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53 yale We stand under the balustrades in the narrow nave of a library entranceway, proud parents, prospective students, tour guide, stayed for a moment by that prim awkwardness that befalls daughters and sons forced to stand in such proximity with the expectations of their families. Suddenly, from an alcove a cleaning lady appears pushing a blue plastic barrel on a cart with four wheels, her pushbrooms and dustmops upright and proud in their slots. She stops for a moment. We are all in her way. Then she parts us like Moses in a sea of admissions, and there is no name for the silence that begins to accrue, no word for the Egypt of darkness that works in her eyes. Our perky group leader asks if we have any questions. No one asks if the cleaning lady gets to take evening classes. No one asks if she qualifies for the legacy rule. No one asks why her eyes will be all we’ll remember, years from now, two black stones, gleaming, on an African shore. Someone asks about computers, about problems with roommates. Someone asks about locks on the doors. ...

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