Within a few weeks, the comfort that I and many of my fellow minority students had felt during those early cacophonous days had been eroded, one chastisement at a time. Yet it was an aesthetic at odds with who I was. I soon realized that silence was more than the absence of noise it was an aesthetic to be revered. With rare exceptions-like Saturday nights during rush-silence blanketed the campus. One day, when I accidentally sat down to study in the library’s Absolutely Quiet Room, fellow students Shhh-ed me into shame for putting on my Discman. Hints would be taken, eyes would be rolled, and we’d call it a night. I would be hanging out with my friends from orientation when one of our new roommates would start ostentatiously readying themselves for bed at a surprisingly early hour. I just hadn’t counted on everything that followed being so quiet. I understood that what was happening around me wasn’t exactly cool, but it was special. I’d spent my high-school years sneaking out at night to drink 40s on the beach and scheming my way into clubs. ![]() Professors in academic regalia gave speeches about centuries-old traditions and how wonderful and unique we were-“the best class yet.” Kids sang a cappella and paraded with a marching band. The first day of classes was marked by such gloriously WASPy pomp that it made my young, aspirational heart leap. Then the other students arrived-the white students. We were learning to find some comfort in this new place, and with one another. (It was the ’90s.) We spent those first few nights convening in one another’s rooms, gossiping and dancing until late. The welcome event had the feel of a block party, Blahzay Blahzay blasting on a boom box. I first arrived on campus for the minority-student orientation. Living is loud and messy, but residing? Residing is quiet business. I didn’t yet know that you don’t live on an Ivy League campus. I was counting down the days, eager to ditch the concrete sidewalks and my family’s cramped railroad apartment and to start living life on my own terms, against a backdrop of lush, manicured lawns and stately architecture. ![]() Thanks to a partial scholarship (and a ton of loans), I was on my way to an Ivy League college. I remember, the summer before I left for college, lying close to my bedroom box fan, taking it all in. But for the broke-the have-littles and have-nots-summer means an open window, through which the clatter of the city becomes the soundtrack to life: motorcycles revving, buses braking, couples squabbling, children summoning one another out to play, and music. The bourgeoisie are safely shielded by the hum of their central air, their petite cousins by the roar of their window units. The rich run off to the Hamptons or Maine. N ew York in the summer is a noisy place, especially if you don’t have money. This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday. Sign up for Xochitl Gonzalez’s newsletter, Brooklyn, Everywhere, here. ![]() Editor’s Note: This story is part of a collection of work by Xochitl Gonzalez that was the finalist for the 2023 Pulitzer Prize for Commentary.
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