Monday, February 2, 1987. I was a 19-year-old sophomore at Cal. It was a rainy morning in the Bay Area, and my Converse were soaked by the time I made it to my German Literature class on the third floor of Berkeley’s Dwinelle Hall. I had a coffee from the vending machine to warm me, and the class passed quickly – we were reading Lessing’s “Emilia Galotti,” a work with which I was starting to fall in love. (Lessing almost had me change my major to German.) At noon, the professor – I can see his face, but not remember his name – dismissed us.
A Brain Injury Changes Everything
A Brain Injury Changes Everything
A Brain Injury Changes Everything
Monday, February 2, 1987. I was a 19-year-old sophomore at Cal. It was a rainy morning in the Bay Area, and my Converse were soaked by the time I made it to my German Literature class on the third floor of Berkeley’s Dwinelle Hall. I had a coffee from the vending machine to warm me, and the class passed quickly – we were reading Lessing’s “Emilia Galotti,” a work with which I was starting to fall in love. (Lessing almost had me change my major to German.) At noon, the professor – I can see his face, but not remember his name – dismissed us.