WHERE WE WERE, scattered around the Arts Quad, the
men and women of Simon Straight College, Class of
proud
71: a
thousand gowns casually smoking joints and playing Frisbee with
their mortarboards as the parents shook hands under the trees.
In the 93~ heat my own gown felt like a horse blanket but I d
have sooner set myself on fire than lowered the zipper that was
gnawing my Adam s apple. After three generations of teamsters,
cabbies and mailmen, the Kellers had finally scored for a college
graduate. I was the happy ending to our private little American
Everyman play. I had worked construction every summer, was in
hock up to my ass with student loans, and with all that my father still
wound up paying through the nose, but that was the way it was. Four
years earlier, we had sat down with my three acceptance letters and
decided that if we were going to do it up, we would do it up right. I
could have gone to Fordham University on a half-scholarship or
C.C.N.Y. for free, but from where we were coming, a Simon Straight
car sticker was priceless.
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