- Photo Illustration by Teresa Mathew
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BY THE STATEMENT STAFF
Published September 25, 2012
You’re a first-generation college student. The summer before your freshman year the University tells you they want you there early. Six weeks early. You’ve got some catching up to do. Under a blaring June sun you walk the campus in a daze, questioning the decision you’ve made and the friends you’ve left behind at home.
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You’re 8 years old, this weird quiet little kid, and your teacher’s standing over you. She’s got her mits on your desk and she’s hurling its contents on your head. Next thing you know you’re on the ground. What just happened?
You’re in an airport after a long plane ride, sitting next to grandma. She’s dozed off. Suddenly some jerk walks up and just snags granny’s purse! Nevermind that you’ve crossed the Atlantic and don’t speak the language here. Nevermind that you’re only 9 years old. You’re going to catch this thief.
You’re one of those kids whose parents sat them down at the piano as soon as they could walk. Now you’re obsessed. Four hours a day isn’t enough. Six is more like it. But the work’s paying off, because some famous pianist in Russia wants you to come study with him. And you’re only 11.
These may not be your stories, but the clarity and authority with which they’re told makes them universally relatable. Each one speaks to the particular joys and challenges of growing up and getting settled in a world that’s equal parts terrifying and exciting.
There are more than 40,000 stories on this campus. These are four of them. For more, turn to that person in class, the one you haven’t spoken to but who seems really fascinating. The one you’ve been dying to talk to.
Ask them their story. And tell them yours.
I was a child piano prodigy
In elementary and middle school, I was a child piano prodigy. You know those little kids on YouTube who play concertos with orchestras, their fingers sliding deftly over the ivories even though their feet can barely reach the pedals? That was me.
I mugged my grandma's mugger
Let me set the scene for you: June 12, 2001. Slightly after 10 a.m. Central European Time. Rome, Italy.
I am a first-generation college student
I was accepted to the University of Michigan with the precondition that I attend classes from June 20 to August 17 through the University’s Summer Bridge Program. Bypassing this program wasn’t an option, its bolded prerequisite announcing itself on my acceptance letter: you must attend this program for acceptance into the Fall 2010 semester. I must?
My third grade teacher almost killed me, but ended up saving my life
My wrinkly, turkey-necked third grade teacher was the most terrifying teacher I've ever had. One day, in class, she knocked my desk over and nearly cracked my head open. I've never been the same.
A tropical Thanksgiving
It's rare that I find myself with an opportunity to prove that I am, in fact, Indian.
The first time I saw Denard Robinson
It was Him. Denard. Shoelace. Michigan celebrity. And he had just been standing there, with his backpack on, wearing a maize and blue half-zip pullover.
