Read the case study “Resident Alien by Roxie Ray” and write a paper on it:

The turbulent sixties were my coming of age years. The Civil Rights Movement brought opportunities for the “worthy” black youth. I was deemed worthy and was offered academic scholarships from a variety of colleges. I don’t remember on what I based my decision, probably nothing logical, but I do know I made it alone. My parents never attended college. In any case, I chose Brandeis University.

I started college during a time of evolution and revolution—mine and the country’s. Raised the sheltered youngest child, I never had a chance to grow beyond what was acceptable in a small provincial town in the South of the 1950s and 60s. I felt there was more to me than what had been allowed to surface. Inside me was—what?

I cannot wait to learn what is outside my known world. But, as ready as I think I am, I am not prepared for what lies ahead. I ride the Greyhound bus from my home in southern Virginia to Massachusetts. From the bus station I take a taxi to Mars. The terrain is like that of Earth. The inhabitants look like some I have seen in my hometown but whose customs are unknown to me. I see none of my own kind. The taxi stops in front of a structure which reads “Ridgewood 8.” I cautiously approach the structure and, sensing no obvious threat, I enter.

I am viewed with interest as the residents gather around me. They stare at my hair. They surreptitiously feel my skin while pretending to shake my hand. It’s all right. I am doing the same to them. They seem friendly enough, and apparently they form the same impression of me.

One female, slightly older than the others, reaches for one of my bags.

“Hi, I’m Rachel, the residence counselor. In the old days I would have been called a housemother. Let me show you to your room.” As she leads me upstairs, she keeps up a constant stream of chatter trying to put one or the other of us at ease.

“I understand you were planning to attend Lincoln University and decided on here only last week. Well, we’re glad you decided in our favor. Ordinarily you would have been assigned to Gold Hall, but it is at capacity. This house is usually reserved for juniors and seniors,” Rachel continues. “You will be the only freshman living here. But don’t worry, I’m here to help you get acclimated. Come back downstairs when you finish putting your things away. We’ll be in the lounge.”

When Rachel finally leaves me alone to unpack, I am seized not so much by panic as by shyness. Who are these people? How do I act around them? Mama said to just be myself, but I’m not sure I know who “myself” is. I came here, far away from anyone I know, to find out.

Unable to prolong my stay upstairs without appearing uncivil, I take a few steadying breaths and go downstairs. At the lounge door I fix my face with a noncommittal smile, take a deep breath, and go in. The residents look up expectantly as I enter. Suddenly I feel like I’m in biology class—and I’m the frog.

Rebecca, a beautiful dark-haired girl dressed completely in black and smoking a cigarette, smiles at me.

“How sophisticated she looks,” I think.

She leans forward, and when she speaks, her voice is low and husky. “So, Roxie, is it? Where are you from? I thought I heard a hint of a southern accent. Am I right?” Rebecca leans back in her seat after flinging her waist length straight hair from her face with red-tipped fingers.

“I’m from southern Virginia,” I answer, even more conscious of my accent.

“Oh, that must be exciting. Have you been involved in any freedom marches or sit-ins? It must be terrible for your people down there.” This comes from Leah of the bare feet, earnest eyes, and blond afro. I didn’t know white people could get afros. I tense slightly, partly because I’m not in the mood to be the resident Civil Rights Movement spokesperson and partly because her afro looks better than mine.

In my best southern ice water voice I reply, “I can’t speak for all my people, but my life’s been okay.”

Leah blushes.

I realize I am being unnecessarily sensitive. Leah is only asking questions about a culture of which she knows nothing. I must seem as alien to her as she seems to me. I try to soften my tone and add, “I’ve not been much involved in politics. I’m from a small town. We lead a pretty sheltered life there.” I think Leah accepts my unspoken apology. We smile a pact.

You bet we led a sheltered life. At least I did. When Dr. King organized a march in our town, I was forbidden to participate. Mama wouldn’t even let me go downtown. At the time I thought she and Daddy were the biggest cowards alive.

“We’re only trying to keep you out of harm’s way,” they responded when I questioned their decision. Looking back from the perspective of one who has become a mother and a grandmother, I can now understand their desire to keep me in their protective cocoon as long as possible. There would be time enough for me to join the revolution.

Conversation becomes more general. Nancy, who I gather is a psychology major, bemoans the fact that she will not be able to study with a certain professor. “I am so disappointed that Dr. Maslow is leaving. I was so looking forward to taking his senior seminar. He’s the last word in humanism, you know.”

Who the devil is Maslow, and what is humanism? I don’t give these questions voice. There’s no reason to show my ignorance yet.

By the time I refocus on the conversation, they are discussing their summer activities. “I ran into Josh while I was in Israel. His father was working there.” Those words are spoken by pretty, petite Amy who turns to me to explain that she means Josh Mostel, son of Zero. “Josh is a student here. We hang out together sometimes.”

At least I know who Zero is. But why is she bothering to explain her references to me? Am I supposed to be impressed?

“We didn’t do anything special this summer. I worked for my dad but lived for my weekends at the Cape.” I’m not sure of this speaker’s name. She looks like she has spent her whole summer on a sailboat. She has the healthy outdoorsy look of a tanned Doublemint twin.

I try to follow the various meanderings of the conversation, but the strain of finding a familiar reference point gives me a headache. I excuse myself, explaining the bus ride has tired me out.

In my room, I again wonder if I have made a mistake in coming here. Maybe I should have gone to Howard or Bennett. I’d probably be nervous the first couple of weeks anyplace, but I would recover more quickly at an all-black college. Maybe. College life is going to be strange enough without attending one in a strange land. Whatever made me think I was ready for college, especially this one?

The culture shock extends beyond getting to know my housemates. Getting ready for classes is not much better. Accustomed to being a star student in high school, I struggle to learn the language and ways of this new land. The traditions of this civilization elude me. How do things work around here? Are the denizens born knowing how to navigate the labyrinth of selecting classes, filling out forms, and finding buildings? Maybe I did not read all the paperwork that came with my acceptance letter. Somehow, through trial and error, I get through the beginning-of-the-school-year ritual.

And then the first day of classes arrives. I’m scared but excited. Finally there will be something familiar.