There’s a Crack in the Pavement
By: Lauren Celenza
Tags: Design, Massimo Vignelli, New York City, Maps, Student Loan Debt

At eighteen, I found myself driving along the open highway in my purple, piece-of-shit Chevy Cavalier, navigating from Ohio to Georgia. I was on my way to study Graphic Design at the Savannah College of Art and Design, a private university known as SCAD. Dad drove behind me, in another worn-out GM Buick that broke down just as often as the last Buick he owned. His Buicks always had a way of breaking down, and this trip was no exception. “If it isn’t the transmission, it’s the engine. If it isn’t the engine, it’s the brakes,” he droned.

But we couldn’t waste any time. Dad had to get back to work at the bottling factory the next day. He plopped my duffle bags on the linoleum dorm room floor. “Alright, Lauren this is it,” he replied, hugging me tightly before making the ten-hour trek back to Ohio. “I’m proud of you. Go get an education, but be careful.”

Dad maintained a sturdy skepticism for the world I was about to enter. He had received a taste of it four months before my big move-in day, depleting his sparse paid time off to drive to Georgia with Mom, sis, and me, conducting a family assessment of the university. “What exactly is an art school?” Dad probed the recruiters, as his voice bellowed down the hallway. “How can you be so sure that Graphic Design is a job that will sustain her? Is she going to be okay?” Mom shook her head in fierce agreement as if this was the central question on their minds. “Yes, sir, she will,” the recruiter replied. His voice trembled as he looked at Dad. “Now is a good time to enter this field.”

I felt a twinge of humiliation as Dad interrogated the recruiters, but deep down, I knew he had every reason to ask. His skepticism emerged from the turbulence of his own career in manufacturing, one that didn’t match the attractive promises that were made to him. And now, he was on the verge of sending his daughter into an unfamiliar and expensive industry.

I didn’t expect to go to SCAD. My high school teachers had a different vision for me. “DAAP is one the best design schools in the world,” they said, referring to the public University of Cincinnati’s College of Design, Architecture, Art, and Planning. “You must get into DAAP if you have any chance of success,” they said. “Memorize the application date, so you don’t miss the deadline.”

So I did. March 1. March 1. March 1.

But in lieu of portfolio reviews, DAAP sanctimoniously required an exam score of twenty-six on the American College Test, known as the ACT. The college tests rattled me with an unshakable fear. Even though I was on the verge of graduating high school at the top of my class, received awards in art shows, and worked multiple jobs after school, I struggled to succeed on time-based tests. No matter my skills or credentials, the standardized tests occupied the creative spaces of my mind, haunting me throughout each school year since the age of six.

I took the ACT seven times. But the highest score I could get was twenty-three, three points away from the required score of twenty-six. My test scores would later be known by psychologists as ‘test anxiety,’ but at the time, I felt like my piece-of-shit Chevy car. Regardless of my test scores, I still wanted to apply to DAAP, hoping that maybe they would let me in, so I sent in an application with my highest score.

But within a matter of weeks, a rejection letter came in the mail. I stopped reading the letter as soon as I saw the words, “We regret to inform you…” A flood of tears began to swell. After taking the ACT seven times, I ran up the stairs to hide inside my bedroom, gripped with humiliation. I couldn’t let anyone see the brittle clumps of black mascara that cracked across my face.

Going to college wasn’t merely an expectation but a mandate. Every adult around me, from parents to teachers, repeated the same phrase over and over again, mapping out a vision for my future.

“You need to go to college.”

“The next step for you is college.”

“You know that the application date to get into DAAP is March 1, right?”

Was this my future or their own?

But I had failed to get into DAAP, punctuated by the polite snub of a recruiter on a last-ditch-attempt phone call that I later regretted making. “I’m sorry, but your test scores do not meet the requirements. I probably shouldn’t say this, but maybe this isn’t the right school for you.”

In a rush of fear and anxiety, I submitted my college application and portfolio to SCAD, a school I stumbled upon in a brochure in the mail, and one that didn’t require a specific test score. Within a matter of weeks, an acceptance letter came, marked by the phrase, “We are eager to inform you…” It was a relief and a privilege. But the greatest obstacle was yet to come.

SCAD came with an annual undergraduate tuition and room-and-board cost of $34,155 in 2007, with a six percent tuition increase each year that I studied there. Mom and I sat at the cracked kitchen table, our heads collapsed into our hands as we scoured through every pay stub, tax document, credit report, transcript, resume, and professional reference we could find. The success of attaining scholarships and student loans rested upon a complete and thorough surveillance of my eighteen-year-old character and family finances. But at eighteen, I couldn’t grasp what a student loan was, let alone how to navigate the process of applying for one. Subsidized or unsubsidized? Private loan or public? What the fuck did any of this mean? Was I accepted into college or not?

Mom tried to find help, marching into my high school with the documents stacked in her hands. She pleaded with the guidance counselor to help us navigate the process. But it led us to a dead end. “We don’t offer those services here,” the counselor replied. “Well then what do you do here?” Mom snapped.

When the guidance counselor couldn’t help, Google did. Mom searched online and figured out that I had a better chance of receiving financial aid if we submitted the applications early in the year. Each year that I was enrolled at SCAD, on January 2, we withdrew $500 out of savings to pay an accountant to expedite our tax filing. We glared our eyes at the computer screen, coiling over every financial detail before submitting the application, hours, sometimes minutes, before the deadline. Every question formed into a perfect answer. Every signature signed on the dotted line.

Weeks later, the loans were approved–two public, granted by the government, and two private, granted by Wells Fargo. Each loan came with interest rates ranging from three to seven percent. By the time I reached my senior year, Mom and I had become financial aid experts. Even the accountant desired to learn from our expertise. “Can you help me apply for my kids?” they asked.

In addition to the student loans, I was offered a handful of scholarships, but the funding was often tied to the quality of my test scores. “I’m sorry Lauren, I know you’re tired of being tested,” Mom said, shaking her head with guilt. “But if you take the ACT again, and get a score of twenty-four, just one point higher, SCAD will offer you more scholarship money.” I could feel a rush of anger rising from my stomach to my chest. I didn’t want to upset Mom, so I stashed away the anger and took the ACT for the eighth time. But the anger refused to hide and ultimately manifested in my diminishing test scores. In the end, I wasn’t granted the additional funding, but I did receive $35,000 in other scholarships. It seemed like a lot of money. But it wasn’t nearly enough.

“You’re going to be in a lot of debt,” Mom warned. “But we’re all in debt. That’s life. I’m more concerned that there’s not going to be anyone like you at this school.” Her face twisted in an upward direction, as if she wanted to say more, but couldn’t.

But within minutes of meeting my new roommates, I realized what she wanted to say. They rolled large suitcases with wheels, gliding their possessions into the dorm room. They installed pop-up closets from Ikea, promised to nestle neatly inside a 200 square-foot space, but in reality, it absorbed the entire room. They unpacked unworn clothes, with the price tags I couldn’t afford still securely attached. And they transported it all in sleek, clean, sports utility vehicles with help from an entire family who had taken weeks off from work to carefully settle them into their new life.

“Let’s take a selfie!” their moms cheered. We shoved our bodies together as if we were best friends posing for the same photo, but our college experiences were already far apart.

Throughout my first year at SCAD, I remained isolated, closing the door of my dorm room so many times that the cold metal handle still haunts the palm of my hand. As the years progressed, I found some new friends along the way that helped me break out of the isolation. We cooked dinner together and drove around Savannah to catch a breeze from the humid air. They were even gracious enough to let me do laundry at their house. But I concealed my unexpected loneliness by diving deep into my studies, finding jobs at the university, and applying for design internships. The hustle of school and work was familiar, something I could grasp. The loneliness wasn’t.

But the loneliness created space for my imagination to run free. I daydreamed of meeting the designers celebrated in my textbooks, intrigued by the provocative typography of Stefan Sagmeister, the multifaceted illustrations of Milton Glaser, and the rigorous simplicity of Massimo Vignelli. I scoured their work, page by page, examining their history and philosophies. But there was one discovery in particular that piqued my curiosity. Massimo Vignelli designed a map. Not just any map, but a map of New York City, a place where my professors had lived and worked. “There’s a lot of opportunity in New York City. But you’ll need to work hard,” they said. The professors emphasized the importance of hard work and being at the right place at the right time. If you wanted to build your network or enhance the visibility of your work, location mattered. New York City mattered. I wanted to go to New York. And I wanted to meet Vignelli.