Professor Adelide Kenworth stood perfectly still as she surveyed the newest class of UCLA freshmen. Since this particular session was just one of five being offered this semester, she was observing only a portion of the year’s eager young crop, but she knew the other sessions wouldn’t be much different. The sight of so many young boys and girls attending their very first college class brought to mind a familiar image, one that had first appeared to her many years ago as she stood in this same spot, welcoming the first session of what was to become her bread-and-butter course: Introduction to Basic Composition, the only course required of all entrants to the College of Arts and Sciences. Back then, her mind’s eye had seen a small magnet surrounded by hundreds of tiny iron filings—a simple image, yet one that inexplicably reappeared every year in this same situation, and despite the number of annual return engagements, each appearance felt as unprompted and spontaneous as the first one.
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The image had arrived whole and uninvited, remaining unchanged through the years, and the professor had never felt compelled to empty its pockets in search of a hidden message from her subconscious. Nonetheless, its sheer persistence had provoked a few exploratory forays that yielded no more than an assumption that she was the magnet and her students the metal shavings. If so, she made for a pretty anemic magnet, lacking even the strength to pull the bits of metal together into a single large clump. Just enough influence, it would seem, to cast the filings into new and varyingly unnatural postures, but not enough to prevent any of them from being recognized as a distinct entity.
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She tried to dismiss the picture from her thoughts, but it wasn’t as easy as dismissing a class or a student, so she aimed her attention at the students slowly filling the room. She guessed over fifty had already taken their seats, with more continuing to stream in from the rear doors. Like last year, there were nearly as many girls as boys, and she knew that her own activities at UCLA had played a small role in encouraging this recent trend. It was 1955 and things were changing everywhere. Even without any of her own contributions, UCLA would still be on the leading edge of a wave of modern ideals sweeping across a country on the cusp of an entirely new era of enlightened social norms. Still, she wasn’t ashamed to feel some pride in having helped widen the doors of this particular campus to all those eager girls seated out there. Of course, the disparity reasserted itself on graduation day, and the professor was well aware that many of the fresh faces looking down at her had come in search of husbands. An education would be a nice bonus, enabling them to better maintain their positions after marriage. But a career? Not likely. Still, if this trend were to continue, who knew what this campus might look like in another ten or twenty years?
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The professor was quite adept at maintaining near-perfect stillness as she waited for the precise time. For five full minutes she barely moved an inch, which prompted some scattered titters of amusement from those few not otherwise engaged. An especially active bunch, even for freshmen, chatting nonstop and calling out to each other from impolite distances, but this kind of behavior wasn’t unexpected at the beginning of the fall semester. There had been a time when such unrestrained conduct had set her nerves on edge, but that was years ago, before she’d grown a shell of self-confidence that kept her cool and relaxed at times like this; the kind of self-confidence that comes from thirty years of experience and the gift of irrevocable tenure. She figured that in those thirty years she’d seen just about anything and everything an undergraduate could possibly throw her way. Immovable amidst the youthful turmoil. A black hole at the head of the classroom, sucking up any fragments of unrestrained exuberance that strayed too close and discharging them into another dimension.
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The moment the second hand of the oversized wall clock jumped to twelve, she slapped the Formica surface of the table three times with the palm of her right hand, rudely interrupting the growing commotion. Most students were a bit startled by this; such a large sound coming from such a small woman. They peered down expectantly, but the professor said nothing and immediately restored her immaculate stillness, waiting for absolute silence before addressing the class with a soft but authoritative voice.
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“Welcome to Basic Composition,” she said. “If this is not the class you were expecting, you may leave now. If you wish to take this class but neglected to sign up, you may see me after class, although from the looks of things, I would say your chances are slim.”
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One tall boy in the second row gathered up his stuff and made a hasty departure, stumbling awkwardly over a dozen legs so tightly wedged into the narrow row that no attempt was made to clear him a path. The professor waited for the boy to reach the center aisle before continuing. “Unfortunately, there is a size limit of forty, but if your paperwork is in order, we’ll do everything we can to accommodate you.”
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At the back of the room, in the next-to-last row, freshman Mags Gesing began to frantically page through her introductory packet. This was the one class she’d had her heart set on, and for about half a minute her entire semester hung in jeopardy until her official schedule had been found and checked, and it was confirmed that she did, in fact, belong.

She relaxed back into her seat and watched as two rows up another girl went through the same panicked exercise. It was a young Black woman in a colorful dress. Her hair was collected into a long, flat ponytail by a bright red ribbon. Mags was relieved when the girl appeared to have also found the appropriate paperwork. It appeared that both of them belonged. Mags smiled in her direction and was surprised when the girl turned around and smiled back at her. How could she have seen?
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Up front, Professor Kenworth continued to disperse information too quickly to be captured in all the shiny new college-ruled notebooks. After a few minutes, even the most committed note-takers slowly dropped away, like cyclists falling off the back of a supercharged peloton.
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“We will meet here at nine A.M. every Tuesday and Thursday of this semester. Attendance is mandatory, and participation is a required and graded element of this course.”
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This remark lit up more than a few faces with expressions so achingly quizzical that the professor was obliged to explain. “Of course, this is a creative writing course, is it not?” she asked, waiting for the expected handful of nods. “Every week you’ll be given a specific assignment. It may be to describe your roommate or to invent an argument between two of your friends. Something along those lines. And you will be sharing your completed assignments with the rest of the class.” She paused for a moment, then her voice acquired just enough of an edge to cut through the growing murmur of small objections that had begun to spread across the room. “During each session, some of you will be invited to read these aloud to your classmates. By the end of the term, everyone will have shared at least once. If you have a problem with this, you should reconsider whether or not you should be taking this course.”
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Throughout the room, anxious eyes sought out the reassurance of other anxious eyes; no one wanted to be the only one to find this requirement downright terrifying. Mags was especially relieved when the girl two rows up joined this search for solidarity and was surprised to see the ponytail flip sideways in response to a turn of the head just sharp enough to allow another quick glance back at Mags, who was now certain there was some kind of connection between the two of them.
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The next fifteen minutes were filled with boring logistical information, and Mags was pretty sure that the secrets to great storytelling would remain hidden at least until the next class session. By the end of this long monologue, even the most dedicated note-takers had laid down their pens, and when the professor began to distribute handouts, it was clear the end was near. Mags watched patiently as the stacks of flyers made their way around the room, and when one of them approached from the left, she stretched out to span the three empty adjacent seats, took one, and laid it on the tiny fold-up table in front of her, then passed along the rest of the stack. She quickly scanned it for anything of interest. Something about clubs jumped out at her from the bottom of the page, but before she had time to read any further, the class jumped spontaneously into dispersal mode. The students may have assembled slowly, but their disassembly was like a bomb going off. After all, they’d had years of grammar school to learn this exercise and all of high school to perfect it. By now, Mags really should have gotten used to these explosions, but they continued to startle and disorient her. Maybe she was expecting college to be more civilized, with classes dismissed by professors instead of giant wall clocks that watched over all the classrooms. Apparently she’d been wrong about that because, before she’d even had a chance to read the handout, she was swept into one of many fast-moving tributaries of retreating students that flowed into progressively wider rivers that eventually deposited her into a courtyard outside the back door, where she stopped to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind in the rush.
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Under the glare of the Southern California sun, she tried to get her bearings, squinting in all directions as her eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden brightness. Nothing at all looked familiar, and she began to think she may have ended up on an entirely different side of the building than where she’d entered.
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“Hi. My name’s Clarissa.” The voice was so close it sounded as if it had descended from above and gave her such a startle that her feet momentarily took flight.
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Turning around, Mags found herself face-to-face with the girl she’d been eyeing in class, the one two rows up with the unmistakable ponytail.
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“It’s you,” Mags exclaimed, unable to hide her excitement. Though still perfect strangers, this was the closest she’d come to making a friend since she’d first arrived on campus two days ago. Clarissa was a few inches shorter than Mags and tilted her head back as she smiled up at her. “I’m Mags. Well, Magdalene really, but everyone calls me Mags.”
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Clarissa reached out and gave her a firm, businesslike handshake. “It kind of looks like you’re lost.”
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“Yeah, you could say that. In fact, I’m completely and absolutely lost. No idea at all. But being lost would be so much nicer with a hot cup of coffee,” she said with a hopeful look.
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“Wish I could help, but I’m in the same boat.” Clarissa looked around with a shrug. “Let’s ask someone.”
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“No, wait. Don’t you think it’d be more fun to do some exploring and find it ourselves?”
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Clarissa’s fragile “Maybe…” found unexpected exposure in the sudden calm left behind by a crowd that only moments ago had been racing by in all directions but had since drained off into the many paths that converged on the courtyard.
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“Besides,” said Mags, “there’s no one around to ask, is there?” She began walking quickly toward the largest of the paths surrounding them, and her new friend followed behind for a few steps before picking up her pace to catch up. “Now, if I were a coffee shop in the middle of the largest campus in Southern California, where would I be?”
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“Oh, I’m sure there must be at least a few.”
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“Yes, but we’re looking for one in particular, right?” When this was met with no more than a confused expression, she continued. “You know, our coffee shop. Where we’ll need to go right after composition class every Tuesday afternoon.”
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Clarissa laughed and said, “Oh, that coffee shop. Well, it would have to be as close as possible to Classroom Unit 3.”
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“But have the very best coffee, right?”
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“Oh, of course. That goes without saying.” They walked quietly for a few minutes. Mags had slowed down to a much more relaxing pace as the path bisected a newly landscaped flower garden on their left and an undeveloped area of scrub oak and eucalyptus trees on their right.
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When a group of students emerged from around a bend, Clarissa grabbed Mags’ arm. “Here, one of these guys will know. Let’s ask them.” But Mags continued without even the slightest pause, and Clarissa wasn’t about to be the one to do the asking. Instead, she followed the taller girl as she stepped off the path and squeezed through a thick hedge of manzanita on the undeveloped side of the walkway, muttering, “Are you crazy or something?” more to herself than as a real question.
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“Just c’mon. It’s called exploring. Haven’t you ever explored?”
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“I guess, but not at a place like this. You know, we’re only freshmen and could get in a lot of trouble for going off limits.” Clarissa looked behind to see if their digression had been noticed, surprised at how unconcerned Mags was about flagrantly pushing her way through a border hedge. It turned out to be more of a challenge than either of them had first expected, and it wasn’t long before the thorny branches made each step a struggle.
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“Off limits? This is UCLA, and we’re students here. What could be off-limits?” she asked, accentuating the last two words as if they were somehow humorous or ridiculous.
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Clarissa swung her front foot forward and planted a kick on the back of Mags’ right calf. It was a small kick that didn’t hurt and wasn’t going to leave any kind of mark or bruise, but it sure did surprise Mags. “Hey,” she said, in a voice as loud and harsh as she could make it, “There’s a lot that’s off-limits to me, OK?”
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Despite the fact that both girls were still tangled in the scrubby bush, Mags stopped and turned around, giving her new friend a fierce look that softened quickly into embarrassment. There had been no Black people in Calmar, Iowa, and all Mags knew of how they were treated came from books and newspapers. The look in Clarissa’s eyes taught her more in a few moments than all her years of book learning.
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“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I just… Do you want to go back to the path?”
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Clarissa gave it only a moment’s consideration before answering. “No. Let’s explore. Let’s just be careful, all right?”
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Mags reached over to give Clarissa a short and awkward hug. Then the two girls started forward again, resuming their fight with one of the small patches of true wilderness that still dotted the UCLA campus in 1955.