Sunday, March 4th, 2007, is the day I felt my community and my university were one in the same. Like most good things, the experience happened completely by accident, leaving me with that wonderful, self-assured feeling that everything was right in the world and that life was exactly as it should be at that particular point in time.

The West Side, as I experience it, is more than just a neighborhood; it is heart and soul. For me, personally, it is both where I come from and where I am going, despite the fact that I’ve been privileged to experience an abundant life in other places. By birth, and now by choice, I am a Westsider. I embrace the joys and the hardships of the West Side community and carry a deep respect for its past and a resolute hope for its future.

I consider the Lake to be a manifestation of hope for all that is West Side. Its bright gothic spires stand proudly in the center of the most economically disadvantaged enclave of the city, beacons that can encourage and guide the West Side community to a higher consciousness of its plentiful gifts and unrealized potential. The Lake, too, is West Side, heart and soul, and on this particular Sunday, I experienced that.

As I have every Sunday morning this semester, I joined more than a dozen mostly non-traditional students for an 8 a.m. mathematics class. While it is not what most of us would prefer to be doing, we pass the time amicably in a conducive learning environment created by a stalwart humanitarian and intelligently nerdy professor, Dr. Monroe.

My usual routine is to corner a cup of coffee and a fruit-and-yogurt parfait at Mickey D’s on the way to class, but being that I was running slightly late that day, I was resigned to eating breakfast at Annie B’s. At class break, I headed over to the cafeteria for a taco.

“What’s that?” I asked Emilio, the line server, pointing to an unusual offering that I thought might be carne guisada.

“Menudo,” he said with a smile. Surprised, and at first somewhat wary about ordering a Mexican tradition at an institution, I decided to try it.

“Tell me if it’s any good” requested a classmate who took the safe bet, a bean and cheese taco.

Although mom’s menudo will always be my sentimental favorite, the Lake’s was one of the finest I’ve ever had. The culinary skills of the chef who cut the honeycomb tripe with uniform precision, added the just-right amount of hominy, and thickened the broth to perfection were exemplary. As word got out, one student after another started ordering menudo, topping it with finely chopped onion, fresh serrano chile and a squirt of lemon juice. On second thought, my classmate joined the line and ordered a bowl.

There was something very soothing about the delicious, well-prepared dish, something that brought people together like the alluring cuisine in the film “Like Water for Chocolate.” Sitting in the cafeteria that day, I felt part of a community and, in my book, that’s the essence of the West Side.

I can’t wait for class next Sunday. I want to see my classmates, Dr. Monroe and, of course, Emilio. Adiós Mickey D.