Date: Friday, 9/5/69

I’m never going to have any friends here. I’ve tried but it’s useless. They ask me, “What’s your name?”

I answer, “Scags.”

They ask me, “What’s a Scags?”

Or they ask me where I am from. I answer, “Skokie.”

They ask me, “What’s a Skokie?”

That was how things ended this morning when I joined Alex and the “teams” for the morning run. The run was great. I loved it. Early mornings here are so different from in Skokie. When we went running there, it was flat for one thing. Here, the terrain varies and the muscles in my legs got a work out they’ve never had before. At some points, I couldn’t keep up.

When we finished, I was so tired, I had to sit for a while to cool down and that was when the questions began. “What’s a Scags?” “What’s a Skokie?”

I’ve always been proud of my name. I know I hated Skokie but now I hate it more.

Okay, everyone has to be from somewhere. Sylvie, my roommate, is from Montreal. No one asks her what that is. They know what it is.

Why does anyone care where I’m from? Why when I say I’m from Skokie do they look at me as if I said I was from Mars? Being from Mars would make me interesting to them. They can’t understand that a person can be from nowhere interesting but still be an interesting person. What’s wrong with them?

Oh well, after the run, I had my 10:30 appointment with my advisor. I got so worked up about setting up my schedule that I almost left the dorm room wearing a sneaker and a sandal. Sylive saved me. As I walked out the door, she asked me: “Hey Scags, is that the best footwear you can find? It’s a charming pair but not too practical.” I thanked her profusely as I exchanged my sneaker for a sandal and then ran to my appointment.

Prof. Keating’s office is in the Humanities Building. A big, red-painted, two-story wooden building shaped like a U, it’s close to the dorm. His office/classroom is on the second floor. I trudged up the wooden staircase and found his office right away. I started to walk in the door but he was talking to another student. I didn’t know how long I would have to wait, so I plopped myself down on a bench at the end of the hall. As soon as I sat down, the other student left.

Prof. Keating’s head appeared from his doorway. He peered one way and then the other, like a periscope on a submarine, until he spied me and motioned for me to come in. He has white hair even though he seems to be pretty young. I have never seen a young person with old peoples’ hair. The skin on his face has a gleaming rubbed-red-by-life look to it. Probably that is due to his motorcycling. In his faded and torn blue jeans, blue jeans shirt and motorcycle boots, he wasn’t what I expected at all.

His whole attitude was contrary to the motorcycle look. He’s all about getting things done, moving along, not relishing anything—not the fact that I had never been to college before or how hard I worked to get here.

No, he rushed me through everything.

I wanted to talk to him about so many things. Not just the important decisions about my first semester which were of course the most important things we should have talked about. I wanted to talk about things like which professors were best for me to know and why. How should I balance my required courses against the ones I choose for my own edification? How was I to plan for the next semester?

I had only sat down in this very comfortable chair next to his desk when he buried his head in a gridsheet spread across his desk. I noticed him putting my initials into little squares. I realized he was making all my decisions for me. I tried to interrupt him but he didn’t hear me.

I know I got angry. My whole face and neck turn red when I am upset. I mean, I hadn’t even had the necessary time to explain to him who I am. He handed me a sheet of paper with my schedule on it. He looked at me as if I should know to leave.

Then as I stomped out the door, he called me back. I thought he was going to change his mind about my schedule and we would go over it again, give it more careful attention.

He looked at me for a long while, then shook his head and said, “I had a note from Mr. Schoors about you. Seems he wants you on the women’s cross country team. I told him I would make sure your schedule could accommodate that. That’s what your Phys. Ed. class is. Good luck.”

I had forgotten about running. I had no idea who Mr. Schoors was but then remembered Alex. Everyone has a last name, I just didn’t know his.

Then Prof. Keating dismissed me. “That’s all for now, Scags. See you around.” His eyes followed me out the door.