AT SUMMER’S END, feeling both calm and confident, I returned to Connecticut for round two of college life. At the end of our forty-five minute session, Dr. Coughlin determined I was mentally healthy enough to resume a full-time course schedule.

Gloria Penny Mullings, a sophomore, welcomed me as her new roommate. She lived in a large double in a William Street high rise. Ordinarily, upperclassmen lived there, but because her roommate had decided to take a year off, she could choose whom she wanted to live with her. Since the apartment had a full kitchen, I wouldn’t need to pay for a meal plan.

I believe we are often drawn to people who are similar to those we are accustomed to. Penny reminded me of my sister, Karen, who never suffered fools lightly and judged situations as black or white. I process in technicolor. We were like Kansas and Oz. By the end of the semester, we had become friends. I sometimes accompanied her to her home in New Haven, an hour south of Middletown, when she went to visit her mother. Her father had passed away from lung cancer during her sophomore year; therefore, she chose to be present for her mom as they grieved.

In October, my mother visited for four days to make sure my reintegration at school was smooth. She met my friends and made dinner for groups of us. She especially loved my friend Veda’s new baby, Marian. I had the pleasure of helping Veda care for her daughter as she completed senior year.

Cheryl, a freshman from Philadelphia, became another close friend that year. She taught me how to speak ubby-dubby, a fictional language created for the PBS children’s program, Zoom. My freshman year, a friend informed me I was “like one of those Zoom kids.” Cheryl explained the Zoom kid uber-excited vibe to me. In ubby-dubby, my name was Chubbarubbitubba, hers was Chubberubbyl.

Cheryl noted my unique conversational style. I jumped from subject to subject in a non-linear way. I would go from A to D to B back to A and on to C before returning to A. She was the first person to point out to me that most people didn’t speak this way. Although some “normal” people speak this way, it can be a bipolar marker, as it was for me.

Esteban directed Steve Carter’s play Eden that semester and sent the stage manager to suggest I audition. I declined, having decided to concentrate on academics that semester. As it turns out, I should have auditioned. Penny had a role in the play. As much time as I spent running lines with her and attending rehearsals and performances, I was almost part of the cast anyway.

My favorite course that semester was Afro-American Narrative, taught by Professor Robert O’Meally, a brilliant African-American academic, who had written the definitive biography of Invisible Man author, Ralph Ellison as his doctoral thesis.

Professor O’Meally introduced me to the writings of Zora Neale Hurston, an African-American female anthropologist and novelist who was part of the Harlem Renaissance. I was excited to discover a female counterpart of Langston Hughes and Countee Cullen. As a black female writer, I considered Hurston one of my literary heroes.

That semester, Iju, a gorgeous, young African man in the class of 1981 captivated my attention. Insisting I was not his type, my girlfriends made comments like “Your hair is not long enough, nor is your skin light enough for his tastes.” What did they know? Fully confident that I could entice him, I made sure he knew of my interest in him. I was flirtatious, without being too forward.

In February, I saw a sign on the student post office bulletin board declaring February as “Go For It” month. Whatever you wanted, you should go after it, full throttle. So I decided to invite Iju to be my date for the Sadie Hawkins dance, a dance for which women were supposed to invite dates of their choosing. He accepted my invitation, but not my advances. I am convinced that had he entered into a relationship with me, I would have lost my budding interest in growing closer to God. I would have chosen a man I could see and touch over the invisible God. Therefore, I’m glad no relationship flourished between us.

In the spring semester of 1979, I was cast as Clytemnestra in a student-directed production of The Oresteia by Aeschylus. The play was the culmination of an ungraded course called Aeschylus, Our Contemporary, taught and directed by a senior theater major as part of his honors thesis. I was delighted to be cast in a classical Greek tragedy. The ensemble performance was performed on the University’s main stage. Valerie and Karen came to Wesleyan by train for the performance. Iju came as well, to my surprise and delight. I had been mindful to send him a formal invitation. Although he never told me he was present, I noticed him in the audience.

Robert Fagles, whose translation of the play we used as our script, attended the Friday night performance and the reception immediately following. He came over to me and engaged me in conversation about my performance, which he considered brilliant. As Mr. Fagles moved on to talk with the play’s director, Jon Esteban Vega, who had been in earshot, encouraged me to get the translator’s feedback in writing for my portfolio. I failed to follow his advice. However, Robert Fagles’s feedback underscored my belief that I was a legitimate actor.

That year, I befriended another student who shared his backstory of battling depression in high school. His successful battle with mental illness convinced me I could live in a healthy emotional space. To ensure depression would not envelop me, I willed myself to stop crying. I decided that the crying symbolized weakness and true colored girls don’t cry.

Throughout the years I struggled through mental health crises, I could always rely on Penny’s support. Many years later, noting that she’d never known anyone with bipolar disorder before she met me, I asked, “Why did you continue to support me in all my craziness?”

She answered, “Because we’re friends.”

To which I say, “Ain’t it good to know you’ve got a friend.”