0 comments

Coming of Age

The dust particles flew as I brushed them off of the old, rusted heater. The dorm was stuffy and the paint was peeling off the communal bathroom walls. “This place sucks,” my random roommate commented, wrinkling her nose.

“Yeah it does,” I laughed. 

“You know, someone’s trying to trade a Dickson double for a Hu Shih single. They’re offering 4k,” she laughed.

I was in disbelief. The room wasn’t ideal, but was an “upgrade” really worth four thousand dollars? I shrugged that comment off; I didn’t mind. The building was old, but it felt alive – the flickering lights in the kitchen and even the random spots in the overworn carpet held the stories of hardworking students that lived here for the past few years. Some decades ago, Ruth Bader Ginsberg was staying at a dorm down the hall. That idea was surreal. Standing in the worst freshman dorm on campus, all I could think about was my excitement. I was here, in my very own dorm at an Ivy League university.

During orientation, I was surrounded by long, oversized Canadian Goose jackets. It’s not like people were openly flaunting their wealth, but it was casually worn as an accessory. But it didn’t matter that I was wearing a fifteen dollar thrifted puffer or that someone could pay-to-win out of my shitty dorm because I’m now in the same place as them. People that threw away money on sixty-thousand a year boarding schools or twenty-thousand dollar college counselors – I was now in the same place as them.

Going to a prestigious university wasn’t just a dream for me – it was a lifeline. This wasn’t about bragging rights or a shiny name; it was about leveling the playing field. My admission to this school was my gateway ticket for economic mobility.

As I stood on top of CornelI’s iconic slope, shoulder to shoulder with people wearing puffers that cost more than my entire wardrobe, I didn’t feel any ounce of weakness. Because I had made it – without the safety net that they had. As I stood on top of CornelI’s iconic slope, I could see a bright yellow light shining from one of the distant buildings. I felt hopeful. And I felt like I could conquer the world.

My first few weeks of school were filled with recruitment events, info sessions, and coffee chats. Recruitment season was a language I never quite learned. I just followed what people were doing around me. Overflooded, my Google Calendar was used to mark events for clubs that promised everything from free snacks to futures on Wall Street. Among the bulletin boards of numerous organizations advertising, one stood out – sleek designs boasting mentorship, exclusive access to professional workshops, and a real community.

Great CornelI Connections, even the name felt meaningful. Attending their info sessions, I felt excited with a slight unease. Everyone sitting in my row had a blazer or some hint of business attire. The room buzzed with conversations I couldn’t catch up with – tales of previous internships and gap-year experiences that sounded more expensive than my student loans. I sat to the side quietly, gripping my chair, just waiting for the presentation to start. When it did start, however, it was everything I wanted in a college lifestyle and everything CornelI advertised to students like me.

I wanted to be part of it.

The application was daunting; it was almost as long as my application to apply to this school. When I got an interview invitation, I was ecstatic. I imagined myself buddy-buddy with all the students that presented that day, laughing over inside jokes and being part of this exclusive community. I pictured my name on those sleek brochures and represented a club that represented a golden ticket to success. Connected with these peers, I would feel invincible.

But as I walked into the room, I immediately felt the divide. The two other candidates in my interview sat with their Macbooks in cleanly tailored clothing, one adjusting his tie and the other sitting with pristine posture. I suddenly felt a little dirty. The upperclassmen on the panel smiled politely, as their shiny name tags reflected the light, but their questions seemed so distant like “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” or “What’s your biggest professional challenge?” I found it peculiar that they timed each of my responses at one minute and thirty seconds. I hesitated, thinking of the summer I worked at a grocery store. Midway through my explanation, I caught a flicker of something on the main interviewer’s face – a raised eyebrow and a slight tilt of her head. My throat tightened a bit as I continued talking, wondering what I had said wrong, before being interrupted with “That’s time.”

By the end when they asked for any questions, I brought out the list I had prepared. But after my first question, they wrapped up the interview. I left the room feeling more hollow than I came in, tightly clutching my folder filled with now seemingly useless talking points and of course, my barely touched upon list of questions.

My rejection email came only two days later. I brushed it off originally, but eventually I couldn’t stop thinking about it – not because of the rejection itself, but instead of what it represented. I started to notice things: how the board members for different elite clubs came from the same private high schools, how their conversations seemed to be filled with names and places I didn’t recognize, how the opportunities I wanted to break into felt more like a closed door than a place of “any person” of “any study,” like the school headlines. The truth was simple: these resources were never meant for someone like me.

As I stood on top of CornelI’s iconic slope, the campus bathed yet again in a beautiful golden light. The buildings looked close enough to touch, sun-kissed by warm and shining rays. But I wondered how many of them I would actually enter. As I stood on top of CornelI’s iconic slope, I noticed that that bright yellow light I once gleamed at with shiny eyes was just the sunlight bouncing off of some old graffiti. I should’ve known better.

January 11, 2025 03:58

You must sign up or log in to submit a comment.

0 comments