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My inability to stick to anything became a source of concern to my parents, unspoken, but I knew it was there. I did, however, stand out in one arena. I was an excellent acolyte and subdeacon and enjoyed my ecclesiastical duties at St. Margaret's. Here was organization, tradition, hierarchy, pageantry, purpose--a world, now that I think about it, not all that unlike the Army. Maybe my 1928 prayer book was destined to be Field Manual 22-5, the Army's troop-drilling bible. Had I gone into the ministry in those days, it would have pleased my mother. I did not hear the call.
Following my sister Marilyn's example and Mom and Pop's wishes, I applied to two colleges, the City College of New York and New York University. I must have been better than I thought, since I was accepted at both. Choosing between the two was a matter of simple arithmetic; tuition at N.Y.U., a private school, was $750 a year; at CCNY, a public school, it was $10. I chose CCNY. My mother turned out to be my guidance counselor. My two Jamaican cousins, Vernon and Roy, were studying engineering. "That's where the money is," Mom advised. My first semester as an engineering major went surprisingly well, mainly because I had not yet taken any engineering courses. I decided to prepare myself that summer with a course in mechanical drawing. One hot afternoon the instructor asked us to draw "a cone intersecting a plane in space." The other students went at it; I just sat there. For the life of me, I could not visualize a cone intersecting a plane in space. If this was engineering, the game was over.
My parents were disappointed when I told them that I was changing my major. There goes Colin again, nice boy, but no direction. Phone calls flew between aunts and uncles. Had anybody ever heard of anyone studying geology? What did you do with geology? Where did you go with it? Prospecting for oil? A novel pursuit for a black kid from the South Bronx.
During my first semester at CCNY, something had caught my eye--young guys on campus in uniform. I inquired about the Reserve Officers Training Corps, and then enrolled in ROTC. I am not sure why. Maybe it was growing up in World War II and coming of age during the Korean conflict: the little banners in windows with a blue star, meaning someone from the family was in the service, or a gold star, meaning someone was not coming back. Or maybe it was the common refrain of that era--you are going to be drafted anyway, you might as well go in as an officer. There came a day when I stood in line in the drill hall to be issued olive-drab pants and jacket, brown shirt, brown tie, brown shoes, a belt with a brass buckle and an overseas cap. As soon as I got home, I put the uniform on and looked in the mirror. I liked what I saw. At this point, not a single Kelly Street friend of mine was going to college. I was 17. I felt cut off and lonely. The uniform gave me a sense of belonging and something I had never experienced all the while I was growing up; I felt distinctive.