I was always on the lookout for places I could go to get away from them, the white folks. Everywhere I went, they watched me and simultaneously acted like I was invisible. I felt like a camel having tea at The Plaza.
She requested a Negro roommate. I was what she got.
Then there was The Fishbowl, a six by twelve-foot glass enclosed entryway in each dorm that was a terminus each evening for things male and female. That was where heterosexual college men and women tethered themselves to each other, feverishly clutching, groping, and tonguing in a sloppy frenzy until the clock chimed curfew at which point the thoroughly aroused coeds, with fully flushed faces and lips sucked swollen, needed to be on the inside behind locked doors while their male counterparts, similarly stiffened and swollen, found themselves literally out in the cold.
It was a steamy corridor of sexual dalliances that had usually begun somewhere else on campus and reached tsunami proportions in the Fishbowl in the countdown to curfew.
The dorm mother stood just off to the side, keys in hand, waiting for the appointed hour when she could slide the dead bolt into place and, in that flick of the wrist, separate the chaste believers from their slutty sisters.