Coming to America (II): Hey Jude...

Troy, N.Y., Fall 1968.

The Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute Student Union, at the top of the hill, was a modern building, a big contrast with the rundown city by the river. Things were looking up, at least architecturally. I learned that my new home would be a first floor double in the E dorms, just off the main quad. Nothing modern about my new home. The room was barely larger than a convent’s cell.

As I walked in, my roommate looked up from his comics, bored. He was bony and looked undernourished. He had one of those haircuts like they had put a bowl upside down over his head and trimmed everything that stuck out.

"Hello, my name is Darrell," he said. "You must be George. I got here yesterday and chose this bed. I hope you don't mind."

It felt good to be called George. It was part of my plan to start again, and with an American name. Jorge was definitely left behind in Buenos Aires and wouldn’t be heard of for a long time, if ever. I had filled in my college applications as George, and Darrell’s recognition reinforced my story. 

His bed was in a corner of the room away from the traffic, while mine was directly in front of the door. He definitely had more privacy, but I smiled, said, "No problem," and sat down. The place smelled of pizza. Paul McCartney was crooning Hey Jude from next door, going on and on with the na na na naaaah.

Darrell went back to his magazine. I explained that I had just arrived from downtown and what a hard hill that was with my brown valise in this heat. Plus, I said, "A few days ago, I got off a plane from Buenos Aires."

"Buenos Aires? Is that in South America?"

"Yes."

"And you came all the way to this place from South America?"

"Yes."

"Wow. . . "

I elicited no further sympathy from Darrell, who, without looking up, added, "Troy sucks. This place is the armpit of the Northeast, of the whole fucking country, if you ask me." He chuckled and kept reading.

After that cheerful welcome, I went over to the neighbors. The first one was Henry, a loud and athletic guy dressed in nothing but his briefs, who was throwing a football back and forth with his roommate. An empty pizza box and stained napkins revealed the source of the aroma.

"Come on in!" he yelled over the din.

"Hello, my name is George and I'm your new neighbor," I said, stepping over the pizza box.

“I’m Henry,” he answered. He was friendly, shook my hand and, pointing to the guy sitting in a corner of the room said, "This here is Ray." Ray was a most unlikely companion for Henry: a short overweight guy barely out of adolescence who should have worn a shirt to cover the rolls.

"It's hot, isn't it, George?" said Ray, as we shook hands. They both continued tossing the ball.

"Sure is," I said. "And I just came from the winter, too."

"And where's that?" asked Ray.

"Argentina."

"That's like. . .  Brazil, right?” said Ray. “I thought it was hot in Brazil."

"No, not Brazil, you douchebag," Henry laughed.  "Argentina. Different country."

"Yup," said Ray. "Never been good at geography."

"What brings you to the 'Tute?" asked Henry. That was our shorthand for “the Institute.”

"I am a chem major," I answered.

"Chem sucks," said Henry. "I'm studying to be a double E, no Chem."

All this sucking, I thought. Troy, Chem, everything seems to suck. I couldn’t recall ever learning this verb from my English teachers in BA. I started leaving and Henry yelled over the crooning McCartney, who was still at it, Naaa. . . na na nanananaaaaa. . . na naaa. . . hey Jude. . . . "Leave the door open, George, please."

It’s not surprising that Hey Jude has remained associated with that first day in Troy. I too was trying to take my own sad song and make it better. Whenever I hear McCartney sing it, I time-travel back to 1968 in the E Dorms and Henry and pizza and the oppressive heat. I had no way out of there. And it would be several years before I would let my orphanhood into my heart, and I could start to make it better.

I went back to my room and unpacked what was left of my past. "Shit, this room is hot," I said to Darrell, trying to sound local.

Darrell's head was deep in his comic book. "Yeah,” he said. “It sucks, but pretty soon it'll get very cold in Troy, you'll see," he added, without looking up. “I'm not sure why I came back this year. It was either that or get drafted to fuckin’ 'Nam.”

‘Nam. . . Its very mention brought back memories of a teaching assistant at the university back in BA who had complained about how the Yanquis imperialistas should get  out of ‘Nam.

The memory was short, as I returned to the smell of pizza, Hey Jude, and the sound of Henry tossing his football. This sure wasn't the collegiate residence I imagined, where young scholars debated fine points of history or math well into the night. This was barely above summer camp, except there was no one around to enforce quiet time.

But things were looking up in other ways. Barely off the bus, I had already learned two new words that my English teachers never taught back home: This “sucks,” you “douchebag,” and welcome to America.

***

And, lest I forget, I had brought Dad’s Emerson transistor radio to Troy. It was in my brown valise. In earlier years, the radio had caused no end of heartbreak between him and me. Much as I wanted to use it, he wouldn’t let me borrow it. It was the first thing I thought of when he died, that I could finally have it. And the guilt notwithstanding, it would soon be sitting at my desk at the ’Tute. It was mine now.