Some days, I didn’t eat. I couldn’t. There was too much work to be done. Cutting and constructing boxes. Setting up microscopes to look at fiber samples. Gingerly turning the pages of a copy of Vogue from 1942. Making hat mounts. The others had the advantage of living in the city, they could come and go on campus as they pleased. But me, I was at the mercy of the Long Island Rail Road. I left when it left. I arrived when it arrived. If I missed it, there was no where for me to go. I had to stay on campus and finish my assignments because if I didn’t, they didn’t get done. So I wouldn’t eat. I couldn’t afford to buy lunch anyway. I couldn’t keep a steady job with my demanding class schedule. Didn’t they know that? Didn’t they know their program sabotaged a normal lifestyle? And all for what? A low-income job with no gratification. No one cared about preserved fashion. So why should I? I cared more about eating, I suppose.
