My parents moved me into UCSB’s Santa Rosa dorm in the fall of 1995, a couple weeks after I’d turned 18. My hair was bleached blonde, I was still skinny, and I rode a skateboard everywhere, bloody elbows and all.
It was room 2137, overlooking the eucalyptus-shaded parking lot, where my BMX would soon be stolen, then recovered, and ultimately smashed. I met my roommate that day, who was from the town of Tiburon, across the Golden Gate from San Francisco. He proceeded to never wash his clothes, instead piling them up in a musty mound until each quarter ended, the smell growing ever more putrid by the week. But I am kind, so I brought him with me everywhere, and he earned the nickname “Booger,” becoming a steady fixture in the years to come whether I liked it or not.
My friend from our San Jose high school moved onto the same floor that first day, so I went to check out his room — great view of the psychology building! — after my parents left. His roommate hadn’t arrived yet, so he suggested we smoke some weed. I thought that was risky, but that didn’t stop us.
We mosied downstairs, where an entire wing had little cutouts of the African continent on their doors. My buddy didn’t understand why until a Black guy walked out of one room, to which my stoned friend said, basically to his face, “Ohhhh, I get it!”…