Lending a helping hand
My first homecoming of sorts came freshman year when my family helped me haul my suitcase across the Atlantic from our compact London apartment into an equally compact Randolph 212. There I was, at the end-goal of my high school education where I was going to major in ‘x,’ join ‘y’ organizations and take part in ‘z’ programs. I wasn’t completely set on my variables yet, but I had a formula. What I failed to process, however, was how my one-woman strategy would be tested by the nearly 2,000 freshmen that were descending upon East Campus that day.