My roommate in a turn of the century dormitory was a NYU
philosophy major and an Armenian American from the Boston suburbs.
How do you feel about the Armenian Massacre, I asked. What
would you know about that? You’re from The South Bronx, he replied.
Being ethnic-profiled is sometimes one step before ethnic
cleansing.
Then I met a fellow student who went out of his way to
befriend me until he turned out to be as mediocre a painter as a German
dictator he was making a portrait on. He punched me in the back of the head and
didn’t stop until he ripped out the ‘Intel Inside’.
The last memory I had was of my American Dream, a beautiful
Venezuelan artist who loved me enough to want to marry me. Then I disappeared
with eyes wide shut. My brain was unplugged from the life support of higher
education. No excuses are offered here.
I still had to turn
in homework on making a tour book to draw tourists to my hometown.
I got finals, you know.
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