Did you also know that if you work for a law firm—even if you just type for a law firm—that you’re entitled to free legal advice and service? And the longer your tenure, the more experienced your lawyer. I had been with Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham so long that my divorce lawyer was Senior Partner Smith. His specialty was representing victims of spousal abuse—especially when the abusing spouse was real rich. Oh, lucky me.
When Garth and his attorney discovered who my attorney was, they wanted to avoid court, at all cost. They didn’t want the world to see the pictures of Dr. Brooks’s battered wife. They didn’t want the world to know that Dr. Brooks’s wife had spent weekends in a shelter for abused women. Why, it just wouldn’t look right down at The Club. So we agreed to settle, with the help of a court mediator.
The first thing Senior Smith requested was Garth’s and my financial records, including tax returns. And that’s when I discovered just how rich Garth and I were. Only I had not been benefiting from our richness. But all that was about to change.
When my lawyer asked me what I wanted from the marriage, I said, “Everything.”
He didn’t disappoint.
When the court mediator discovered that I had put Garth through dental school by typing, she—yes, she! Don’t you just love it?—thought it would be a good idea for Garth to put me through college by filling teeth. And I’d need a home while I went to college, so the court mediator thought that I should keep our home-sweet-expensive home/hotel. The court mediator asked if I wanted the memberships to the country club and the tennis club.
I said, “No, thank you. The cash equivalent will be fine.”
Alimony for ten years? Sure. I didn’t plan to remarry for at least ten years and one day.
Fifty
I guess everyone has some sort of obsession—hand washing, number repeating, lock checking—or addiction—alcohol, chocolate, sex. You might say my obsession/addiction is my Garth Whys. I have been separated from Garth for years, have moved on with my full, rich (very rich!) life, have grown in so many ways; yet I still can’t shake myself of the Garth Whys—those questions I keep asking myself about our relationship.
Why did Colonel Tom sell me out to the first bidder? Why didn’t I heed the warning signs of Garth’s jealousy, possessiveness, and control? Why couldn’t I see that Garth was so selfish and dishonest? Why did I let Garth belittle and intimidate me for so long? Why did I allow him to physically abuse me—repeatedly? Why was I so needy? Why didn’t I leave him sooner? Why was I so afraid that he would leave me? Why would I have cared?
Is there a Twelve Step Program for this obsession? I haven’t found it, though I’ve tried. Oh, I’ve tried them all, but I still ask, “Why? Why?” I loved him. Or love is what I called it. Perhaps Garth was an obsession. Our marriage was an obsession. Maybe I’m so damned obstinate that I just refused to cry uncle. Or was I so proud that I couldn’t admit I’d made a mistake? But how could any self-respecting woman put up with such abuse?
I recall one Saturday morning as Garth was getting ready to go play golf. I happened by the bathroom door as he was standing before the vanity mirror, primping. My god, he was still a gorgeous man. He was tan and muscled from his days on the golf course, and his blonde hair was still boyishly full and tousled. He was wearing a brightly-striped polo shirt and monogrammed bermudas, and his good looks hop-scotched me back over all the abuse to that first day of orientation when he smiled just for me.
I let out a whistle and said, “Wow! You look great.”
Still patting his hair into place, he didn’t take his eyes off of himself when he said, “Yeah, yeah, so do you.”
There I stood in my frazzled hair, rumpled pajamas, and morning breath. He hadn’t even looked my way, wasn’t even aware of my appearance. That’s when I realized he hadn’t looked my way or been aware of my appearance for a long time. I had just become “Yeah, yeah…” to him, just someone over there somewhere who didn’t even warrant a glance. I didn’t realize it then, but I realize now, that his “Yeah, yeah…” was the beginning of the end. It took a long while and a lot of work to get from the beginning of the end to the true end, but I made it.
But the whys haunted me.
They still do.
Maybe they always will.
Perhaps I need to remember so that I will never let it happen to me again.
Fifty-one
I hadn’t slept a wink and was still thrashing around at three in the morning. I finally gave up, got out of bed, and dragged myself to the shower. After scrubbing myself alert and washing my hair, I decided to shave my legs and underarms. Special days deserve a clean shave. And this was a special day. A frightening day. I had been waiting for this day for a long time and thought I was prepared, but now that it had arrived, I was terrified.
After a twelve-year absence, I was returning to college.
I didn’t know why and I didn’t know what I was going to do once I got there, and I didn’t know where I’d go if and when I finished. But I wanted to finish. I felt as though I had left so many things in my life undone, and I didn’t like being a quitter.
College felt like something I wanted, needed, had to complete.
Once I had finished my shower, dried my hair, applied a little make-up, and dressed, I had only four hours before I needed to leave for class. I checked out my appearance in my full-length mirror. The divorce, though my choice, had taken an emotional and physical toll; and I had neglected myself. I hadn’t cut or set or sprayed my hair in nearly a year, and it had grown to a healthy, lustrous mane. I had lost my appetite and often forgot to eat. I had dropped twenty-five pounds and was down to a size four. So much for neglect! I didn’t look like an eighteen year old, but I was doing just fine for an old lady—well, old by coed standards.
But I was still terrified.
After I had drunk a pot of coffee and read the newspaper from front to back, I gathered my backpack and keys and headed for my car. I had an hour before my first class, but I was only ten minutes from campus. I’d drive slowly.
I had made several dry runs and knew exactly where I needed to be for Sociology 101 and was in my classroom in just twenty-two minutes. I had my choice of desks, so I picked one in the middle. I figured I could get lost in the crowd, and my professor wouldn’t call on me and embarrass me by asking questions I couldn’t answer.
I sat down and took my textbook, my spiral notebook, and my three number-two pencils from my backpack and placed them neatly on my desk—book to the left, notebook to the right, pencils facing left to right at the top. The spiral notebook was exactly like the ones I had used in high school: lined paper held together with a blue cardboard binder. Back then I had covered front and back with Lydia + Jeremy and Mrs. Jeremy Cole and Lydia Cole. I laughed at the memory, but it did nothing to ease the anxiety I was feeling.
I was so nervous my hands were freezing. I was rubbing them together and blowing on them when in sauntered a very large and quite stunning young black man. He strutted toward me and stopped just feet away. There were thirty-nine unoccupied desks, but he chose the one next to mine. He squeezed into the seat, turned to me, and smiled broadly.
He extended his enormous hand and said, “La’treen Lavender, defensive lineman, but I’m sure you already knew that. What we got here? Multiple choice? Discussion questions? Don’t care for discussion; I don’t write so good. Classroom participation? I’m great at classroom participation. Homework? I’m not too good at homework, neither, what with all the practices, film watching, and games. Just don’t have the time, you know?”
I hadn’t said one word and couldn’t figure out why La’treen was telling me all this personal information and asking me questions about a class that had not even begun. I probably didn’t know as much as he did about sociology or the class requirements.
Then it hit me: “You think I’m your professor, don’t you?”
“You’re not?”
“La’treen, I’m sitting in a desk in the middle
of the classroom. I have a backpack, and I’m wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and tennis shoes, just like you. Just because I’m old enough to be your, um, big sister doesn’t mean I’m your professor. I’m pleased to meet you, La’treen, and I’m impressed that you’re a defensive lineman, whatever that is. But I can’t do a thing for you. Your charm is totally wasted on me.”
With that, La’treen threw back his head and let out the most infectious, sincere laugh I’d ever heard. Then he said, “Teach, my charm is never wasted.”
That was the first of many times that I would laugh out loud at La’treen Lavender.
Little did I know that in my first class on my first day of my return to college, La’treen Lavender and I were forging one of the most cherished friendships of my life.
As the class began filling with students, I explained to La’treen that I was returning to college after a twelve-year absence and that this was my very first class. I was confiding in my new friend that I was frightened and unsure of myself when our real teacher walked into the classroom and greeted us with, “Good morning, scholars.” Most of the students groaned, but I liked being called a scholar.
Our instructor, Dr. Greenberg, was fresh out of grad school and eager to teach his first class—yes, we were his very first—all about sociology. He spent that first session getting to know us.
“Why did you choose this class?” he asked.
Some young woman, eager to earn points, said that she wanted to study the interactions of humans and their effects on and contributions to society.
Most students were honest and said they were taking the class to satisfy a curriculum requirement.
But La’treen was the most honest of all: “I’m taking this class ‘cause Coach said it was a easy A.”
The class erupted in laughter. Even Dr. Greenberg laughed till he had to remove his glasses and wipe the tears from his eyes.
Once he had composed himself, he said, “Thank you, La’treen, for your candor. Class, I can’t think of a better way to end our session. Now, read the first three chapters, and I’ll see you back here Wednesday morning.
When Wednesday came, I returned to sociology a lot calmer and more confident than I had been on Monday morning. Why, I had two days’ experience under my belt! Once again, I was the first to arrive, and I was scanning the notes I had taken on the first three chapters when La’treen strolled through the door and headed my way.
“Mind if I sit by you again, Teach?”
He could have chosen any seat, could have charmed any nineteen-year old, but he preferred sitting by me. I was touched.
He said, “How were your first two days? Scary, huh? Don’t worry, though; they get easier.”
Then he gave me that comforting smile—not at all flirtatious, just kind. Over time, I would come to find just how kind my friend La’treen was.
I would pass him on campus, and he’d be surrounded by adoring fans, hanging onto his arms and his every word, vying for his attention and his approval.
He’d see me, throw his hand in the air, and bellow, “Hey, Teach!”
Everywhere I went on campus, I was greeted by total strangers who called me Teach. Cute little coeds to hulking athletes addressed me that way—because that’s what their hero called me.
La’treen could have ignored me, but he had understood how uncomfortable and alone I had been returning to school. I sensed that he knew how it felt not fitting in, being excluded; and his kindness made him want to save others from that isolation.
Day after day La’treen and I would arrive at class first, and we’d talk about our assignments until Dr. Greenberg began his lectures. La’treen confided that he was a slow reader and had a hard time comprehending what he read and that he tried to cover his shortcomings with his bravado.
Actually, he said, “I try to bluff my way through with my big mouth and my charm.”
As we talked before class, I’d tell him what I’d gotten out of the assignments. He’d look me in the eye as I spoke, shaking his head up and down in agreement. He took copious notes as I talked.
One day in class Dr. Greenberg asked, “How do we determine the paternity of a child?”
Before anyone else could speak, La’treen blurted, “If the judge say it’s yo kid, it’s yo kid.”
Once again, everyone in the class screamed with laughter as La’treen brought another session to a close.
La’treen passed sociology, though not with “a easy A”. I’m certain, however, that Dr. Greenberg gave him extra credit for his comic genius, alone.
On the last day of class, he turned to me and said, “Thanks, Teach.”
I said, “Thanks for what, La’treen?”
“For being my friend, instead of my fan; for liking me for me, instead of for my talent on the football field, even though you don’t even know what a defensive lineman is. And thank you for sharing your notes and helping me get through this class.”
Little did La’treen know that I had gotten so much more from him than he would ever get from me.
Then he said, “Will you come watch me play football next year?”
I was stunned by his request. I honestly didn’t know what a defensive lineman was and had never cared much for college football. (It was all I could do to drag myself to Percy’s games that one season he played for Middleburg.) But if La’treen wanted Teach to watch him play football, I would do my best to get to his games.
September found me standing in long, hot lines of jostling students to purchase dollar tickets. Saturday afternoons Percy and I would sit in the student section in the Indian-summer heat, surrounded by drunken frat boys. By the time the games started, those boys had no clue what they were celebrating, but they cheered with gusto for whatever was happening down on that field. Percy taught me all I needed to know to be a bona fide football fan, and we watched La’treen lead our team to two conference championships.
From time to time, La’treen and I would pass on campus, and he’d break away from his crowd to greet me and find out how Teach was getting along. He graduated—I’m guessing with degrees in stand-up comedy and charm—and, not surprisingly, was a first-round NFL draft pick.
La’treen went to the Miami Dolphins, where he has remained. He married a lovely Miami native, and they are raising three young boys. My friend continues to spread his kindness. He built and single-handedly funds the Lavender Boys’ and Girls’ Club for underprivileged Miami youth.
I hear from La’treen once a year, at Christmas, when he sends me greetings and a picture of his beautiful family. His hair is thinning and the lines around his eyes are deepening, but that charming smile never changes.
And he still calls me Teach.
Fifty-two
“Lydia, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A student?”
“At some point you have to decide where this is taking you. I know you enjoy going to school, but, one of these day, you’re going to run out of classes.”
“Well, until that time, does it really matter?”
“I think it does matter, Lydia. You’re a bright woman, but there is no direction to your life. You’re just going to classes with no end in sight. School is not the end; it’s a means to an end.”
I thought to myself: “No, typing is a means to an end. School seems like the perfect end to me.”
I was getting weary of this conversation. Dr. Samuels and I had had it over and over. He had been my faculty advisor since I had returned to school, and it was his job to guide me toward and through a major. But he considered me unguideable since I refused to declare a major.
“Lydia, you’ve taken every ology, as you call them, that the University has to offer. Why don’t you pick one and see where it takes you?”
This didn’t appear to be sound guidance to me, but Dr. Samuels had tried every other tactic, to no avail. I had enjoyed philosophy, but I didn’t see myself as a philosopher. I just wasn’t a very contemplative thinker. I had taken biology, but I certainly d
idn’t fancy myself a biologist. Even the most innocuous bug made me squeamish. I signed on just to satisfy my science requirement. I had considered anthropology at one time. Then my very masculine professor had put her hand on my shoulder, raised her eyebrow, and invited me on a dig. The perfect cure for anthropology! I found theology interesting, but, God knows, I wasn’t cut out to be a theologian.
“Lydia?”
“Yes, I’m thinking.”
“Well, it’s time we made a decision. You must declare a major. What do you enjoy most about your classes?”
After thinking for a moment, I said, “The writing.”
“The writing?”
“Yes, I enjoy courses that require narrative, not just multiple choice or fill-in-the-blanks. I find that so boring and unchallenging. And I write pretty well. At least that’s what my professors say. I get A’s on all of my essays, even if I don’t get A’s in all of my classes.”
“Now, we’re getting somewhere.”
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the student course guide. He leafed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. He slapped the book down on his desk, spun it so that it was facing me, and said, “Well, what do you think?”
“Ummmm….”
“Creative writing. The University offers a creative writing degree. How about giving it a try?”
“Sure, why not? It’s about the only thing I haven’t tried.”
And I figured if it didn’t work out, there was still crop science and animal husbandry.
Dr. Samuels ran his finger down the list of courses, flipped the page, and scanned till his eyes came to rest.
“There, found it: Creative Writing 101, M-W-F, 10 a.m., Dr. Theodore Chambers. Ted, good friend of mine. Students love him. He’ll be a great way to ease into your major. Yes, Lydia, your major. You are officially a creative writing major. My god, I thought we’d never get here.”
I had a pretty light semester. I needed two more phys. ed. classes and decided to take them both that term: bowling and golf. I was a lousy athlete, but I had been a lousy biologist, too. I also scheduled a history course. I loved my history classes. No fill-in-the-blanks. It was all essay writing. And then there was Creative Writing 101 with Theodore Chambers.
Getting the Important Things Right Page 21