The Cornell Folder

I have a Cornell leather folder. It’s one of those interview folders sold in a student store. It was probably never meant to see such heavy use – I use it to hold my notes for tutoring. It’s a bit torn and ragged and beat up, and I suppose that’s appropriately symbolic. My time there was quite painful.

I don’t know why I keep it. Or I do, and I am afraid of the reason. There’s something possibly pathetic about clinging to this vestige of respectability, to a past that never was as impressive as is pretended. But it’s something that I excuse by saying that it impresses parents.

A few days ago, I was at a Starbucks. I had a few minutes before a tutoring session nearby, and planned on logging on to Facebook for a few minutes. I remember thinking in the parking lot- should I bring the folder? For whatever reason, it was a question, and for whatever reason, I answered in the affirmative.

I sat down, and powered up my computer. A man nearby noticed my folder, and asked me about it.

“Cornell? Did you go there?”

I answered that yes, I had gone there as a graduate student. Thinking the conversation was over, I went back to my computer.

“What did you study?”

Reflexively, I told him “astrophysics”. And I’ve done this enough to know that when I say “astrophysics”, I intend it as a conversation-stopper. I say “astronomy” or “space science” when I wish, consciously or unconsciously, for the conversation to continue.

“What’s that?”

I explained to him that it involved studying the stars, using physics. He sounded impressed, and claimed that that was far beyond him, though he did mention that he was a civil engineer.

He asked me what I did now. It’s a sore topic; I know I’ve fallen far down the social and economic hierarchy. But I did the best I could to muster my dignity and reply that I tutor students full-time.

He returns to the topic of Cornell, and elite schools. He mentions his cousins, graduates of Stanford and Princeton, respectively. I act appropriately impressed, and perk up a bit when he mentions his high school age nephew. Maybe there’s a tutoring job here.

We talk a bit more, my interest now focused more by greed and humanity. But it wasn’t completely cynical salesmanship; I had told myself at some point earlier in the day that I needed to engage more with people, and here was an opportunity. I remember feeling like a sociopath as I was thinking these things.

We spoke more. I found out he was 48, and hadn’t worked for a couple years because of cancer. He was currently undergoing chemotherapy.

At some point, I ask him if he’s changed anything about how he lived life because of cancer. I didn’t mean the practical and routine, or lifestyle changes due to physical limitations. I didn’t mean that, and he didn’t hear that.

“My brother has always said that I had a temper. I was angry a lot. Now, I try to be more calm.”

I would’ve never guessed that this was an angry guy, though he had plenty to be angry about. He had cancer. He lost his job. He didn’t have any kids to help him. He was sitting in a coffeeshop, on a Wednesday afternoon, while others were living, working, picking up their children, and not dying of cancer.

I told him that he seemed like he had a good heart, and that he was a better person now. I don’t know if it came off as trite, or hackneyed. But it seemed to fit, and the compliment, as is customary I suppose, evoked a response that combined polite dismissal with understated hope that it was true.

I had to excuse myself. I expected that tutoring and the rest of the day would fall into place, as it should if this were an allegory. But it was a chaotic mess of difficult students and long hours on the road between appointments. Life may give you these moments, but it rarely strings them together for you. You have to fight to extract perspective.

I don’t think he would’ve spoken with me had I not had that folder. I would’ve been just another guy in business casual on his laptop.

There’s some irony here; brand-name institutions like Cornell build their reputation on exclusivity, not inclusiveness. But that itself provides us something to talk about. It gave this man an opening to talk with a stranger. For a brief moment, both of us felt less alone.