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03/10/10 |
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September 17, 1938 became the most significant day of my life. On that pivotal Saturday, Registration Day at UCLA, I attempted to become a student. The ensuing struggle that followed would forever alter all my days. |
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Arriving on the UCLA campus early that Saturday morning, I headed straight to the cafeteria. After working my four hours there as a bus boy from 8:00 to 12:00 noon, the manager said he could use me for the semester. I was overwhelmed with joy. He said that I could work two hours for two meals between 10:00 AM to 2:00 PM. After making out my class schedule I was to let him know which two hours I would work. He then handed me my time card with a credit of four meals. Hungry as a bear, I walked over to the counter, sat down and ate my first meal in the coffee shop at UCLA. So far so good, but now that I was about to enroll I had an uneasy feeling. On Thursday I had gone to Burbank to see if there was any mail for me at Bill Cook's place. There was none. I was hoping for a post card from UCLA regarding my application for admission. That evening I wrote a long letter to Vito bewailing the fact that my high school transcript had not arrived. I told him that Mr. Miller probably sent it by regular mail instead of via airmail as I had requested. To ensure air delivery I should have enclosed the extra three-cent stamp in my letter to him. Failing to register on Saturday, I told Vito, would cost me a two dollar late filing fee. With classes starting on Monday, September 19th, I could see that I was going to be in a bind. How could I schedule my classes when I didn't know what courses to take? According to my advisor, he had to know what subjects I had taken in High School before he could organize any courses. There was only one day left for the transcript to arrive in time for me to register on Saturday. The Registration process began at 8:00 A.M. in the Men's Gym on Westwood Blvd. The designated times for new students were: 8:00 A.M. - 9:30 A.M. - (A - L) But my new job in the coffee shop was contingent upon my working four hours that morning. That job was my priority. So as soon as I finished my work-shift and my lunch in the coffee shop, I hurried to the registration line. That uneasy feeling persisted as I made my way down to the Gym. I ran into my first roadblock as soon as I entered the building. There was no admission card for me. Stunned and shaken, I was told to check at the Administration Bldg.
With trepidation I hurried up the hill to the top of the steps and then sprinted across the quad area to the building furthest away. Breathlessly, approaching a window that was open, I told a young lady that my admission card was missing. After checking my records, she said that my application was rejected and that a postcard had been mailed to me. I told her that I did not receive any postcard. Raising my voice I wanted to know the reason for my being rejected. She didn't know and could not tell me. When I blurted out that I must know why, she called for her supervisor, Mrs. Roberts, an assistant to the Registrar. She was an older woman with reddish hair. She took me into her office. As she began to scan my records, I told her that I had a B plus average in High School and had taken three years of Latin. She immediately replied that I did not take a Laboratory Science and that three units of lab work was a requirement for admission. "Can't I take it here?" I asked. She said "No, You can make it up in the Extension Division." "Where is that?" I replied. She said that it was in downtown Los Angeles, the courses were at night, and they cost more. I told her there was no way for me to go to the Extension Division. Candidly, I explained my situation -- I had only the $30. to register here, was working for my meals at the cafeteria, and I had to stay on campus. I begged her to let me in. Her answer, surprisingly, was not an answer but a question: "Where have you been for the last seven years?" Hesitating for a moment, I didn't know what to say. I then gave her a mouthful. "I graduated during the Depression. I was the second oldest of nine children. I had to do whatever I could to help my parents. I worked in a chair factory, a rubber factory, and in a steel mill. I had hopes of attending college, that's why I took Latin in high school. There was no way in the last seven years for me to attend college. Besides, what difference does it make? Now I have a chance. Don't take it away from me!"
Momentarily, she remained silent as she stared at me. I was upset, and somewhat angry, but said no more. Then she asked, "Did you take Subject A, English Composition?" I said, "Yes, I took it Wednesday." She asked if I had passed. I told her I didn't know. She then said, "Go to the Chemistry Building, up to the second floor, get your grade and bring it to me. If you passed Subject A, I'll admit you." This sudden turn by Mrs. Roberts kindled a spark in my drive to get registered. But as I scampered off to get my grade, I had the feeling that she knew I would fail Subject A. Her about-face maneuver was merely a ploy to get rid of me. However, I passed. The content of my 250-word essay on F. D. R. saved me. Running back to the Administration Building I handed over my passing grade to Mrs. Roberts and I could see that she was surprised. With a frown and a touch of anger in her voice she said that it was too late to register today and for me to return next week. I told her there was no way for me to register next week I had to register now because I didn't have the extra two-dollar late Registration Fee. She grudgingly gave me the admission card. Raising her voice she told me: "Get out of here!" Again, I had to run from one end of the campus to the other end, to the building furthest away. I made it just in time. I paid the $27.00 Tuition Fee, and the $2.00 Incidental Fee for Library card and Gym privileges.
Except for a few stragglers, the building was empty. A young Professor came up to me. He inquired if he could help. I told him I was late and that I just got the card for admission. I asked, "What do I do now?" He asked what courses I was taking and if my schedule of classes was made out. I repeated that I was just admitted a few minutes ago. I have no Advisor and I don't know what courses to take. He then asked, "What are you majoring in?" I told him about my vague plan to do my undergraduate studies here, and then transfer to USC for Cinematography. I also added that my interest was in writing a film scenario and not in the technical end. So he recommended that I major in Letters, Arts, and Science. From that moment forward, the young professor would be my Advisor. He asked me if I had a nickel. When I said yes, he told me to go to the bookstore in the Co-Op Building and buy the Schedule of Classes pamphlet. As soon as I returned, he would help me make out my class schedule. Upon my return, taking out a blank sheet of white paper, he drew a graph of horizontal and vertical lines. For my first semester, he said I should take English and English History. My other two courses were Physics and French, a daily five-unit course, making a total of 14 units. He then showed me how to fill out my schedule on the graph with the hours across the top of the page and the subjects down the left side. After mentioning that I would be working two hours each day in the cafeteria, he said to make sure none of my classes fell within the hours blocked out for work. My advisor had a Doctorate in English. His name was Hugh T. Swedenberg. I thanked him for helping me. I then hurried over to the Coffee Shop for my second meal. The extra two meals already earned would remain in the "bank" as a safety reserve. Starting Monday my two meals would be earned and eaten daily. Leaving the Cafeteria, I went down the slope to Westwood Blvd. My walk continued up to Sunset Blvd. where I hitched rides to my room in Hollywood. On Sunday, the next day, caddying at the golf course, I earned enough to pay my room rent for another week. Registration Day, no doubt, was destined to be my greatest accomplishment. It was only eleven days since I scanned the "want ads" in the library and gave up my last three dollars for the application fee. I was amazed by what I did that day. But getting enrolled as a student in the last few minutes of Registration Day - after being denied admission - has to be the most amazing day of all.
Many more hurdles would be confronting me in the days ahead, but compared to Registration Day, they would be a piece of cake. I could hardly wait for Monday morning, my first day as a freshman student at UCLA. Hugo P. Cipriani |
