“I like your pants,” she told me.
They were red. Bright red and corduroy. They didn’t fit me like they should have and, from the side, could almost resemble a clown costume. These pants were loud. Coupled with the floral top I was wearing, they were pretty far off from anything dubbed “fashion” in the latest magazines. But that didn’t matter much. They were 75 cents at the local thrift store and, for that price, were allowed to be atrocious if they wanted.
This was the summer before my senior year. I was standing in front of a dorm room I had just moved into with a girl I’d never met, wearing bright, red pants, and about 125 miles away from anyone who knew my name.
At home, I had been careful. I only ever used black or blue ink, and I carried the same books everyday, regardless of whether or not I would actually use them. My hair was always straight, styled exactly the same as the day before, and my wardrobe consisted of neutral colors and denim. I was intelligent, driven, and talented. I studied and I read and I did everything I knew to be correct and moral.
The other 175 students surrounding me, however, were just the same. They were the elite, the brilliant, the exceptional. The students at UC Santa Cruz COSMOS were the quintessence of a competitive math and science program. They were curious and creative, interesting and inspiring. Cathy, from down the hall, could recite the first 200 numbers of pi, and Royce, from across the quad, could detail just about any biological process of the human anatomy. And I, I was the kid in the bright, red pants. This was my fingerprint.
I met everyone on that first day. I made a point to reach, to see, to hear, to try. I was more than a book and a highlighter, the girl with glasses pushed up on her nose as she scribbled down notes faster than her teacher could say them. I was no longer a letter grade or an essay, a math score or a chemistry equation. At COSMOS, I was the girl in the bright, red pants. I knew every person by name and I wasn’t afraid to release a scream in the forest or dance with abandon for silly camp rivalries.
I was loud. Confident. Worthy. I spoke in class, led discussion, and laughed with my professor. His name was Miguel, and he could differentiate between the scat of carnivorous and herbivorous animals in the woods behind our dorms. I cut my hair with awfully blunt scissors in the community bathroom down the hall and I started writing in a multitude of colored pens. I even repacked my bag each morning, only bringing along the books I needed for class that day. I had less of a schedule and more of a vision. I became a person with drive, a person with distinctive worth and calibrated intent.
There were 175 other students at COSMOS, and while I was not the smartest or the quickest or the most inspiring, I was there. I could stand. I could lead. I was worth it, involved, and heard. I could wear red pants if I chose to.
