There is no one way to characterize my transfer experience from UC-Banana Slug to UCLA in one sentence with one emotion.
Upon typing up my application number and student ID for about the 29th time that minute, and seeing that my application was being reviewed each time, Dr. Vu Tran finally delivered me the news.
My next-door dorm neighbor named 'Yell was in the room playing NBA Street 2 or something while I was checking up on my future. Once I saw that "Congratulations Brian!" at the top of the screen, any attempt to inhibit that upward-teeth-revealing crease formed by my lips was futile. Trying to hold in the smile was like the New Orleans levee system trying to stop Hurricane Katrina.
Some time later in the week, 'Yell told my other friend Joe that I was gone.
I didn't really want that to be true.
Hanging out at the dining hall, NBA Street, NFL Street, talking about the bullishtiness of everything, our [non]-experiences in the dating life, jokes and trash-talking about other people. My best buddies in my first 2 years of adult independence wouldn't be there anymore, but I guess I'd come up and visit them...and hey I'd have my family...
Little did I know at the time that the "family" I'd refer to is not the one I lived with throughout my life, but the one I formed with fellow brothers and sisters. *Hugikissiness ensues*
Then October 2004 came, Filipi-groes, I'm here. Good-bye.
Upon the first day of class, an old friend whom I will call Chiars told me to check out some other Filipino group and their welcome reception.
P-T-S-P. Wow that had to be the worst acronym I'd ever heard...definitely didn't roll off the tongue like SPACE or PREP or PIE or even PCH which at least can be referenced to a very famous highway.
But you know there was something about this organization...these people...maybe it was the fact that there was food. Maybe it was the fact that I was a transfer and well this organization dealt with transfers. Duh. Maybe it was the fact that they somehow managed to bring in all the aesthetically pleasing people together in one room. Ha. Maybe it was the fact that their Vice Chair, Dom, looked like an older computer-simulated version of the younger brother of one of my grade school classmates. Maybe it was the fact that they actually talked with me afterwards and even outside the meeting.
Even when my car wouldn't start that one afternoon after class.
Didn't know anyone, but I did know Dom and somehow he was in my cell phone directory already. Called him...The 831 area code was a reminder of the good times with 'Yell and Joe in Banana Slugland. He called a friend with a jumper cable and a car. It was all EZ like Sunday morning. Car fixed, back on my merry way.
From there began two new bro-ships, which would help spawn an intense infusion into hip-hop and hip-hop culture.
Because of this infusion, I gradually perceived the P-T-S-P acronym not as four lifeless disconnected letters, but as distinct flavorous sounds that you might start a beatbox with.
We are the only organization that has a beatbox sound as its acronym's pronunciation.
Just as hip-hop is not just a music, it's life, PTSP is not just an organization, it's life.
Me Brian J. Delas Armas. Tengo veinte cuatro anos. Born Chi-town, raised Los Angeles. Transferred from UC-Banana Slug. I graduated UC-Bruin in 2006 with a B.A. degree in anthropology and a minor in the History of Medicine and Science. Have volunteered, worked with, and derived income from nonprofits since graduation with periods of temp jobbing. Currently a grant writer, which means I like flipping and flooping the written language around and read thru tons of things every day for research purposes. Will go to graduate school for a Ph.D in cognitive and urban anthropology with interests in how we remember things, mathematics, science, and numbers in different cultures, semiotics, and the creation/destruction of public and open spaces. Beyond that, we'll see.