Behold the Dreamers(90)
She listened, nodded, and, an hour later, emailed her former precalculus instructor, who wrote back the next morning with the name and office number of the nominator, Dean Flipkens. The instructor told her she didn’t need an appointment to see the dean, she could go there anytime. That afternoon she took Timba to Betty’s, hoping to see the dean so she could get her scholarship as soon as possible.
On the walk from the subway to the school she imagined the dean as a kindly old white man with a head of sparse gray hair, but when she got there she realized she had visualized incorrectly: He was a white man, but young—with a head of thick brown hair—and within a minute of being in his office, she could tell his heart wasn’t nearly as soft as Jende had hoped it would be.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Jonga,” he said to her, “but I don’t nominate by request. I nominate students with stellar grades who are making a contribution to the college and their community.”
“I understand, Dean,” Neni said collectedly, trying not to sound as desperate as she was. “But you can see, I have very good grades, which is why I came here to see you today.”
“I see your grades all right. But what about your involvement in the college and the community?”
“I—”
“Are you a member of any organization on campus? Have you done anything to enrich the lives of other students at BMCC?”
“Dean, I have—”
“Do you volunteer at any organization in the city? In your neighborhood?”
Neni shook her head. “I volunteered at my church one time, but … I really would like to volunteer more, Dean,” she said, suddenly feeling ashamed, as if she’d been caught stealing. “It’s just that I have no time, Dean.”
“No one has time, Ms. Jonga,” the dean said.
“I have two children, and before my second child was born I was also working. If I had any time, I would be so glad to do something for BMCC because I like the school. But without the time, Dean, I just cannot do anything.”
“I’m not sure what to tell you.”
“I need any kind of help, Dean Flipkens. I only have two more semesters before I can transfer to four-year college. But my husband, he lost his job that pays good money. I really don’t know how I can come back to school in September if someone doesn’t help me with a scholarship. If there’s anything you can do to help me …”
The dean stared at her through his geek-chic black-framed glasses, then turned toward his computer. He couldn’t be less than her age, Neni estimated, though he looked much younger, quite like the flawless-skinned and neatly coiffed young men in the billboards that floated over Times Square. Neni couldn’t help thinking he was sitting in that office only because he had to, not because he wanted to, and that was enough to make her believe the man wouldn’t care if she had to drop out of BMCC.
As he moved his mouse around the pad, she watched his hands, well manicured and soft-looking, the hands of someone who’d never known a day of hard labor.
“I would send you over to financial aid,” he said, turning his attention back to her, “but I see here you’re an international student. I’m sure you know that pretty much every scholarship or grant we offer is for citizens or permanent residents, so there really isn’t much they can do for you.”
Neni nodded, buttoning her jacket and reaching down for her purse lying on the floor.
“Though I must ask you, Ms. Jonga,” he went on, ignoring Neni’s attempt to end the meeting, “I see here that your plan after graduation is to apply to pharmacy school. Is that still the case?”
Neni nodded, not wanting to waste any more words with him.
“May I ask why pharmacy?”
“I like pharmacy,” she briskly replied.
“I understand. But why?”
“Because I want to give people medicine to feel better. When I came to America my husband’s cousin advised me to do it, that it’s a very good thing to study. And everyone tells me that it’s a good job. Is there a problem with me trying to become a pharmacist, Dean?”
The dean smiled, and Neni imagined he was derisively laughing at her inwardly, at the impassioned manner in which she’d just defended her career choice.
“Everyone who told you pharmacy is a great career is right,” he said, still smiling haughtily, “but I wonder—and I hate saying this to students, because I don’t want anyone to think I’m asking them to dream small—have you wondered if it is the right career path for someone in your circumstances?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I’m simply wondering, Ms. Jonga, if perhaps another career path may be better suited for someone like you.”
“I want to be a pharmacist,” Neni said, no longer trying to disguise her anger.
“That’s great, and I commend you for that. But you came here today because you are desperate for money to finish school. You have two children, your husband doesn’t make enough money, and, by all accounts, you’re having a hard time making ends meet. Pharmacy school is very expensive, Ms. Jonga, and you’re an international student. Unless you change your legal status it’s going to be hard for you to get loans to get the degree, if you can find a way to get your associate’s from BMCC in the first place.”