It was a letter of rejection from Boston University. Six letters of rejection would follow. Finally, one school said they would extend an invitation for me to take classes as a nonmatriculated student: Hunter College.
Essentially, my choice was made for me. Hunter did have some virtues that actually made me excited about the prospect of attending. It had a solid reputation as the finest of the City University of New York (CUNY) schools, and as a New York state resident I would pay in-state tuition which, I figured, would cost me in the neighborhood of $10, 000 for my master’s, almost unheard-of in this era when a single year of undergraduate college can cost more than $50, 000.
It seemed to me that Hunter was an institution that allowed the individual student some intellectual latitude, and for a freethinker like me that prospect was very appealing. I applied for the program in Latin American history.
l semester of 2008. The class was Democracy and Development in Africa and Latin America. It was on a Tuesday, and I would take the Hampton Jitney from Southold at 11 a. m. and would not return from
be well informed on Hunter policy. As I sat in her corner office amid a clutter of books, she told me, “If you receive a B or better, all of your credits will transfer into the program, and if you are doing everything correctly, I think you should not have a problem getting in.” I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the tension in my chest melting. I felt that I had little to worry about and that ever
use I had already taken a class and proved that I could do the work. This was puzzling, but I still had two more classes to take before I would be maxed out on my n
atin American History that semester) and History and Memory, a course that piqued my curiosity. One cannot sign
ses and the semester was going fairly well. But in late April two astonishing things happened: I had to quit my job because my bosses were stealing from me and refused to compensate me fairly for the w