“The Young, Black, and Restless at Dartmouth College,” I say, giggling. I’ve learned to entertain myself here in the backwoods of New Hampshire. I stop in front of Baker Tower, which is attached to the main library and is prominently featured in all the new student material.

Those brochures made many promises they could not keep. The biggest one being an abundance of rainbow-colored minority students, who are actually very hard to find on campus. We are few and far between, and there definitely was no mention of threatening watchers who intimidate with their eyes. But the white clock tower, stacked on manicured red bricks—a staple of Ivy League architecture—has remained true to its collegiate mythology and is even more stunning in person. I imagined what it would be like to stand before this tower for months, despite my high school guidance counselor Mr. Walsh’s repeated attempts to dissuade me from attending a top ten school. I still remember sitting in his office senior year reading the posters on the wall.

“IF YOU BELIEVE IT, YOU CAN ACHIEVE IT.”

“REACH FOR THE STARS.”

“NO DREAM IS TOO BIG.”

“Why Dartmouth?” he asks.

“It looks nice in the brochure.”

“Well, you know, you really shouldn’t choose colleges based on the pictures in the brochure.”

He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out several pamphlets: Ohio State, Kenyon College, and Oberlin College.

“All great schools. All local. Perhaps you should consider one of these. I would hate for you to…”

He hesitates. I know what the silence

between Professor Cartwright’s words mean. “Well, this really isn’t a good way to start the semester,” he continues. He hands me the paper, which has a large red F circled at the top. “I mean, these quizzes won’t be a big percentage of your grade, but… I don’t want you to fall further behind. Why don’t you stop by the student center and get a tutor? This kind of math is complex. You really needed to start establishing a solid mathematical foundation in high school, which I bet you didn’t. Real shame so many come here unprepared for the vigor of academic life.” He assumes he knows my story, subtly suggesting I’m not capable given my background. I thought getting into Dartmouth was enough to escape low expectations, but he builds another cage of limitation around me. As if the one Mr. Walsh built wasn’t enough

to make me rethink my entire path in life. “Take some time to mull it over,” Mr. Walsh continues. “I want you to be realistic and clear about the odds. That’s my only goal.” I stare up at the posters on his wall again and then back at him, trying to mend the gap. Why did he bother hanging them at all?