My first day at ARC was something out of a YouTube skit. I arrivedon campus with a Himilayan sized knot in my stomach. That morning I had made the questionable decision of wearing the MalcolmX t-shirt my white dad had ordered for me online. In my head itwas the perfect way to appeal to all the Black people on campus,although in hindsight, a “See? I’m one of you!” sign taped acrossmy chest would probably have been more subtle. My knowledge ofBlack culture was so dated that I thought bonding over long deadcivil rights heroes was what all contemporary Black teenagers didbetween classes.When I turned the first corner to Davies Hall I was met with anenthusiastic greeting from a man I was very sure I had never seenbefore. He had dark skin and a green backpack, and was very surehe knew me. He extended his hand for what I had foolishly assumedwould be your average handshake, commonly exchanged throughout higher education and all of the Midwest. Instead, however, helaunched into the most complex greeting I had ever borne witnessto. It was the Gettysburg Address-- no, it was the fucking Matrixcode of handshakes. There was a snap and a clenching of his fingersaround mine, bookended by an attempted fistbump. I say attempted because as his hand gracefully maneuvered the choreography,mine just laid there like one of those dead cats they find under thecouch of some Vietnam vet on one of those hoarding shows. Youknow, those shows that you tell people you watch because you’re“fascinated with the human psyche and its ability to attach meaningto meaningless objects” but in reality witnessing ancient, morbidlyobese women break down into tears over an empty toothpaste tubeand pile of expired coupons injects some sick, self-esteem boosterserum into your bloodstream that try as you might you can’t bringyourself to resist? Wait, how did I get here? Oh right, the handshake.It was the longest ten seconds of my entire life, rivaled only by thatWinter afternoon behind the gym with Jesi.11
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