nerve to dictate the discussions. Dr. Fish's world was the bubble known as Tribeca. We who carried the surnames Ortiz, Jones, and Montgomery walked with confidence and were humble-minded. Fridays were the best days (looking back). The professor's name is not that important (honestly, I forget her name). However, I built a foundation for becoming an intellectual. A young man and I named "Brother Ahkeem" became close and we could chop it up on topics from police brutality to conspiracies theories. Challenges shapes us into the people that we need to be, while comfort keeps us the same.
On a hot June afternoon in 2015 I'm walking out of the main building (199 Chambers Street) after giving in an CAS Appeal form. It wasn't that I fell off the tracks and lost focus. Two months before Benjamin Wilson, my former stepfather, decided to declare war on my existence. This war included the ACS (Association of Child Services) and a fabricated order of protection. I would continue to go to school for the Fall 2015 semester none the less. Monday mornings I would be introduced to the early African civilizations that helped shape the world as we know it. Professor Edmund Nkansah was a man of Ghanian descent who spoke with a heavy accent. His drive and passion overlapped the former. Every once in a blue moon Pro. Nkansah would make a controversial statement. AFN 121, under the leadership of Pro. Nkansah I was taught to stand up for my beliefs that are historical based and to use facts to back up my claims. Friday afternoons I attended a Critical Thinking course (CRT 100). Yet again the professor's name is no longer in my grabs. All I can remember is that she was white, middle-aged, and had a chunky built to her. No disrespect to the professor who instructed the class, but we the students made the class what it was. CRT 100 didn't teach me how to think critically, but how to see things as they are and dwell in the torment and trauma. Laying on the bed inside one of my aunt's apartments in Harlem I felt a new sense of purpose and that I could take the world by storm.
The Fall 2016 semester marked a time of frustration and confusion. An environment that was once full of optimism and motivation turned into pessimistic ism and avolition. I was starting to feel as though I didn't belong in the four walls of a classroom. I also felt like I could've been doing more with my life and time. It was like God was telling me that He had a purpose for my life through the experiences I was going through while traveling to Tribeca. A Creative Writing course (ENG 311) and a Conflict Resolution course (COM 250) still didn't cure my want for something different. On November 8, 2016, the country's political landscape would change forever. Whether the shifting of power was a good or bad thing is still up for discussion.
Staring up into smokey nostrils and bloodshot eyes, Professor Alan Greenhalgh yells at me and tells me that "if you want to pass this class you gonna have to get your shit together." Sitting in front of him I couldn't say anything or do anything but to hold my ground and agree with him (besides not liking his tone or the way he pulled up on me). Surrounded by other students I felt disrespected. Then, I had two options. One, I could pack my bag and leave the room. Two, I could give Pro. Greenhalgh his space and stay quiet the rest of the class. To be honest I did both. If it wasn't owing the Bursar's Office money it was an item from the A Phillip Randolph Library that was found water damage in my name. If it wasn't another aunt coming to my house demanding me to go to a nearby supermarket to buy ingredients for some dish that wasn't all that it was something else. Peter Tosh's I Am That I Am was the only thing that comforted me on the train ride back home. I was the owner of me own ship, but I wasn't the one in charge of operating it.
Taking my finals exam for a class I like to call "The Last U.N. Conference," I'm fighting the pain and irritation caused by a bloodshot eye and bruises. Both the bloodshot eye and the bruises came from a fight I got into with a childhood friend/tenet who lives in my building. As I answer every question on the final, I can sense that that would be my last time in a classroom and enrolled in a college course. Once I completed my finals exam, I gave it in to the professor and said goodbye to my fellow classmates. Looks of worry and panic were on their faces. I took my last bow under mysterious circumstances. Riding on one my last train ride on the 5 train I decided to stand the whole way back. When the train makes that U-turn between West Farms Square and East 180th Street you can see the Manhattan city lights from the distance. For the last time I looked towards the Manhattan city lights and quietly say so long, farewell....
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