Dear Benedict,
Every October, you open your gates and welcome your children home. Friends and alumni sprinkle photos and stories on social media, reminiscing on the days we walked your yard while making travel arrangements on work computers to sit in our favorite hangout spots one more time. I never told you this, but if it were not for someone on your admissions team taking a chance on me — a young woman from Bed-Stuy Brooklyn with terrible grades, low SAT scores and big dreams of becoming a reporter and photographer — none of these memories would belong to me and October would be just another month.
