Arriving at Joseph Korbel school ;Denver University; The scholarship and the drama

It’s now September 2nd 1998. It’s busy, helter skelter chaos at every departmental faculty at the University of Denver. I am nervous and scared to death. I sit outside the Penrose library overlooking the Joseph Korbel School of international studies watching enviously at the students hurrying up and down to register for classes. I wanted to join them and register for classes. But I could not. I needed to first get clearance with the Financial Director and issued with a number that shows that I have paid in full for my tuition, books and in order to access the library facilities. I had not. I could not. But I am already here. Yes, here at my dream graduate school. Yes, here in America, far away from home.


So now I am watching people walking by. Some walking in pairs, some looking like lovers who are talking about taking the same class as they can’t get enough of each other, holding hands lovingly. I wanted someone to hold me and hug me at that moment too. I needed someone to hug me and tell me all will be okay. But I had no one to do so and I was all alone. Some students walked by in groups talking animatedly and I felt invisible and useless.

Some passed by looking silent and lost into their own thoughts to notice my miserable self seated there with my hands folded into myself scared and nervous. Some just had freaky faces that spelled bully, some had “interesting” accents that I couldn’t understand. Some students parted their lips with a slight smile to acknowledge me but did not stop to say hello so I got all the more confused. I wondered why one can smile at another and not stop to at least say a verbal hello. Why smile in the first place and what purpose is such a smile? I desperately needed someone to talk to and I was beginning to get angry at those smiles as they reflected a mockery of my situation. To calm down my senses, I took time to awe at the magnificent brown buildings that looked as old as education itself, the beautifully manicured lawns and once in a while was fascinated by the situation albeit the nervousness of what the future was for me at the University of Denver.

Now while seated there, I was contemplating many things. But I do not quite understand where to begin neither did I know what my options are. I felt lost, lonely and desperate. I do not know how long I sat there, but at some instant moment, I remembered my family and my mother’s embrace at the airport. I wondered what my family was doing and what they could be talking about as I sat there on the Penrose Library stair wells feeling lost and needing someone who could hear my story and help. What if they knew that they just bid me goodbye to a land where no one would help me? What if this was the end of my life? What if they knew that their bold first born child that always found a way out of issues is now lost in a foreign country? What if they knew that I felt empty ? I wept. I cried. Afraid to attract any unnecessary attention, I slowly rose up and lazily walked back to the Mr. and Mrs. Duffy’s house that I now called home. At least I had paid rent until the 15th of September, after which the likelihood of being thrown out and becoming homeless was slowly becoming a reality.

Meanwhile I still had at least three weeks to decide what to do and also plan on how the 100 dollars could keep me surviving for the remaining three weeks that I had a rental room at the Duffy’s family basement. In the 30 minutes walk, I remembered my grandfather’s advice that while you are lost, seek inside for directions. Yeah right grandpa! What has seeking inside got to do with this situation I am now in? I argued.



What’s the possibility of getting a tuition waiver or scholarship considering I am foreign student from Kenya and not sure if I had time to apply for any such help? What would the faculty say to me if they realized that I had no tuition to pay for my classes albeit the fact that I had indicated on my application forms that I had enough money to pay for my tuition? Would that be considered a lie? How can I explain that I had to tell them I had money so that I get the admission and how does that reflect on me? What if I wrote to the faculty and remind them that my country of Kenya is a big friend and ally of United States and on that basis they should give me a scholarship? Yeah, that’s sounded stupid and lightly ridiculous at best. Oh, what if I just went to the faculty seeking a meeting with the Financial Director and ask her to pay for my school tuition and I would work for her in return? Great! I could not as the law prohibited any one on a student visa to accept a job unless authorized to do so by the immigration department, at least you could work on campus for 8 dollars an hour for 10 hrs a week. Great! that’s 80 dollars a week! 400 dollars a month! Weep! weep! weep!

The faculty would not allow me to register for classes paying 80 dollars a week, besides, what would I have to eat out of that 80 dollars. At that moment, I was slowly giving up and losing hope of being able to make it in America. I was indeed lost and hopeless. I kept walking passed the Duffy’s house. I wanted to keep on waking to nowhere. It felt soothing and at least calming. So I kept on waking.

I came across a group of kids laughing out loud and chasing each other at a small park across the other end of University Boulevard couple miles from the University grounds. I stopped and watched them. I wished I could be them. For a moment I was transported back to my childhood days and I felt a surge of renewed hope. In that moment something stirred up inside of me. I was not about to give up. I had to come up with a daring solution. Just like the carefree laughter of the children I felt like a child needing help. And all I had to do is talk to someone about my situation. I had to.

Remembering my mothers hugs and tears, my grand fathers words of “fight like a soldier who knows what she fights for”, I had to strike a balance of the situation with every ounce of my spirituality and being knowing that this was a battle for my life. I had to fight for my life. I had to fight my American dream. And just like my grandpa’s “ soldier who knows what she fights for” I knew I had to fight for me. It felt like being called to get out of yourself, travel into the higher dimension within you and seek in there. It’s like being transported in an instant moment to an outer space within me, out of here but within here kind of feeling, if you know what I mean. I felt a whole surge of energy lift me up. Some inner inaudible but clear soft whisper that kept on telling me that I can go beyond what was happening and what I was feeling overwhelmed me. I choose to be an ambassador of my situation and communicate to someone else boldly without the fear of consequences. You see, truth sometimes is a good boat across a rough ferry bridge.

I began realizing that lot of students that got the same opportunity as me came from varied backgrounds and yet I was the same as them by virtue of my academic competitiveness unless I chose not to see it that way. I knew I can not let my people down. I couldn’t be a quitter. I knew I could not be timid and I had to boldly face my situation with truth. We are all kind of the same and yet that sameness becomes more beautiful when we are not afraid of what makes us different, unique and like our own self. I thought I am the same too with all those students I saw registering for classes only different and with a unique situation that deserved to be heard by someone.

I couldn’t afford to be timid or afraid of whoever is big out there, I’ve always been a person that’s a little bit unique in my thinking since childhood, in a way. I’m not quite a follower, I’m a leader of my own self. And this was a moment to prove my bold believe in self. You see, the universe works in a way that we don’t understand but there must be something about me in the damn universe that I had to find out what it is. I was about to reveal to someone that I had no money but I had to be at the Joseph Korbel School of International Studies of the University of Denver. I had to discover the mystery that is me.

I’m intrigued by mystery, I’m a devout Christian, and I like to balance spirituality with all situations that befall me. So a combination of my fascination and curiosity to find the unknown and my faith in spiritual intervention, I walked slowly back home just in time for dinner with the Duffy family. It was a Friday and I knew that Mr. and Mrs. Duffy are usually home early. I just thought I will break the news during dinner time. The conversation went something like this: Good evening guys? Oh..Hi…nice jacket you have on Mr. Duffy...hey…ahh…oh….anyway…ahhhh…well..Mr. ..well duffy and Stella, ahh..I Was wondering whether I can talk to you? Sure, Mr. Duffy responds. Well, you see….ahh. It’s kind of complicated…a bit insane…you see I will not be able to pay rent for next month and was also wondering whether you would be willing to pay for my first semester in school and I will re-pay you back as soon as I get a job….ahhh..pleaseee!pleaseeee! Ahh..I Know it’s insane. But please hear me out. I couldn’t believe what I was telling my host family. I shifted an intense nervous sheepish goofy look straight into Mr. Duffy’s wife, Miss Stella’s eyes and then stared straight back into Mr. Duffy’s eyes and hoped he could say something no matter what that something was.

I also thought I must be insane but felt a sigh of relieve that finally I have let them know my situation without caring what the consequences would be. Would they throw me out of the house? Would they call police on me for failure to pay rent? Would they call the university from which I was referred to them and demand that I be kicked out into the cold Denver nights? Would they not talk to me and ban me from their kitchen banishing me to the damn basement? What? What?
While my mind is speeding up with “what ifs”….there followed a heart wringing loudly deafening silence for a long one minute that seemed to be an eternity. No one spoke for a long while. The only sound was the sound of spoons, knifes and folks as everyone dug more servings from the salad bowl in the middle of the dining table and the occasional barking from Bagel the family dog and baby as he begged for bites. I can’t explain how much salad and corn on the cob I ate that evening as that’s the only thing I did to keep my embarrassment at bay and at least occupy myself while I awaited for my fate at the Duffy’s house.

I wanted the earth to open and swallow me leaving no trace of me anywhere on this miserable damn earth. And just like that, that Mr. Duffy breaks the silence by humming some inaudible song or whispers that scared the living day light out of me. He seemed to be humming a gospel hymn or something close to it. Perhaps he was humming a song whose lyrics had something to do with “how crazy can this Kenyan be and how crazily daring is her immigration to the united states? Or perhaps he might have been thinking “oh poor tribal girl from Kenya, how lucky it’s us that you chose for a host family otherwise elsewhere they would kick your damn black bottom and tell you to go die deep into the African jungle you came from! Damn! Damn you.

I could not make out what he was humming about but I knew for sure the song had something about how crazy I must be to assume that I can move to America, ask for free accommodation and then have the audacity to ask for school tuition! Damn! I can be daring. Quite the audacity to live and audacity to seek help even among perfect strangers. Damn, I thought of myself. But what’s wrong with being daring?

To cut a long story short, Mr. Duffy and his wife recovered from the shock of what I just told them. He lifts his weight off the chair and walks slowly to the kitchen. Pulls out a drawer that had a small booklet. Flips through the pages and fishes out a number. He points at the number and looks at me, gathers my right hand and holds it tight but tenderly, pulls his chair close to me, smiles with a friendly attitude on his face and says…”well, Alice, I don’t think that I can pay for your tuition babe. I just cannot. But I tell you what we can do, do not worry about rent at all. You will pay us rent when you get money. You do not have to worry for food; we have plenty in this house for all of us including Bagel the dog and family baby”. And so, my dear Kenyan friend, he continues his monologue.
What you need to do is take this number and write it down. It’s the number for a woman named Karen Middleton. She is the Financial Director and international students Co-coordinator at Joseph Korbel School of international studies at DU. Okay, Are you with me? I am now trembling, shaking and my skin covered with conspicuously goose bumps from no where. I raise my head from the ground that I had been staring at all this time, looked up and said. Yes, Mr. Duffy. I get that. “Now, what you need to do is go to sleep and then tomorrow morning I will drive you to see Miss Karen Middleton and you MUST tell her what you just told me. Okay, goodnight and see you in the morning 8Am American time! I could not dare be late.
I wanted to rise up and hug both of them. I wanted to scream with joy and praise God for such kind people and for their understanding welcome to their home albeit my disastrous situation and almost daring believe in them. I wanted to ask God to make them into millionaires and to give them eternal health and beauty in the whole state of Colorado. I wanted to cry with joy but neither of all these could explain how grateful I was at Mr. Duffy’s words.
That night I barely slept a single wink. I stayed up for most part of the night staring into the roof, wondering and pondering on possibilities and what will happen at the meeting with the lady, Karen Middleton. The name was synonymous with the person in whose hands my life depended. I was quite a nervous wreck.
By morning I was awakened from dreamland by the sounds of Bagel barking as Stella opened the front porch to let him out for his biological functions. I took a quick shower and walked upstairs to find Mr. Duffy already and set to go. We had very little to talk about but he seemed to be so concerned. I saw him and thought of the father I have never had. Al this time wondering what my life would have been like if we had a father that truly loved us and never abandoned us. I wondered whether that’s what it feels like to have your father at your side on your first trip to college.

I was teary eyed for many reasons but on that morning I felt loved and cared for albeit not knowing what awaited me ahead. We rode for the less than ten minutes ride to the admissions department at Denver University school of International studies straight onto Karen Middleton’s office. We all talked for awhile. Mr. Duffy filled her in on my difficulties and financial situation while informing her that him and his wife had decided not to charge me any rent and would let me live there for a while as I figured out my situation. Then he excused himself and left the room planting a friendly pat on my back and winked at me with re-assurance. I explained to her my entire situation reminding her of my academic prowess and capabilities. I knew this is my moment to shine if I would have to get a chance.



She pulled out from her drawer what was my file containing signed documents I had sent while in Nairobi. Took a moment to review all of the application forms and associated correspondences leading to my admission. Then she raised her head up and without asking any questions looked me and said to me “Well, well, Alice, there is a wonderful Program at Joseph Korbel School of International studies, formerly GSIS, sponsored by a very compassionate, generous and quite amazing wealthy woman, her name is Mrs patterson whose foundation donates money towards the education of bright, talented and promising international students especially women from developing countries. The goal of this program is to expand the university of Denver student diversity.

We have found it quite rewarding as we seem to be attracting the best students from all over the world. You see, she continued…ahhh, well, It s the pride of this school to see most of our students graduate from this school, well equipped to go back to their countries and change lifes over there. Its surely great”. We are all connected and this school is surely working its mission to incorporate a global agenda in its curriculum. And that includes have a certain amount of money set aside for students like you Alice. I will be glad to write you a letter of recommendation and speak to the dean about your case but to be honest, Alice, I think that the best thing that you could do is to write a personal letter to the office of admissions and to Mrs. Patterson foundation. Tell them what you told me. Just speak from your heart. That will give you as good as any chance at getting accepted at the University of Denver. Again I think Iam impressed with your grades and perhaps we can as well give you a chance.

Now at this point I am pinching myself to ensure that I am not dreaming or hallucinating. I cannot explain the enormous joy that lay stuck inside my chest. I wanted to burst out with a native dance and ululations. I wanted to shout and praise and praise and halleluiah and do all the global Amen’s…..So you get the picture? Anyway Karen then sets an appointment where I had to meet with the dean and some other faculty members to discuss my case and see whether I would qualify for the Patterson Fellowship and tuition waiver on Books tore and library facilities. I did have the meeting. I wrote the letter explaining all that I have narrated above. And yes. They deemed me a competitive candidate for the fellowship based on merit and my academic scores on my GRE AND GMAT testing evaluations. Viola! Two weeks later I received a life changing letter that read like this…..
Dear Alice Kariuki,
Congratulations on your scholarship and admission to the Joseph Korbel School of International Studies of the University of Denver. We wish you well and a smooth settling in to the rocky mountains and at the Denver community…………….welcome....

Let me say the rest is history. The letter changed my life. I am proud to say that this wonderful Rocky mountains great great University gave me a chance. They gave me a chance to freedom. They believed in me planting a permanent love and faith in the angelic nature of even the perfect strangers that cross our paths. Perfect strangers who seem to be angels walking on earth. For those students seeking admission into a perfect university, those pursuing interests in policy advocacy, international business, trade, philanthropic management, this is the school to apply to. A great mid west school that gives chance and also kindly caters to students with academic promise but who lack the financial resources to pay for a college education. University of Denver is my very own alma mater. Two years later I walked proudly to receive my masters degree certificate that gave me an academic badge that read something like this:
Alice Kariuki:
Masters of Arts
International Trade & Sustainable Development; M.P.A Public Health
The Joseph Korbel School of International Studies; University of Denver, Colorado

B.A [Creative writing & Linguistics, English Literature & Sociology }
Kenyatta University Nairobi, Kenya.