Fablespinners: Literature's Online Open Mic!

by Marie Delgado Travis

I was very privileged to attend CCNY in the late 60's. It had been my choice, not only because there was no tuition at the time, but also because my professors and the learning environment at the college were world class.

But times were turbulent. Almost any day, you could count on some of the 30,000 students to be protesting something. There was a student strike for every occasion: to prevent the cutting of one of the last few trees on campus, to protest the war in Viet Nam, to promote the adoption of Open Admissions. This latter issue involved waiving the usual requirements for admissions for underprivileged minority students.

As an underprivileged minority student who had not asked for any special privileges to be admitted -- I had simply worked my butt off -- frankly, all I wanted to do was graduate, "selfish" as that may seem. So, despite the constant strikes, I tried to attend as many classes as I could. I once literally had to jump over a friend who was stretched in front of the classroom door in protest, "Oops! Sorry!"

The violence began to mount on the sensitive issue of Open Admissions. On a couple of occasions, sulfur bombs were thrown into our classroom through the window. Our professor would refuse to let us leave the classroom. "I'm from Argentina, and we know about revolution," she said. "We won't let them intimidate us." So we covered our faces with our hands and hankies and continued our sessions as best we could.

Perhaps the cruelest irony was when a brick was thrown into the classroom, fracturing the skull of a Puerto Rican Viet Nam veteran. I was horrified, because I knew the sacrifice that studying entailed for him. He came to class directly after working all night as a security guard. I'd sometimes have to gently nudge him, so he wouldn't fall asleep in class, he was so tired. So much for the rights of the minorities.

One day I found myself reluctantly participating in a counter-demonstration to reopen the school after an especially tedious "Open Admissions" strike. The ongoing nature of the strike jeopardized graduation prospects for many of us. One protester on the other side of the issue was my Puerto Rican childhood friend, Patsy. To see her beautiful green eyes staring at me across a wire fence that separated protesters and counter-protesters was one of the saddest experiences of my life. I was so sorry that we had grown so distant.

Hundreds of us marched from North to South Campus, chanting "Open the school! Enough is enough!" When we reached the South Campus wall, I saw a number of thugs scaling and jumping over the college fence with baseball bats and golf clubs in hand. As they landed, they began to beat students in the front lines of the protest, mercilessly. I could hear the cracking of bones and skulls and saw dust and blood flying. It was as if everything were playing before me in slow motion. I was paralyzed. I could see the attackers advancing towards me, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn't move.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt a hand grab mine and we were running. It was some time later that I heard a voice say sharply, "You told me you me lived around here. Where exactly do you live?!" It was then that I came to and realized what had happened. One of the Viet Nam veterans I tutored had seen the danger I was in and rescued me, taking me away in his car, which was parked off-campus. He drove me as far as he could, not knowing my address, only the general area of the Bronx where I lived.

I never saw my angel after graduation and I feel ashamed because, although I clearly remember his face and his incredible kindness to me, I don't recall his name. I wish with all of my heart that I could evoke it, because I've often felt a longing to thank him for saving me.

I recently received a mailing from my alma mater that the "Open Admissions" experiment, adopted in the early 70's, has been abandoned and the school is trying to regain its past glory. I hope that those who completed the program realize that their success was built on blood and tears and that they will find it in their hearts to give back to the community. And to those who didn't make it through the program, take it from me ... it's never too late to work hard to achieve your goals.