Magazine article Tablet Magazine

Get Out

Magazine article Tablet Magazine

Get Out

Article excerpt

When I immigrated to America, 20 years ago this fall, I had just over $2,000 in my pocket that I'd saved working as a night watchman at a factory back home in Israel. I also had an inflatable mattress on the floor of a friend's one-bedroom in White Plains, New York, and a promise that I could stay for two weeks, maybe three, until I found a place of my own. But most importantly, I had a story about my future.

As soon as I woke up that first morning, I took the train to 116th and Broadway, got off, strolled through the gates of Columbia University, and stood there gazing at the bronze Alma Mater sculpture guarding the steps to Low Library. Her face was serene, her lap adorned by a thick book, and her arms open wide, to embrace, or so I imagined, folks like me who were reasonably smart and wildly motivated and ready to work as hard as was needed to make something of themselves. …

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