Category Archives: Education

Day 18 (Melancholy Edition)

Since my cycling legs are slowly coming back I decided to ride to my old stomping grounds. I wanted to head out to Yerba Buena Island via the east span of the Bay Bridge.

As a student at Cal, this was my primary fitness ride–a 20-mile loop encompassing a bit of Emeryville Marina that was flat as a pancake. No big deal right?

Well for starters, we’ve moved. My previous starting/ending point for the ride was at sea level. We now live at about 1100 feet a.s.l. Great for the ride down, not so much for the ride home. In fact, this now 30-mile ride features a tortuous 9-11% grade for the last 2.5 miles of the ride. Again, painful but doable.

As I set out this morning, I realized I was retracing a good chunk of the same route I rode to school for 2.5 years. So that put a good-sized lump in my throat. Those years, I’ve often commented, are likely some the best years of my life. An amazing education at a world-class university. So lucky.

So there was that.

But then, as I jumped off my commute route and hit the Bay Trail along the actual east side of the San Francisco Bay, I was struck numb. This was the route I’d ridden countless times back when…life was normal. When all I had to worry about was my next paper, my next reading assignment, my next FAFSA application. Back when the world, in all its glory, was predictably screwed up.

Now, we find ourselves amidst a vicious deadly global pandemic that has upended life as we know it. No more classroom lectures or trips out to eat. As I put one foot in front of the other on the pedals today I suddenly ached for normal.

We are being hardened to a new normal that I fear will be usurped by opportunistic politicians for their own selfish ends. Hell, capitalism in the United States already essentially fits that definition now. But it was “our” normal. We were used to it.

Todays normal feels like a dry-run for end times. And yet…

It’s also an opportunity for those of us who have stood idly by and allowed our country to spiral into the inequitable and self-deluding shit-show we have become to roll up our sleeves and take meaningful action.

I believe we’re at a crossroads.  United States Navy Capt. Crozier has set an example for us. He has shown us the best of what this country can be in the midst of a deluge of corruption.

Will we follow his lead?

Day 14: And so it goes…

Both the Federal government and local counties are extending the Shelter-in-Place order through the end of April.

To celebrate that news, my employer officially placed me on furlough. I’ve heard the term furlough before, mostly in the context of work furlough surrounding an arrest, so I looked it up. I wish I hadn’t.

My paycheck stops on April 1. The good news is that my employer will continue to fully fund my health insurance premiums through the end of May.

In the immortal words of Ferris Bueller, “life moves pretty fast,” so before I could fully mourn my loss of livelihood, I received an informal start date at my new employer. It’s not official until I sign the formal offer letter, so I’m keeping it under wraps, but once the letter is signed, I’m good to go with a pay rate significantly higher.

But wait, there’s more!!!

I contacted the director of the Creative Writing MFA program at the University of Montana who confirmed that I could defer my entry for a full year. This has a bunch of benefits for me, namely staying in my new position (in academia) for a year a well as potentially moving to Missoula early to establish residency. In addition to allowing me to apply again to more fully funded MFA programs next year.

Someone on Twitter mentioned that today is March 97th which, after this day, makes absolute sense.

Not only has the pandemic crippled reasonable planning, it’s apparently required a new level of adaptability in the era of the virus.

Disclaimer: All of the above reflects my avowed privilege. I’m whining about quality problems. I have food, shelter, and a couple cats and a dog. I’ve got a job offer on the horizon and an exciting Masters program to look forward to.

I’m acutely aware that many, many people are righteously suffering right now.  I’m not meaning to minimize that in this space, but reflect my experience during these dystopian times. I’ve been through enough pretty bad stuff in my life to know the stress I’m feeling right now is a blessing.

My heartfelt thoughts go out to those truly struggling right now.

Let’s not forget those folks way less fortunate than us right now.


Shelter-in-Place: Day Two

When I graduated from Cal, I was unemployed and watching my bank account rapidly dwindle. I immediately jumped into the job market and applied to nearly 100 jobs by the first week of January. Ironically, I’d been recruited in November by a high-end fashion retail department store and they were the first to offer me a job. I started with them as an Asset Protection Detective, on the fringe of the Tenderloin in San Francisco, on January 20th. The regional manager mentioned that the experience would be a goldmine for a writer. I, of course, figured it was hyperbole.

It was not.

As I left work Monday night, on the cusp of the SIP order, I had a long BART ride home to reflect on the job, the City, and what lies ahead.

The City of San Francisco is broken. I heartily applaud the protective efforts they took Monday, but realistically it will only protect the privileged. Underlying that are countless unhoused, mentally ill, and drug-addicted forgotten people. These are my clients. The people I’ve been interacting with on a daily basis for the last few months.

As any BART regular will tell you, each ride is a crapshoot. You can score and get a seat to quietly read a book, or you can stand in a mechanized version of a sardine can. An Andy Gump on wheels.

And every ride offers the promise of danger. If not violence, the underlying interaction with a criminal or mentally ill individual. Always alert is the default mode on BART. Not exactly a relaxing commute.

On Monday night, we locked down the building for what’s expected to be at least three weeks. Extra care was taken to make sure there were no “stay-ins,” unhoused or mentally ill people that seek shelter in the building. It’s happened over three times in the two months I’ve been there. Including the guys with porn plastered on the walls, wearing a bra and nothing else, while he simultaneously masturbated and slammed heroin. Oh, and he was swinging a pair of scissors at us when we confronted him. This was my first week.

Once secured, I left for the night, honestly not certain I’d be back. Market Street had a pre-apocalyptic feel. Cops were stationed outside the Walgreens maintaining order. BART was nearly empty, save for the unhoused sleeping their fitful sleep. Exiting the Transbay Tube on the East Bay side one could see the Cruise Ship docked in the Port of Oakland that was infested with Covid. And then the eerie glow of the Caltrans sign advising a nearly empty freeway to social distance.

The pre-apocalyptic vibe had been rising all week. We were getting nearly overrun by shoplifters in the last few days. The underground economy had dried up outside the store as folks started to heed the warnings and stayed home. Unable to panhandle, mug, steal or break into parked cars, the desperate realized the inventory was inside and descended on us en masse. It was exhausting. At nearly sixty, I’m too old to be rolling around on Mission Street with a guy nearly my age trying to recover his pilfered merchandise. But here we are. My new Bachelor’s Degree at work.

In fairness, I’m on the cusp of a new job with a local university and if all holds, will be able to leave my current position soon. Into academia and into a position where I have more time to write. No more 1.5 hour BART commutes and collapses into exhaustion when I get home. But that’s yet to be determined.

Option two is an offer I received into a Creative Writing MFA program at the University of Montana. Moving to Missoula looks very attractive after working in the City. More on that in a subsequent post.

Lastly, I was shocked yesterday to see so much traffic out when I went grocery shopping. Here in the East Bay, it looked like business as usual. I suspect as reports of more active cases and deaths arise, this will diminish. My plan is to stay inside and write and occasionally get outside for a bike ride.

Trump just called Covid-19 the “Chinese Virus” and I broke my self-imposed rule against responding to him on Twitter by lashing out. Fuck that guy. It felt good.


Tears of Joy


On Sunday, May 19, 2019, I lingered with my fellow BA candidates backstage at the Greek Theater on the UC Berkeley campus. We were awaiting the presentation of our faux Bachelor of Arts degrees in English–from the top-rated English department in the country. It was a time to catch up with people I hadn’t seen in two years. People who shared my first English 45B class. People, who like me, wondered if we’d ever see this day.

I (re) started school at Los Angeles Pierce College in the Spring of 2013, intending on obtaining a Certificate in Addiction Studies. Instead, I caught the academic bug and set my sights on entering UCLA and majoring in English. But somehow, UC Berkeley accepted my application and I moved north to begin a two-year journey as a transfer student that can only be described as an intellectual meat grinder.

Cal is a different beast. What it lacks in school spirit (and Pac-12 football talent) it more than makes up in academic and intellectual rigor. My two years here have been a series of bipolar panic attacks. That I have no business here. That I’m an imposter. That I’m too old. That I will write the next great American novel while hobnobbing with the elite of the literary world. That I WILL fail the class I’m currently in.

I’m guessing I’ll fall somewhere in the middle of that spectrum as I begin my journey applying to grad schools.

Cal is home. Cal is grade deflation and holding on tight to your cell phone while walking on Telegraph. It’s wondering if the mentally ill homeless person walking into your class has a knife or gun to wondering if you too can win the Pulitzer Prize someday. Cal is a microcosm of all my hopes and nightmares.

I’ve not ONCE regretted my decision to forgo UCLA (my lifelong dream school) and go to Cal.

We’re told to line-up stage left and begin our descent into the orchestra pit. Pomp and Circumstance erupts from the speakers. And so does the sky. God lets loose with a 3-minute micro cloud burst that soaks graduate and family members alike. A rising crescendo of cheers and cries break loose from my graduating class and before I know it, my eyes are filled with tears. I’m on the verge of sobbing as I take my seat in the downpour. Every late night, early morning angst about that test, that next paper, has culminated with a cleansing rain from heaven that makes it all worthwhile. And before the Chair of the English Department begins to speak, the rains stops. The anointing of the Class of 2019 is complete.

Fiat Lux

Thanksgiving 18

I’m unemployed. I’m in debt. I’m at least 20 pounds overweight. My arms and face are covered in small wounds. My future is uncertain…at best.

I couldn’t be more thankful.

I’m in my senior year at UC Berkeley and I’m unemployed because I’ve been able to finance school and living expenses primarily through scholarships. I’m in debt because I’ve been fortunate enough to only have to take advantage of a small amount of federal loans to help with school so far. I’m 20 pounds overweight because my life, during each semester, consists of riding my bike 7 miles round-trip to school and then spending the next 4-8 hours snacking on crap foods while I study or write essays. As I write this, I watch the blood flow from the back of my right hand from yet another bite from the rescue kitten we took in a little over two months ago. My future is uncertain because I’ve been blessed with the potential opportunity to stay at Cal an extra year and prep for grad schools. I’m planning on pursuing an MFA in creative writing at any number of schools across the country.

I share this journey with a woman of unparalleled patience and tenacity. My partner has supported my transformation to reentry college student with gusto; she herself has recently entered a Masters degree program.

I want to write. This semester, I’ve taken several courses that have actually given me the tools to do so. I am incredibly blessed to be in a class taught by a world-renowned author who is endlessly generous and encouraging. I was able to “write-in” to a class taught by Joyce Carol Oates next spring, and although I won’t be taking her class because of logistical issues, the fact that she awarded me one of only 15 spots in her class,  based solely upon my work of fiction fills me endlessly with hope.

I am a fifty-seven-year-old work in progress. I’m petulant, I rant, I get scared, I get angry. But eventually life corrects my course through a series of incidents that reminds me how damn lucky I am.

On the morning of November 8th of this year, I awoke to a series of news alerts describing a mass shooting in Thousand Oaks. My hometown. The location of the shooting was a bar that I knew very well, on a night on which I also knew my 22-year-old son frequented. After frantically confirming the well being of both of my children who still live in T.O., I began to unexpectedly sob as I woke my girlfriend to tell her of the news.

And two weeks later, my eyes are still filled with tears as I count my lucky stars that my son wasn’t killed.

A lot of tough stuff has happened to me in my life…things that other people have remarked that they weren’t sure they could have survived.

On this Thanksgiving day, a day that has come to take on a depressingly sad meaning for me in light of my studies of American history, I want to celebrate my life. My extreme gratitude for the things I haven’t lost:

My children

My girlfriend

My mouthy kitten

My health

My family

My friends

Most of all, I’m grateful to be writing this. I’m grateful for another day on Earth where I get to “be.”

Thank you to whatever force/spirit/entity/wavelength that protected my children that night. That has protected me through some rough waters.

Thank you for my life.

40 Years Ago…

…I was finishing up my junior year at Agoura High School. Last Thursday, I spent nearly 3 hours in a classroom composing (frantically scribbling would be a more accurate description) 18 and 1/2 pages in a Green Book for my Shakespeare final at the University of California, Berkeley. Thus ends my junior year at Cal…

In the immortal words of David Byrne: “How did I get here?”

40 years ago I was a Fire Department Explorer with the LA County Fire Department. I was planning on taking an EMT Course at LA Pierce College the following year that I might increase my chances of finding employment as a firefighter. I did. For 16 years I was a Firefighter and eventually Fire Captain after previously serving 5 years as a first-responder Paramedic in Ventura County. I found my niche. Dream fulfilled. I had set a goal and attained it. Game over.

40 years ago I thought this was how it’s done. Plan meticulously, account for all variables, work hard: goal attained/life made. In the ensuing 40 years I found out, sometimes quite painfully, that isn’t how life works. At least not my life.

40 years ago, if someone had time traveled and told me what the reality of my life would be 40 years later, in all honesty I probably would have ended my own life. If that entity would have informed me that my life will be traveling down the path it eventually took, I can guarantee that I would not have had the courage to take another step.

40 years ago, I could not, in a million lifetimes, expected my life to turn out the way it did.

40 years ago, I would never have expected to be writing this. 40 years later.

40 years ago, armed with supernatural foresight, I would never have chosen to take another step. That would have been a tragic mistake.

40 years ago I was about to embark on a life beyond my wildest nightmares and expectations. I sit here today and as sure as my pulse bounds, I can say without reservation that EVERY SINGLE tragedy and trial in my life was crucial to making me the man I am today. If that same time traveler offered me the opportunity to change my destiny–knowing what I know now–I wouldn’t change a thing.

40 years ago I embarked on a journey called my life. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t fathom what it would entail (despite my meticulous planning). I consider myself to be blessed beyond measure by whatever entity/spirit that guides our universe. I am wonderfully imperfect and struggle on a daily basis, but I can stop and be eternally grateful for what I have.

And 40 years later, that’s what I am: grateful.



First One in the Books…


I rode my bike home today after my last final exam in something of a mental haze. For the last 13 days, I’ve spent between 10-14 hours a day studying for finals…at the number one public university…IN THE WORLD.

I still don’t quite believe I go here despite evidence to the contrary.

To say that my first semester here has been challenging is to state the obvious.

There have been negatives:

  • Being constantly mistaken for a parent, faculty member, or worst of all…professor.
  • A financial aid system that makes the IRS look like a beacon of compassion and customer service.
  • A housing facility that has paper thin ceilings and provides power to the units on an “as needed” basis.
  • A crippling pervasion of the imposter syndrome.
  • Freshman that are smarter than any other human life forms I have ever met.
  • There’s a murder or robbery in our proximity about once a week.

There have been positives:

  • Being constantly mistaken for a non-student allows me to navigate the tables at Sproul Plaza in record time.
  • I am currently unemployed and surviving THANKS to the financial aid system at Cal.
  • We live in an awesome one bedroom, family housing unit that is much less expensive than anything else we could afford in the east bay.
  • The incredibly brilliant and intellectually imposing faculty and support staff here have gone out of their way to remind us that we belong here. I’ll corroborate this after receiving my grades, but so far so good.
  • There are no positives to smart freshman.
  • We haven’t been murdered or robbed yet.

All in all, it’s been a ride. But a day has yet to pass when I haven’t taken a moment out of this frenetic pace and thanked my higher power for the fortune of being allowed to study at such an austere institution. It’s not BS…this place is the real deal and to be a part of something so incredibly vital to our country’s history and development is something I will never take for granted.

I love Cal.


Day 2


I’m sitting here on the campus of the University of California at Berkeley. As an undergraduate student. Specifically, I’m on the fringes of Lower Sproul Plaza. From where I sit I spy the steps from where Mario Savio ignited a movement decades ago…when I was in kindergarten.


But I’m not so much in a place as I’m in an organism. A living, breathing organism. Sitting 3 feet from me is the smart Korean young woman–clothing and make-up impeccably styled. A few moments ago, as I lunched, my personal space was invaded by a young Chinese man, acutely unaware of the fact that he had made me physically uncomfortable as he nearly knocked my food off the table. He was simply sitting down to eat—as he has done so many times in his own crowded culture and space. And he respectfully and quietly ate his meal. Profoundly unaware of the “American” cultural rule he had broken.

Berkeley will never be a place for me or for any American that has heard of it. When I was admitted, I needed to look on a map to find the “place” where the organism lived. As I sit in the heart of this living phenomenon I witness the fluidity of the movement—the suburban Caucasian freshman, Jansport slung over his shoulder, plodding to his next class. I see the first-generation Hispanic student, defiant and proud, staking his rightful place in this body, this being. Here now is the Japanese boy in the library, painstakingly reviewing an encyclopedia on American History…that same part of the body, that same student earlier asking the renowned professor if the class he is taking will be too hard for an ESL student.

I was assigned to a Facebook group for Transfer students. Yesterday, after the first official day of classes, the posts generally reflected a profound angst—an anxiety concerning if we really belonged here. Is it too hard? Are we really supposed to be here? Can we make it? Are we imposters? Will this body, this organism, like a white blood cell attacking a foreign invader, reject us?

I felt none of that. As a 56-year-old white male, I felt at home. Yes, the coursework is brutal. Yes, the academic expectations are astronomical—far greater than any we have previously experienced. But I feel home. This is what I’m drawn too. This is what I crave. This body. This intellectual curiosity. This beautiful mixture of cultures, and ethnicities and ideas. This…” place”.

That is not to say it has been a seamless transition. Just as I experienced discomfort with the student at lunch, I’ve also felt discomfort in the long lines and the nearly total invasion of personal space in the ill-fitting lecture hall seats. I’ve felt, generically, out-of-place based simply upon my age–a disparity that I’m reminded of by some young person or administrative employee here on a nearly daily basis.

But these are small prices to pay for admittance to this body…to this organism. To this center of intellectual growth. Without question, aside from the birth of my children, my first few days here, attending lectures, and peacefully reflecting on this campus dynamic have been the happiest moments of my life.

Fiat Lux…


No…I’m NOT that guy…


So I’m here. I’m an officially registered UC Berkeley undergraduate student. I’m a Bear. A Golden Bear.

Yesterday, I participated in day-one of the largest orientation session for new students ever to be undertaken by an institution of higher learning. Let’s just say there were some glitches. Any undertaking of this scope is bound to be flawed, and this one was no exception. One thing I’ve already learned about Cal is that while the “systems” may be flawed at times (okay, a lot), the humans behind these systems are humble servants who genuinely care about their students. It’s truly awe-inspiring to witness.

Here’s my beef: during a wonderful and quite inspiring welcoming address from Chancellor Carol Christ, she mentioned some of the age ranges of students…from a 14 year-old, to a 64 year-old. Fair enough. Right up until the last event of the day.

We were herded like sheep into Memorial Stadium to set a Guinness World Record for the largest human letter formation ( All good despite the logistical and technical snafu’s. However…remember the fun fact from the Chancellor? About the oldest student?

On five separate occasions I was approached and asked if I was THAT guy (turns out it’s a 64 y/o woman).

Now I’m the furthest thing from a snowflake, and for the tenure of my college career I’ve experienced the inevitable looks on the first day of class from my fellow students wondering why I’m sitting with them and not beginning the lecture.

I get it.

But at Cal I’ve been asked by staff on two separate occasions if the documents I was processing were for my student…my child.

And then last night…

After the first query, it got to the point that when stranger started to engage me I calmly said, “no, I’m not that guy.”

So being a Wonder bread white guy my whole life I’ve never experienced…being different. It’s an interesting perspective.

I strive to represent older (we are officially termed “non-traditional” or “returning students” or OWL’s–older, wiser learners). But we are proudly called “curve killers” too…something I take a great deal of pride in.

You see, embracing higher education with some life experience under one’s belt is an entirely different animal. The subjects come to life…they have meaning and context…they are real.

I’m a proud “non-traditional” student. I’m okay with the funny looks and awkward questions. But others may not be so thick-skinned.

Let’s remember, life doesn’t end after 40 and societal roles are just that…roles, not realities.






So the “Berkelly” thing happened on the day I announced on social media that I had been accepted to UC Berkeley. My friend Greg tagged me as “Berkelly” in my Instagram post. I’m honestly not one to toot my own horn or draw attention to myself–yes I know this is a personal blog, thank you very much–but somehow the tag felt…right.

Much like the decision to finally commit to Cal. But I’m getting way ahead of myself. Let’s take a leap back–

Agoura High School, 1979. I’m graduating from High School and all my friends are going to UCLA. I felt a nagging urge to join them, but dreams of becoming a firefighter pushed aside the ache–for a while.

My first college class was my senior year at Agoura HS. I took an EMT class at Los Angeles Pierce College.

Fast forward, Spring 2013. After a career in the fire service, I’m looking for another direction. As documented elsewhere in this blog, I thought a career in drug and alcohol treatment would be rewarding. I enroll in the Addiction Studies program back at Pierce. Shortly thereafter I start working in the field, and while your mileage may vary, I find the industry to be long on financial outcome and short on actual treatment. I’m disillusioned.

What I’m surprisingly inspired by however is my US History class at Pierce. After decades away from academia I need to write a research paper. Throat tightens, sweat glands on overload…I get this:

IMG_0036 This was it. This was all it took. Validation. The fire was lit. These words from my instructor changed the course of my life and resulted in the picture you see at the head of this blog post.

I immediately sought the advice of a school counselor and began my transfer program. Since the ache to attend UCLA had never quite subsided, I set my sights on transferring. The next two semesters found me enrolling in english and history classes. My transcripts were reflecting all A’s. I eventually started the university enrollment process and my counselor advised me to make some other choices beyond UCLA.  I decided to add UC Irvine and UC Berkeley in as whims. Irvine has a world-class english department, but Cal is recognized as having the BEST english program in the country. So naturally there was no chance of me being accepted. In fact I embraced that thought so firmly, I took absolutely no prep courses at Pierce for the major, clearly still under the impression that it was a wasted enrollment fee (an academic price I am paying my first semester at Cal).

I also applied to USC (my girlfriend’s alma mater) and Stanford (and was told by my counselor that this was truly a long-shot as their acceptance rate for transfers is only one percent).

Along this path, my counselor introduced me to a recruiter from Columbia University. He encouraged me to apply. I did.

My last year a Pierce was characterized by the loss of nearly $800 in application fees, documents, tests, and materials. Yes, Stanford made me take the SAT again–that experience could easily be a subject of another blog post in and of itself.

Lots of work on my UC personal statement ensued. I had to take the english-only portion of the 2013 SAT for Columbia.

Decisions were due in April of this year. But Columbia was notifying in February. On the day of their notification, I opened the web page…I read the words from the dean saying that he would like to congratulate me on my acceptance to Columbia University. I was reading this to my girlfriend over the phone. This was as far as I could get into the first paragraph before I broke down into uncontrollable sobbing. I had been accepted into an Ivy League. My life had been a series of struggles and opportunities to overcome adversity. These words put me down. I was so proud. The inspiring words of my US History teacher paved the way for my acceptance. I had been mentored. I had been inspired. Education matters. Teaching matters. I am a living and breathing example of the power of education and mentor-ship.

Now thoughts of moving to Manhattan danced in my head. The music ended on that dance when the reality of the cost of attendance intervened.

April came. I was accepted to UC Irvine. Awesome! If UCLA doesn’t come through, I’ve got an option.

April 26. 5 p.m. UCLA is set to release their announcement…I got in!!! I immediately donned the UCLA cap that I purchased a year prior and put it squarely on my head. I had vowed that it wouldn’t touch me until I got in…that day had arrived. I was over-the-top! My nagging ache since 1979 had been satisfied…I was finally a Bruin.

Almost as an afterthought, 48 hours later I opened Cal’s admission page to see that I had been accepted. I was incredulous. This wasn’t part of the plan! And their offer of financial aid was highly competitive.

Less that a week later my mom died. She was in the Bay Area so I decided to at least make a campus visit to Berkeley so I could justify my decision to attend UCLA…

I set foot on campus on a Friday morning. I sat in Sproul Plaza by myself. It was overcast. It was quiet. I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t know right then and there that I was home. I took a guided tour later that day and attended the Chancellor’s welcome the next day, but honestly, it was a formality. I was home. I felt it in the core of my being. UCLA had always been my dream, but I was walking on the campus of my reality…my future…my home.

Berkelly was home…

I was awaiting 2 more acceptance notifications. USC had requested my spring grades from Pierce prior to making their decision, which I found odd since I had carried a 4.0 GPA throughout my tenure at Pierce, but nonetheless I provided them (4.0 cumulative) and found out three days ago that USC had indeed accepted me.

But Stanford was the only significant roadblock…I received a letter from them stating that although I was highly competitive, and they wished they had more space, I did not receive an offer of admission.

Within two minutes I committed to Berkeley.

I’m a Golden Bear. My girlfriend and I move to Albany in July. I’m about to enter a buzz-saw of grade-deflation and challenges that I’ve never experienced. But I’m beyond excited. I plan on earning by BA in English, possibly double majoring or minoring, and then finding a doctoral program upon completion.

I’d love to steer the focus of this blog towards my experience as a non-traditional/returning student at Cal. But we shall see…I will do my utmost to report from the front lines AFTER I get all my assignments completed.

To those of you who have patiently followed my adventures, I thank you. You are all part of the community of inspiration that has made me a Bear.



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