So here I am, on the afternoon of my Columbia interview, the only college interview that matters, deciding which family story to tell. Of all the applications I sent out this past month—all the essays, recommendation letters, SAT scores, AP test results, and that little vial of your soul all top colleges essentially ask for—Columbia University was the only one I submitted with shaky hands, shut eyes, and Dad’s hand on my shoulder. The truth is, I couldn’t tell you what the school mascots of Duke, NYU, Northwestern, McGill, Brown, University of Pennsylvania, Oberlin, and City College—my backups—even look like. For me and my dad, Columbia has always been the dream—the beacon of possibility, the ticket to a better life for me and my family.

I get off at 116th Street, which opens right onto the University, and cut through the orange bricked college walk, looking around, soaking it in. I know the layout by heart already. The dorms are on the south side, surrounding Butler Library, the massive building in and out of which students in light blue hoodies are constantly pouring. Some look tired, others are buzzing with energy, but all are barreling forward with purpose.

The interview is scheduled for three thirty at the Hungarian Pastry Shop, a staple of the college community with low orange lighting. I order an overpriced cup of coffee and sit by the entrance, ten minutes ahead of our scheduled meeting time, surrounded by bearded graduate students on laptops wrapped in political stickers. Nothing about my Smile is disingenuous today. I start to read a magazine with an in-depth interview with one of Nike’s oldest designers, but change my mind and quickly switch to the copy of Catcher in the Rye borrowed from the library, which makes for better optics, all things considered.

“Henri?”

A freckled, light-skinned Black woman with a streak of white hair tumbles into the coffee shop, bumping into the back of someone’s chair on her way in and sending packs of artificial sweetener flying off the table before she apologizes profusely.

“Donielle?” I confirm, moving to help her pick them up.

“They’re renaming a hurricane as we speak,” she jokes.

She orders a tea, and I pick up the stirrers that get knocked by her large bag when she turns around. So, this is what a National Endowment for the Arts winner, MacArthur Fellow, and Forbes Top 30 under 30 playwright looks like. She’s decidedly a lot less intimidating when not being handed an award in a Dior gown to uproarious applause.

After I thank her profusely for taking the time, she settles in and unwraps herself, layer after bright layer. First a scarf, followed by a coat, then a bubble jacket, then a wrap. Her arms are jiggling with bracelets, some metallic, some in painted wooden beads.