Made of Mettle Posted on 20. Apr, 201 0 by Haley Cohen in Profiles Many Yale undergraduates are surprised to encounter Dwight Dickerson in their Spanish seminars and Political Psychology lectures. His usual uniform is collegiate enough – black Velcro sneakers, blue jeans, a black pinstriped button-down left untucked and a grey Yale Bulldogs sweatshirt – but his bald head and the white hairs salting his pepper black mustache suggest he is a fair bit older than your average undergraduate. Dwight sees them staring, and sometimes even whispering about what he’s doing in the classroom. Is he really an undergraduate? Perhaps he’s just auditing? How old is he? If he wanted to, Dwight could volunteer that he is indeed amender graduate – a 53- year-old senior. He could tell them about the obstacles he overcame on his sinuous path to Yale – how he grew up in the poorest area of the South Bronx where he was once shot in the leg, how he had to drop out of Howard University when both of his parents passed away in the same year, or how his father’s mistress seized his meager inheritance. He could reveal how he lost his job After September 11th, and had to work five temp jobs to stay afloat. When his classmates complain about their overwhelming slew of exams and extra-curricular, he could mention that in addition to taking classes, he works 11:30pm to 6:30am seven days a week as an inspector at the Sikorsky helicopter plant. He could tell them that his wife is ill – making him the sole breadwinner for his family of four. He could tell them all this if he wanted. But Dwight doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, and sensing that his background is different, his younger peers don’t want to pry. When I first met Dwight in my discussion section for Colonial Latin America, an undergraduate history course, I was one of those undergraduates too nervous to ask him about his background. How I would even phrase the question, I wondered. How are you here? No. Why are you here? No, definitely not. Why are you so old? Even worse. I resorted to asking other people in my section about Dwight. Though everyone I asked was intrigued, no one had any answers. One friend responded that she had once been in class with To remember the program’s official name. Suspecting that Dwight might be part of the same program, I visited the website for more clues. The most prominent item on the strikingly sparse and archaic homepage was a video titled “Voices of the Eli Whitney Students Program.” “If someone would have told me when I was younger...that I would be graduating from Yale at the age of 53... I would have told them that they were crazy.” Suddenly, I realized that I knew that voice: deliberate, articulate with pauses for reflection. “I would not have had an inkling of an idea that that would happen to an individual like myself from the South Bronx...But it has.” Since 2004, Dwight has attended Yale as an Eli Whitney student. Previously known as Yale’s Special Student program, the Eli Whitney Student program accepts “non¬traditional” students to work towards Yale bachelor’s degrees. These students are usually older than typical undergraduates because their college plans have been postponed or interrupted. They are selected, according to the program’s website, for their unique life experiences and perspective that 18 to 22 year-old undergraduates simply cannot offer.Past and current Eli Whitney students run the gamut from Mike Richter, a former goalie for the New York Rangers, to 25 year-old used car salesman-cum-financial advisor William Chmelar and gay rights activist Gregg Gonzales. The program garnered international media attention in 2006 when former Taliban spokesman Rahmatullah Hashemi applied. Hashemi had started taking classes at Yale in September 2005 on the non-degree track, and applied for degree status as an Eli Whitney student in spring 2006. Possibly because of the controversy sparked by his presence at Yale even as a non-degree student, Hashemi was denied from the Eli Whitney students program – a decision that prompted even more press. But in spite of the ample coverage of Hashemi, the Eli Whitney Students program and its participants still remain under the radar, relatively mysterious. My restraint eroded, I shot Dwight an email and asked if he would share his story. Instead of being offended that I’d violated his privacy, Dwight welcomed me into his world, insisting that I call him Dwight instead of Mr. Dickerson. “I am more than willing to do this,” he wrote. “The question I pose is: are you?” The following week I find myself in a basement classroom in Rosenkranz Hall, where Norms and Deviance, Dwight’s sociology class, meets every Monday. Taught by renowned ethnographer Elijah Anderson, the seminar covers the origins, development and reactions surrounding deviance in contemporary society. Black president of the American Historical society. Dwight has coated the book’s pages with highlighter and penned notes. Unlike many undergrads at Yale, he actually seems to finish his reading. Anderson calls on him, and he launches into a comment, subtly gesticulating as he speaks. “I agree with Bianca’s deduction that in parts of this book, Franklin tries to downplay his race.” Dwight speaks slowly, taking time to think and pause, picking just the right word. “But even though he never directly alluded to it, there wasn’t an hour where race wasn’t an issue.” “The fact that he’s black and grew up in the inner city in the ‘60s and ‘7 0s gives him a different perspective than a lot of the other kids in class,” explains Professor Anderson, Dwight’s professor for Norms and Deviance. “But he doesn’t bring his background into his comments much, it just comes out with commentary.” He adds, without a hint of irony, “He’s a very bright young man.” While Dwight’s two classes last semester, Norms and Deviance and Colonial Latin America, might seem a light workload to your average Yale undergraduate, your average Yale undergraduates also don’t work 6-7 days a week from 11:30 p.m. to 6 a.m. And if they did, you would probably find those normal Yale students sleeping in their free time instead of playing piano for the local church band, volunteering at a program to aid previously incarcerated individuals readjust to everyday life and singing on sales-worthy demo CDs. Lastly, your average Yale students probably don’t know any of these things about Dwight. Both in and out of the classroom, when it comes to Eli Whitney students, a tacit policy of “don’t ask don’t tell” seems to be in effect. Younger Yale don’t want to seem rude by peppering their older peers with personal questions, and the Eli Whitney students keep quiet, wanting to assimilate as best they can. While this unofficial system protects the privacy of the Eli Whitney students, it also fails to honor the accomplishments that earned those positions at Yale. Dwight invites me to spend a Saturday with him so I can better understand his life outside academia. He begins the day at 9:30 a.m. with band rehearsal for tomorrow’s services at Church on the Rocks, a cinderblock cube in New Haven’s Long Wharf neighborhood. When I walk into the Church’s airy auditorium, I immediately spot Dwight on the stage, leaning over the piano. He is dressed in his usual outfit: black Velcro sneakers, a black turtleneck tucked into jeans, and a gold cross on a chain. His oft-worn Bulldogs sweatshirt drapes over a front row chair facing the stage. The room looks more like a United Nations conference room than a place of worship. Flags from Japan, Brazil, Jamaica and Scotland hang on the back wall, and there are no stained glass windows, carvings of saints, or other religious symbols anywhere in sight. The only sign of the room’s function is an inscription carved above the stage: “For my house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations... – Isaiah.” Except for Dwight, a drummer, and a sprinkling of college-aged girls choreographing dances to gospel songs, the space is empty. Dwight checks his watch. It is pushing 9:50 a.m.; practice was At around 10 a.m. the conductor of the Church on the Rocks band arrives, a tall, broad shouldered man named Jason. Dwight and Jason hug and slap each other on the back before Jason puts his arm around Dwight and leads him down the stairs off the stage. He summons the rest of the band, the dancers, and the singers to circle up. They join hands and Jason leads the group in prayer, so impassioned he is almost shouting. “Call us forward to prepare us, Lord God, soldiers in your name Lord God. Let us inspire the young people to explode in the midst of worship, Lord God. Make us ready, Lord God!” They release hands and assume their appropriate positions at instruments or microphones. Jason gives the go-ahead, and the music begins. Is it enough to gather in this place? The worship dancers twirl across the floor and make sweeping movements with their arms as if reaching to heaven. Is it enough to lift your hands in praise? The singer’s belt into their microphones, eyes closed, rocking back and forth. You want it all: my spirit, mind and heart. Amidst this emotional scene, Dwight seems strangely collected. He leans over his keyboard like a brain surgeon over his patient, meticulously following the notes on his music. Dwight loosens up a little bit for the next song. He taps his foot, bobs his head, and in a rare moment of impulsiveness even sweeps his fingers across the keyboard. Perhaps because he’s had to improvise so much in his life, Dwight admits he is mildly uncomfortable with musical spontaneity. He likes to have a plan, a blueprint that lets him know exactly what to do and exactly when to do it. “I don’t like to be vulnerable,” he explains. After rehearsal ends, Dwight and I jump in his silver 2003 Chrysler and drive to his home on Westminster Street. Painted pistachio green and surrounded by a snowy white picket fence, Dwight’s house is inviting and homey. As we pull up behind the house Dwight mutters something about needing to rake the “damn leaves,” but otherwise he seems very proud of his home. He unlocks the door and a fluffy white dog catapults onto his leg. “Sit, Elliot! You know better!” The dog drops to the floor for a few seconds before hopping up on my leg instead. “Elliot” Dwight warns. The dog hits the ground. “Elliot’s my daughter’s dog, but for some reason that I can’t figure out, he likes me the best. Oooh,” Dwight says, remembering something. He motions for me to come to the mantle. “C’mere, I want to show you this.” He holds up a faded photograph of a woman and a man standing in front of a brick building with a fire escape snaking down the exterior. The pair is nicely dressed – the man in a suit and the woman in a skirt suit and hat with lacey appliqués. Only the woman is smiling. “My parents,” Dwight says, nearly whispering. Born November 6th, 1956, to Elmore and Dora Dickerson, Dwight was the ninth often children. Five were from Elmore’s previous marriage and lived out of the house, while Bernice, Patricia, Donna, And Yes.. He was a Lancer.....
Posted on: Fri, 05 Dec 2014 00:49:46 +0000