The day I noticed Colonial Phil, was new student orientation day. Us Student Ambassadors were all dressed-up in mustard yellow shirts, black slacks, blazers adorned with shiny gold name-tag. It was a serous day. A day when hundreds of people decided to start something new.

For many, if not most, this was a late start or a second beginning at college. Some were nervous and politely waited for an Ambassadors to hand them informational brushers, pencils, calendar-notebook. Others were very much themselves. I remember a leather jacketed older man laughing as he adjusted his Kango cap reminiscing. I did not know him, but he was familiar as if I had met him sometime before. His Family Dollar, Tommy Hilfiger cologne smelled like my brother, a little old man at church, or maybe an uncle Moe or Berry who had the swagger to find home in new settings. There were also kids— young people who decided to avoid college debt by putting in two years here and then two years elsewhere. Some kids were accompanied by parents who were apprehensively examining the non-Drexel, non-Lasale environment that their Kristen or Todd had chosen. Some parents brought their kids because lack of child care was not going to stop them from attending. Some kids, forever kids, were there with forever parents who wanted to memorialize the serous intervention becoming a Community College student was for the family. It was in this community that Student Ambassador also meant semi-professional, a picture perfect symbol of what could be.

Community College of Philadelphia’s Student Ambassadors were carefully selected. We survived the GPA round, essay round, and the group interview round. Training was intense. Our packets were full of information, regulations, promises - the most important being the promise of transformation. Adhering to the motto, “Excuses are the tools of the incompetent upon monuments of nothingness are built” meant reconceiving time and space. With us, CCP time would mean on-time if not early and always ready to step-up-to the challenge of representing an institution of change. Our stories-the single mom of four who was a nursing student but always on time, dressed in uniform, and possessing knowledge of financial aid, registration, class requirements, how to be a good student, etc. were tools of representation and recruitment. We were more than just students, we were Ambassadors and as such our domain was anywhere actual and potential students could be found.

Over the summer, this meant tabling in a park just on the outskirts of the city, on a Saturday, in July. The main event was a church cookout. But around the green on the sidewalk and parking-lot across the street were orbiting celebrations. The smell of meat cooked on a portable smoker hitched-up on the back of a pickup truck mixed with the sounds of Spanish radio, the pastor blessing the gathering, a group out-of-sight sining happy birthday, parked motorcycles’ engines revving, and the desperate pitch from the foster care / adoption table next door. In all of this, I was stationed next to the stage. My responsibility was to a little table, cloth held down with giant clamps, that had an assortment of informational materials. The most important item was the clipboard with plain paper: the signup sheet. My partner was a tall man who smoked incessantly and, to my irritation, after ten minutes out in the sun, took off his shirt and walked off to dampen his cool-down-rag. Him topless but comfortable and me ridiculously blazered,  were very successful that day. After a few hours the paper was full with potentials some of whom, with pencil fisted, wrote down phone number and address in place of email or the information of a grandchild or nephew. Every signup came with a story: “I haven’t finished my GED. I’m taking classes down… the test is scheduled…” “My grandson, he is shy, but…” “Do you have evening classes? I work…” “They paying you for this?”

In the Fall, being an Ambassador meant hosting events that helped the people from the park become students - were were guides, helpful sprits aiding their transformation. In the auditorium we seated the newcomers and second-third timers. After a series of speakers welcomed everyone and talked about all the opportunities, all the classes and resources, and all the potential - the room was vibrating with potential - from the stage a huge beach ball was thrown into the crowd. With cheers and laughs groups of students reached for it, pushing it around the grandest room on campus.

It was in this mix of expectancy that the mascot Colonial Phil walked in and made us see him. He had always been around before. Creepy shadow casting The move forward, the bulk of an urban Community College population’s aspiration, under a long memory of unfreedom.

But the day I noticed Colonial Phil, really noticed him, he was different. The arms under the white shirt and vest were buffer than usual, the shoulders and chest bulged uncomfortably stretched the yellow foamish polyester material to its limits. The mascot walked with a swag I saw most often around subway and bus stops in West Philly, West Olney, and Hunting Park. His walk had a story to it a confidences shared by the sellers of loosy cigarettes, oils, Cds and Dvds, the hack cabs in heavily scented minivans, the flirts too: the guys who pepper passing women with fast compliments.

When harassed, as the wack ass trycorned hat mascot had to be, a voice deep corrected the situation causing all Ambassadors to look at each other anxiously. Only a few got to enjoy this moment. Stepping towards the kids who shoved him, Colonial Phil with deep hood confidence said “Back the fuck up nigga.” Legend. We died a little that day and were reborn minds and emotions on a higher plane of existence.