My Four-Year Sentence in Jail—Oops, I Mean Yale Okay, it wasn’t that bad. I’m not trying to scare you. Really, Yale has its good side. Except when it’s raining, which is most of the time.
An LA Youth alum who went to Yale describes the joys and pitfalls of her choice.
“El Nino is pissing me off. The constant grey skies have started to remind me of the East coast—and I had my fill of grey skies during my four years at Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut. Actually, it was four years, one month, three weeks and three days. So why did I go to Yale? Three reasons: I wanted to go to a “good school.” I wanted to see how “the other coast” lived. And I wanted to see snow. Little did I know what I was getting into.
I began my Yale adventure on a blazing 97 degree day in August of 1993. My mom had come with me from L.A. but could only stay until noon. The first thing I had to take care of was the Dean’s letter saying I was on “Bursar’s Hold”—I had to clear up my financial situation before I could register for classes (For those of you on financial aid, you will become all too familiar with the Bursar’s Office. Make friends there. You may be spending a lot of your time there).
After I waited in line for over two hours, they told me (kind of like the woman on MAD TV) “Uhhhh… You know what? We made a mistake. Sorry.” I now had less than 30 minutes to spend with my mom before she left. We went to buy a lamp and some sheets, and then it was time for her to leave. I watched as she walked away and her figure got tinier and tinier in the distance. I was officially all alone.
When I got back to the room, my roommate’s parents offered to take me to lunch. When we were done, her dad gave her $2,000. “To start you out with,” he said as he slid the check to her across the table. I remember a sinking feeling in my stomach as I realized that this was more money than I had made all summer long. But it was also the beginning of realizing what I was up against at a school like Yale, where most kids just call home if they need another grand in the bank account, where books and tuition and couches and microwaves and TVs and even cars are paid in full before they get there.
My first few days were hectic. Placement tests, school supplies to buy, laundry detergent to buy, bank account to open, books to buy, freshman orientations to go to, people to meet, registrations to take care of and classes to shop. When people found out I was from California, they said, “Oh! Do you know so-and-so?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh.”
I should have said, how the @#%! do I know so-and-so? Do you realize that California has like 35 million people in it? But I didn’t want to anger anybody.
On the first day of finals I got my third wish. When my roommate told me it was snowing, I was like, “Yeah, right.” The rest of my friends got up and looked out the window and all said together, “Nkechi, it really is snowing.” How gullible did they think I was? It wasn’t until they pulled me out of my chair that I saw it, a blanket of white cotton balls falling from the sky. I ran outside with no coat on, no gloves on and danced around in the snow. I could immediately tell who was from California that day because they were the only other fools jumping around in the snow with their mouths open trying to taste it. Everyone else knew better, and stayed inside.
Snow is better enjoyed from indoors
After that day, I learned my lesson. Snow is far better to look at from inside with the heater on. I had a little trouble getting used to the cold. I became notorious for going around inside the dorm with a robe, a coat, a scarf, gloves, two pairs of socks and ear muffs on.
I always looked forward to going home, but every break posed a new challenge. How could I focus on my studies when I was looking forward to seeing my parents and blue skies? Should I book that flight from Newark and try to reschedule my exam? Or should I stay in New Haven over break when everyone’s gone and it’s a ghost town?
Let me slow down a little here so you know what it’s like to have to travel by plane when you live on the other side of the country. When everyone else lives in New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts and you live in California, you begin to see how easy it is for everyone else. It usually took me a whole day to get home or to school.
Sophomore year was when I finally found my niche which just barely helped me survive the sophomore slump. (For all of you reading those books on how-to-survive college, the sophomore slump is very real.) Suddenly all the support of freshman counselors is gone and no one really cares about you. You’re not a little freshman, you’re not a big-time senior about to go to the real world and you’re not a junior about to be a big time senior. I got involved in a lot of community service activities and even pledged a fraternity! Okay, so it was a co-ed community service fraternity.
My Yale experience has been traumatic at times and exhilarating at others. I have been to the mountain top—I have had professors that I now see all time on TV. and had opportunities (whether it be summer jobs, or meeting South African religious leader Desmond Tutu, black philosopher and professor Cornell West and radical black activist Angela Davis) that I might not have otherwise had. I have dined with the elite. I have met people and become friends with people who just might be running the world in 20 years or so.
But I have also been through the fire. How many times have I had to answer “no” to the question, “Do you work here?” How many times have I been confused for a custodian because I wore a bandanna on my head, and I happen to be a black female? And how many times have I needed a hug from a family member or friend from back home? How many times have I needed someone to fight for me in the Financial Aid office and been all alone? People ask me all the time if after four years of Yale, I would do it all over again. How can I say “No?” I have made too many friends and met too many people and done too many things that have been priceless to me. But one thing’s for sure…
Cruising down Crenshaw Blvd., I hear Biggie Smalls’ song on 92.3 The Beat: “I live out there [the East Coast] so don’t go there.” Don’t worry Biggie. I’m not going back. I’m stayin’, stayin’, here, here, in Cali, Cali. “