“One thing I do know is that each and every one of you understands that right now there are kids whose lives can be enriched immeasurably by the Hopkins experience, as mine was so dramatically.” -Mike '72 HGS
My dad was a construction worker, my mother a housewife. Neither of them graduated high school. I was the Polyester Kid in a decidedly Brooks Brothers school. I was on a work scholarship, so in addition to getting drilled in the five Latin declensions by Varick “maroon socks” Harrison, I learned from janitor Lew Morse that a pushbroom is to be pushed in one direction only – forward (bet you didn’t know that).
My vocabulary wasn’t learned at home. We didn’t talk about European history or Shakespeare much at the dinner table. And had I attended Hillhouse instead of Hopkins (which back then was a tumultuous place), I probably would not have gotten much out of the experience.
Which is to say: I owe to Hopkins, directly or indirectly, just about everything that I was privileged to achieve.
For those of us who merged seamlessly into the Hopkins mix, for those of us who struggled to find our identity there, for those of us who remained isolated – we all gained much more from Hopkins than we can articulate, measure, or, in many cases, even recognize. One thing I do know is that each and every one of you understands that right now there are kids whose lives can be enriched immeasurably by the Hopkins experience, as mine was so profoundly.
Right now, there’s a kid whose entire life could pivot around a moment in Baldwin Hall when the admissions director says: “We think there’s enough aid available to allow your son to enroll.”