I signed up for
an online Harvard class.
It’s an
introduction to computer sciences course called “CS50.” Apparently, if I successfully pass the
course, I will be guaranteed job placement with one of one hundred businesses
in the St. Louis area that are partnered with LaunchCode—who is sort of ‘teaching’
the course via public viewings of the lectures at the St. Louis public library
and a whole lot of online courseware.
I am failing.
I am an
incredibly right-brained, creative minded, ADD, procrastinating type of person.
To give you a little insight as to how well I did in school prior to attempting
to take a HARVARD course. . . I failed college Algebra and only passed the
second time around because I was tutored every single day. I passed,
eventually, with a ‘D’. I lost my Sociology double major (got a phone call from
the registrar two weeks after graduation) because I passed elementary statistics with a ‘D’. I needed at least a ‘C’ to
maintain my major. In high school I failed chemistry and barely passed every
math course I took. . . with ‘D’s.
I changed my
major five times.
I was supposed
to graduate in 3.5 years. Instead, due to withdrawing, failing,
withdraw-failing, and re-taking a plethora of courses—I graduated in four, lost
my double major, took Jan-term and summer classes and to top it all off. . .
I finished off
my senior year of college with a GPA of:
1.94
And now? Now I
am enrolled in a Harvard computer science class.
Of course I am.
When I told my
mother about this grand venture she laughed out loud. And so naturally, I decided
rather than listen to her advice on how “You would hate that. You would be
horrible at that. You hate numbers. And computers. What are you thinking?”—I
instead decided to take and pass the class just to prove her wrong.
So now I sit at
Kayaks. Drinking St. Louis local Kaldi’s coffee. I count the minutes passing as
I watch video after video and attempt to take notes. My page is full of curse
words. . . variables, binaries, loops,
integers, loops, source code?!!?
But the view is
fantastic.
Kind of?
I sit directly
in front of a six-by-fifteen foot window facing Forest Park—which by the way—is the
biggest city park system in the United States. I see pines. And grass. And to
my right are old brick buildings. Beautiful architecture. Surrounding me in the
coffee shop are international Washington University students and upper-class
white yuppies.
Directly across
from me is not just Forest Park.
There is something not blocking, but distracting my view.
Homeless Him.
He does not have
a name yet, but he will.
He is
African-American. He is elderly. And it is 28 degrees outside.
I am staring
because I can’t help it. Because as I forced myself to watch endless videos on
how to write source code all I could think of was how much I would rather
continue to be completely broke if it meant I got to hang out with Homeless Him
instead of studying.
There is a
Subaru stopped at the light. I see a white, female teenager in the passenger
seat. Mom is driving. My immediately judgmental thoughts are as follows,
Of course she won’t even look at him. Of
course she won’t give anything. Not money. Not food. Nothing. Not even a
glance. Better to ignore the stare. Better to pretend he isn’t there. Damn
yuppies.
Homeless Him
disappears for a moment. I wonder where he’s gone.
There he is. . .
running. . . no—limping—to the Subaru.
And I break.
The Subaru.
Rolls the window
down and passes a few dollars. The man thanks the women. Homeless Him.
Homeless, Elderly Him. Homeless, Elderly, Disabled Him.
I see another
man. Also flying a sign. Also asking for money or food. I am angry with him. Why
is he on Homeless Him’s corner? He is competition, you know. So selfish.
Minutes pass.
Homeless Him
takes a seat—and Another Man joins him. They pile up there loot. Together. A
bag of take-out. A half-empty bag of clementines. A few dollars.
They are in this
together. I see that now.
