BCC: We can get you there

[Boyish-Tigerlilly]

BCC: A journey to nowhere. WE can get you there.

My High school officials told me Community College was
a wonderful place where all of the counselors and academic advisors helped the students to choose their careers, their classes, and their transfer opportunities. Everything was supposedly easy, and transfer was as simple as basic arithmetic. All abound were papers describing the college “Ride of a lifetime,” while the motto cleverly read, “We can get you there.” Sadly, this odyssey ended well-before I could ever reach up and grab the shoulder restraints--Surely, I must have gotten in the wrong ride, because instead of a real college, I ended up at BCC instead. In lieu of the trip of my life, or whatever propaganda they decided to throw at me, I became marred down in an endless purgatory of lies, deceit, and sheer stupidity from which I could never realistically escape.

Well into my first semester, I was a bit naïve insomuch that I honestly believed I entered a bright, new world of opportunity and genuine excellence. Soon, however, I came across my first of innumerable obstacles-- the gargantuan Tigerlilly-Monster named Ron’ nak Kovil. Apparently, he ate my academic advisor, but at the time, I did not know that, so to figure out what classes I needed to pick for transfer and what career options I had, I obliviously ran the gauntlet. Thinking nothing off it, I stepped up and asked him if he would aid me in my “journey.” With a loud RAWR, he explicated my classes would all transfer to Rowan due to a magical incantation, dredged up from the depths of his Macintosh, called the “New Jersey Articulation Agreement.” With this enchantment, I erroneously believed all universities, which had articulation agreement with BCC, would accept a minimum of sixty-four credits in general education. At least that was the spell’s temporary illusion caste before thy very eyes! The spell even made it look like Jersey law forced colleges to accept this minimum! Despite what the paperwork said, reality was not so accommodating. I was shocked into submission when I, after arduous labour, finally ascertained the truth by sifting through stacks of outdated, incorrect, and misleading documents and files supplied to me.
Most colleges don’t even honour the Associates Degrees and articulation “agreements”; on the contrary, they choose classes piecemeal on a credit-by-credit basis. And each college does the entire process completely different and at their whim.” The ride of a life time probably refers to how long they can swindle you out of your money as they tell you to take completely useless curriculae!”

Meanwhile, with a false sense of bravado, I pushed stalwartly onward and asked him if the classes on my course selection sheet were acceptable. Without hesitation, he gave a toothy grin and said yes, even though I would later come to understand that most of my classes did not fulfill the recommended credit requirements. I had no clue what I was doing; I thought he knew his job well enough to help me. Unlike him, I didn’t pretend to be an expert. Apparently, the Tigerlilly-monster was not only devious, but also dyslexic, for he tended to read recommendations all jumbly-wumbly. Instead of giving me seven credits where seven credits were due, he would give me three and three where seven were due. Sometimes, he even would pull a number like twelve out of his whimsical, magical asshat. The paper got so bad that I hardly knew what classes were to go where! As his influence beclouded…no obfuscated, my ability to think intelligently, I actually believed that I could write classes between lines instead of on them. He said it was “ok to put the classes anywhere on the front page.” “Don’t worry,” he would bellow. Where you put them does not matter. It only matters if they are all General Ed classes!” When I tried to change it, due to the obvious fishiness, he became vexed, barked at me, and sent me running from the room with a thunderous, undulating “come ye never back!”

As I hurled down the 200 hall with the force of a torrential monsoon, I came across some weird, fuzzy man in a white shirt and tie. Come to think of it, he looked a lot like a phantasmagoric version of Gordon Freeman from Half-life—only missing the gauss rifle and skittering headcrabs biting at his feet. Lickety-split, and with a very monotone voice, he led me to his office, which was a tiny cubical about four feet in each direction. Before I could utter a word, he said he was my counselor, and without thinking, I told him of my previous encounter. Quelling my fears, he satiated my desires for aid with a wealth of information regarding transfer opportunities and advice on what I should do to attain scholarships. Essentially, everything he explained was the antithesis of my Advisor’s reasoning. As happy as I was, I could only see the golden stream of white light beaming down onto the bundle of seemingly infallible papers, brochures, and envelopes he gave me, which were then clenched firmly in my desperate grasp. With an eerie smile, he sent me on my way, but when I was not but a quarter-foot from his office door, the amalgamation of information suddenly became obsolete! My mind went blank, and everything moved beyond the two-or-three-years out of date threshold, and none of it coincided with any colleges in the area. I rightly thought, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?” but I could do nothing, for Mr. Freeman’s office was unreachable. I tried to call his extension on my cell phone, but I only got his automated voice mailbox, which he never used and never checked.

Somewhat depressed and disillusioned, I trekked onward from the 200 hallway and out of academic counseling in search of the office of transfer coordination. Despite my fortitude, I was sidetracked; in the distance, I heard a strange and feint siren’s call reverberating from the 100 hall. Instinctively, I paddled my feet quickly across the plush, newly installed carpet. Quite by accident, a pair, who vaguely looked like an amalgamation of Oz’s Lollipop kids and the Umpa Loompas of Wonka lore, but with the attitude of Wonderland’s Gemini Twins, startled me. These creatures, whom I called Needles and Deedles, sat in front of two doors.

Sometimes they acted as if they knew something, and sometimes they did not. Nonchalantly, Needles told me he was the secretary of the Transfer Coordinator, Count Roberto Ariostocles, and that the door to the left would take me to him and all my transfer needs. I thought I was in luck, but naturally, Deedles said he was lying. Needles, of course, disagreed whole-heartedly while retorting childishly, “nah-uh. I’m not talking to you.” No matter what, one always lied, and one always told the truth. If I listened to Deedles or Needles, I would surely get nothing more than administrative rhetoric, so I whipped out my gold-quilted calligraphy pen, and pulling a classic Beowulf, I said, “screw it,” and lobbed both of their heads off in the process. Quite luckily, the decapitated body of Deedles slumped toward the right-hand door, and it burst open revealing a pissed of Transfer Coordinator who was angry I would dare disturb him, much less shed blood the school’s new carpet.

Notwithstanding my instincts and the stench of brimstone, I entered his office and asked him all I could. Reminiscent of Jimmy from the Dead Zone, I could already sense the bogus double-talk and spin-doctored truth coursing through his crushing handshake. Even so, the good doctor gave me ten minutes of his “valuable” time and sent me packing. I knew less than when I went in. Every instance he said something, he simultaneously contradicted what he said prior. Needlessly, I got nowhere expediently, and his satanic attitude was far worse than both his two secretaries, who also knew nothing. Twice chewed out, and twice flogged, I bolted from his arrogance and conspicuous doctorate in rhetorical B.S. Stunned, dizzy, and cranky, I moved on to whatever BCC could throw at me.

Leaving the administrative catacombs, or the “pods,” as I derisively call them, I sprinted down the steps into the sublevels as fast as my little legs could carry me. Amid the acrid stench of drying paint, I got lost thanks to the maze-like architecture of the school and the frustration generated by brick-walling. However, one of the student telephone operators, who SHOULD have been in the office of student admissions, futilely attempted to helped me get back on track. For a second, I thought to myself “perhaps all of the frequently desk-absent personnel get lost down here as well?”

Escaping my mind-lapse, I thought I might get some job applications under my belt by asking this false messiah where the office of the Tutoring “Pass” program was.

“Who runs it?” She blankly inquired. Blinking, I responded cynically,
“It’s some Irish Lady named MacHair…or Nair…well..It’s one of those.” In a garbled, Fast-food intercom voice, she spat, oh yea! I know her. Just go two halls to the left, one door to the right, and four doors down,” whatever the hell that meant. (Moreover, to think… I thought they just sounded like that on the phone)! I simply nodded my head, smiled, and walked away with my left eyebrow twitching.

As I went through spasms, I finally came to where she misguided me. I looked up toward a titanic door with a little gold plate on the front that said: Be back later. Of course, this sign always read that, since no one is ever in his office when he’s supposed to be. That’s right. The school pays people to be in offices in which they rarely set foot, except one weekend a month, and two months per year. They are almost like the national guard of the colleges. The school can get new carpets, a new baseball diamonds, and increased teacher salaries, but it can’t get people to answer phones or be in the offices. As Bill and Ted would so eloquently state, “Whoa.” Despite this obvious idiocy, that was not ACTUALLY the correct office for student tutoring. In fact, the Irish lady was never the head of the organization. That too was a lie. Some guy named Mr. Rodgers really headed the program, or that is at least what someone who works there told me. I wonder if it's the same Mr. Rodgers I’m thinking of--Blue pants, sweater vest...nah. Maybe? I wouldn't put it past them. I am still waiting for his call by the way. I might get it sometime after I end up graduating, of course.

To me, it seemed that no one knew what was what, where what was, and who was responsible for what information. It was the land of contradictions and nightmares, not of candy-canes and gingerbread houses. They had bamboozled me, and no matter how many times I clicked my heels together, I would never get out of their tangled web of lies, ambiguity, and spin-doctored tales of success.



Endnotes:

Note: 1. The incident about the hallway directions was made up. Everything else was real. Yes. Believe it not. You however, might have better experiences. My experiences in no way reflect everyone. Not all the names in this story are real, but they are all based on real individuals. Ariosto is the Transfer coordinator, and an arrogant monkeytard. He apparently has a doctorate degree in nothing, since that’s exactly what he knows. Deedles and Needles are based off not only the counselors, but the secretaries found in the office of student admissions. All other instances in his story are based off generic secretaries and student telephone operators, who, no matter how many times you call, never return your messages. They also give you wrong extensions, incorrect personnel, and faulty directions. In one such case, no one could figure out where the office of Diane Mac Nair was. Some told me they never heard of her, while others gave me the entire wrong building!