when he sees the disappointment roll across my face. “A lot of people do just fine in the world with degrees from regular schools. It’s nothing to get upset over.” Mr. Walsh smiles dryly, entirely pleased with his “reassurance.” Totally unaware of the way he is belittling me, cutting me down to his low expectations. He thinks he’s helping me. He doesn’t care what I have overcome or how much I have accomplished, like earning straight A’s every year. In his mind, I’m above average at most, but definitely not intelligent enough to attend an Ivy League school. “I see it every year,” he continues,

students from rough neighborhoods who think they can take on the world without having an accurate perspective on what it takes to make it in a place like this. They come here and think they can play a new game with the same rules. You can’t. Find someone to help you get through this or you’re going to end up on a bus back to where you came from. I always wonder why no one tells you what you’re up against before you arrive.” He shakes his head in bewilderment. Someone did tell me, I think to myself. Now Mr. Walsh will have a brother, Professor Cartwright, planting seeds of doubt inside my still fragile mind.

I knew he was a doubter all along. Nonbelievers always reveal themselves. I am numb to his cruelty now, however, even if he is right. I am just another statistic, despite my best efforts. My expectations for myself come crashing down. The downfall. Not even the Defiance can save me from myself now. I wonder what the House of Oppression has in store for me next?

I emerge, uneasy, from Professor Cartwright’s office back out into the crisp fall air. I stand on the steps of the math building lost in thought. The unnatural chill gave way to a few summery days, which seem to be finally passing, and fall, winter’s diligent messenger, hints of permanent cold’s arrival. How am I going to get through this, especially now that the change in season is fast approaching. They say winters are both brutal and wondrous at this small, beloved college. Winters are a lot like the men who “didn’t mean to.”

I heard it was colder than usual last year, negative twenty-three degrees for several days. They said your nostrils freeze as soon as the cold air flows in. “Try not to breathe,” they suggest. “Try to run as fast as you can between buildings.” The ethereal beauty of a fresh snowfall makes up for the cold, however. That’s what they say. The white snow blankets everything in sight, covering the campus in a surreal glow, just like in the brochure—a promise kept. But I’ve learned not to trust everything that shimmers.