Early on the morning of April 18, 1985, Mike came into the world with misplaced vessels and a hole in his heart.
In the first hours of his life, he was flown by helicopter to the only surgeon capable of performing the operation that could save his life.
Life seemed to slowly slip away from him, but Mike fought back hard. He left surgery with a scar and a troubling prognosis: His damaged heart would wreck his development. Sports were out of the question, academic achievement beyond his reach.
The early experiences so many take for granted-learning to talk, taking baby steps, interpreting words on a page-came late for Mike with unimaginable struggle.
Mike and I met in the third grade, on the playground (though Mike still argues otherwise). It was an unlikely friendship: Mike was in the special ed class, I wasn't-and at the time, inhabiting different classrooms meant that you may as well have inhabited different worlds. But we bonded over Nirvana and Nintendo.
His early heart troubles stunted his growth-Mike was (and still is) short for his age. Sidelined from Little League and Pee Wee Football because of his condition, Mike became a gymnast; it was the only sport his parents allowed him to do.
But he was a crackerjack. For months at a time, when season started, Mike would disappear from our lives. Five, sometimes six hours a day, six or seven days a week. My friend with the frail heart had to fight harder than most, but he discovered his personal strength in the sport.
Against all conceivable odds, Mike became an All-American.
College came, and I moved east, while Mike remained near home, attending the only school to which he was admitted. A week into freshman year, Mike called.
"I hate this place, I'm getting out," he said.
In academics, as in so much else, Mike was forced to start the race a mile behind his peers. But at his new home, few were interested in running the race at all-most students saw academics as a thoughtless exercise. Mike longed to transfer, so he applied the discipline forged in sport to academics. He earned an A+ in nearly every class, applied to transfer to his top choice and was rejected.
It was like a blow to the chest. The kind ones told him to tough it out and apply to top-flight grad schools; the vicious ones mocked him, telling him that he was stuck without any escape. "Apply to Duke," I said, only half-seriously considering that he might apply. Mike fought for another year, managed nearly straight A+s and was admitted to Duke. My friend who came late to learning enrolled at Duke last fall.
Standing just over five feet tall, Mike has spent a lifetime being looked down upon, but I have spent the same lifetime looking up to him. I share Mike's story with everyone I can because it makes the word "impossible" perfectly irrelevant. He has taught me a lifetime of lessons simply by living.
In only his first months at Duke, he has taught me indispensable lessons about the place I have called home for two years.
When I complain about campus food, Mike tells me the horror stories of dining at his previous institution.
"You have no idea how unbelievable the food is here," he reminds me.
When someone grumbles about academic life, Mike quickly responds with the tales of his past home, where classes were enormous, where he was often the only person in the library, and where casual intellectual conversation was considered taboo.
"You have no idea how unbelievable the academics are here," he reminds us.
When we discuss strained race relations on campus, Mike mentions the complete lack of diversity-in thought and color-at his previous institution: As part of freshmen orientation, all students are introduced to a mural that featured scenes from a Ku Klux Klan cross burning.
"You have no idea how diverse this place is," Mike says of Duke.
It seems my friends and I simply had no idea.
There is nothing particularly shocking about these lessons, but they are worth sharing, if only because they occupy a page that is usually devoted to how much this place needs to improve.
Jimmy Soni is a Trinity junior. His column runs every other Tuesday.
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