“How do you think you knew that, Smith, that Clio was the best person to support you?” Laura says.
“I don’t know,” Smith says. “I just knew.”
From the moment Clio walked through the door of their dorm that first day, Smith sensed that there was something special about her. Bitsy and Thatcher were quick to judge when Clio arrived all alone, with no parents and few belongings.
Smith and her parents were already settling in the dorm. Bitsy was all aflutter, unpacking things Smith had urged her not to buy. Throw pillows and silver picture frames and bedding far too fine for a college kid. Thatcher paced in the background, huffing and puffing about sundry gripes, including that the dorms at Princeton were superior. When Clio walked through the door, Smith noticed how her parents’ eyes drifted to her new roommate. Their judgment was conspicuous and embarrassing. Smith cringed when Thatcher asked Clio where her parents were, and even more so when Clio fumbled with her answer.
From the beginning, Smith felt an urge to protect her new roommate. Though it would take Clio several months to open up, it was immediately clear to Smith that this girl was a completely different breed from the girls she’d grown up with—that she’d been through hard times, that she’d survived something meaningful, that she had it in her to be a true friend. About all of this, Smith was very much right.
“She’s always understood me better than anyone else. Far better than my own family. Not telling them was one of the best decisions I ever made. They would never have understood. Anderson girls are not the sort to get knocked up at eighteen. My father wouldn’t speak to me for a week after I voted for Obama. Can’t even fathom what my little freshman news would have done to him.”
“It makes perfect sense to me that you didn’t tell your parents, that you tucked it away. We’ve discussed how your parents cherish appearances, how you feel you must be Perfect Smith for them, right? That sometimes you feel their support of you, financial and otherwise, hinges on you being a certain version of yourself?”
“Yeah,” Smith says, thinking about this. “But it’s exhausting, Laura. I live here in this apartment and I make sure not to upset them too much, but it’s stifling. It’s not healthy. And I’ve been carrying around this secret for all these years and maybe it’s affecting me more than I thought and I feel kind of angry that I’ve had to hide this. And now Asad’s having a baby. I was so stunned this morning. I literally felt sick, but now I’m not as upset, which kind of surprises me.”
“I know you know this, but in terms of the abortion, you experienced something many college girls experience,” Laura says. “Not to diminish what you’ve been through, but it happens.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said last night. Tate. He was just so cool about it. He asked me something I can’t stop thinking about now. He asked me if I ever regret my decision.”
“Do you?” Laura says.
“I don’t think so,” Smith says, noticing a catch in her voice that suggests that even after all these years, the topic is an emotional one. “I don’t regret it, but when I think about it, it does make me sad. That it happened at all. That I had to go through that. That I didn’t even feel like I could tell anyone in my family. And I want a family, Laura, and sometimes I wonder if that was my chance, if I blew it. But most of the time I don’t even think about it at all. I had convinced myself that I was over it, that it was just this thing in my past, but then there I was last night telling Tate. And then I wake up to this baby news. It’s kind of uncanny.”
“Why do you think you told him?”
“Vats of alcohol?” Smith says, laughing, but her laughter quickly tapers. “I don’t know. It just came out. There’s something about him.”
What is it, though? A lack of pretense, for one. Tate’s been through hard things and he’s honest. She’s never seen a man be that vulnerable. Asad was a stoic and Smith thought she liked that, his macho toughness, but now she’s not so sure. Tate was sweet last night, endearing and open, and Smith realized at some point in the night that she’d stopped trying to be her best self and was just herself, struggling and insecure about certain things. And, yes, the alcohol certainly pushed her along, but she just felt like even if she didn’t see this guy again, she wanted him to see her, to know something about her. She felt safe.
“He was so open with me about his own life and I guess I just felt comfortable?”
“Yes. You felt comfortable. I want to hear more about that. Who were you being in that moment you told him, Smith?”
Who was she being? She was being an idiot. She was being everything she isn’t—messy, carefree. But she was also being herself, the self she doesn’t usually let people see, the self she’s worked so doggedly for all of these years to control, to box up.
“Someone who was free? Imperfect? Alive?” Smith says, the words just tumbling from her.
“Exactly,” Laura says. “Thank you for being human. How are you feeling right now?”
Smith takes a breath and thinks about this. She’s been jittery all day, nauseated, on the brink of tears. Flitting between exhaustion and confusion and disappointment. But she feels a bit different now.
“I feel vulnerable,” Smith says, well aware that she’s using a word Laura loves. “I asked Tate to Sally’s wedding and he said he’d come, but I haven’t heard from him today and I’m feeling foolish and I don’t know what’s happening. I hate this. I’m just feeling stuck, Laura. He made some crack last night about me still being on the golden leash or something and I know he was joking around, but it didn’t feel funny. I mean, let’s be real: I’m living in the building where I spent my childhood; I’ve literally gone nowhere and suddenly, it seems the universe is intent on shoving my inertia in my face. I met with a client today and she was the most lovely woman who just lost her husband and she has three boys and we sat there going through her things and pictures and she’s had this whole life, Laura, and it’s obviously devastating that she’s lost the love of her life, but I found myself oddly envying her because of all the things she’s had. And then, lo and behold, I run into an old classmate from high school and she’s pregnant and pushing a stroller and I felt it again . . . envious, like everyone is moving forward but me.”
“I want you to know that I’m hearing you and I can sense how stuck you feel, but I feel it’s my job to remind you how far you have come. Think back, Smith. Remember how hard it was for you to get out of bed when we first started talking? Remember how poorly you were treating your mind and body? Remember all the goals you set and how many you have met? You are absolutely moving forward, Smith, but it’s work. It’s not meant to feel simple. I’m proud of you. What I want you to tell me is what you want right now. Do you want this man to come with you to the wedding? Do you want to explore this person more, this you more?”
“I do,” Smith says with a certainty that startles her. “But I’m not sure if it matters what I want.”
“It absolutely does,” Laura says. “Tell me. The wedding is this week, and how are you feeling about it, Smith? What are you most worried about?”
“My speech,” Smith says quickly. “I want to say the right thing and be sentimental and funny and share the perfect anecdotes and I want my parents’ friends to think I’m smart too, that just because I’m not the doctor it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
“Consider something,” Laura says. “What if there is no right thing to say? What if the best thing you can do is get up there and be yourself and say something true?”
Smith thinks about this. What if it’s this simple? “I guess I’m also worried that people will see me as the older spinster sister and that they will somehow notice just how much I’m struggling.”
“And why would it be so bad for people to see that things aren’t perfect in your life? What do you think would happen?”
What would happen? Smith can’t answer this. “I don’t know,” she says.
“I don’t know your parents. I’ve never met them and I don’t need to.
But I do know you pretty well at this point and I have tremendous confidence that you will stand up and tell the truth. Your truth. That’s all you need to do.”
“I just want him to come. I know it sounds so cheesy, but when I was with him last night, I was able to let go in a way I haven’t in a really long time.”
“That’s not cheesy, Smith. That’s wonderful. Now, I’m going to make a request for you to take really good care of yourself in the week ahead and I want to come to some agreements about what you need to give yourself permission for around the wedding weekend, okay?”
“Okay.”
“First, if you are at the wedding and things get too hard, I want you to allow yourself to step away. It doesn’t matter that you are the maid of honor. You are a person and you have needs and you must give yourself space if that feels right. And another thing: I’m going to ask you to try to limit your use of social media this week. You and I have discussed that there are certain times when it’s not healthy for you and it makes you feel things you do not need to feel. This week is about you and not about all those people in your feeds. And with respect to Tate, would you perhaps give yourself permission to reach out to him after a certain time if you haven’t heard from him? Just so you know what to expect this weekend, whether you will be there on your own or with a date?”
“I’ve never done that. I’ve always waited for the guy to call.”
“How would calling him make you feel?”
Smith feels a slight smile coming on. “Vulnerable.” That word again.
“Yup. I’ve said it before, but vulnerability is the true cornerstone to connection, Smith. We can’t reach other people and be reached if we have our walls up all the time.”
Smith clutches the phone and nods. “Intellectually, I know you’re right, but walls sometimes feel easier.”
“I know they do, and we’ve talked about how you were raised in a world of walls. Many of us were.”
“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow morning if I haven’t heard from him, just to find out about the wedding.”
“That sounds like a solid plan to me,” Laura says. “And listen, if you need to chat before our next session, please call me. Smith, I’m here.”
“Thank you, Laura,” Smith says, “but, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I hurled a glass pitcher against a wall this morning. I’ve never done anything like that in my life. It kind of scared me.”
A brief stretch of silence gives way to Laura’s laughter. “Progress, I tell you,” she says.
When they hang up, Smith feels a surge of motivation and positivity. She stretches her arms overhead and stands and lights a pine-scented candle on the coffee table in the living room. She turns on some holiday music, which, yes, she listens to year-round. Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. The music fills the room, its dulcet tones stirring in her a deep nostalgia. For what? The halcyon hues of childhood? For those bright college days? She once listened to this CD in the library at Davenport College as she studied for finals.
In the kitchen, spotless once more, she brews some mint tea. Hydration is key, she remembers, and pours herself a tall glass of sparkling water too, and slices a small wedge of fresh organic lime on her monogrammed cutting board. Smith squeezes the lime and then drops it in, watches it sink to the bottom. She drinks the water fast, the bubbles burning her throat, and then pours another glass. She can do this.
She runs a bath. Laura is right; she must take good care of herself this week. She must avoid people and things that drain her and drag her down. As she waits for the tub to fill, she opens the cabinet and scans her aromatherapy collection, all those pristine bottles lined up. She chooses one, lavender, and squeezes a few drops into the water. She breathes deeply as the scent fills the room. She steps out of her clothes, folds them neatly and places them on the window seat, removes her underwear and bra, folds them too.
The bath does what it always does: it calms her. She towels off and lotions her body, pulls a comb through her hair. She wraps up in her robe and finds her Moleskine notebook. She will jot some notes for her speech.
Her phone buzzes. A text appears on her screen.
It’s him.
Tate: You around?
A smile spreads across her face and her hands begin to tremble. She reads the two words again and again.
She can’t bring herself to respond but sits there frozen.
Now she hears the lobby phone crooning in the distance, in the front of the apartment. She stands and runs to it. Picks up. It’s Edwin the doorman.
“Ms. Anderson, I have a gentleman named Tate here to see you.”
Panic fills her, but also something else. Joy. Relief. She looks down at herself, her bare body cloaked loosely in a robe. She runs her hands through her wet hair.
“Edwin, can you stall him for five minutes and then send him up?”
“Of course, Ms. Anderson.”
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
TATE ROBERT PENNINGTON
All photographs are self-portraits.
—Minor White (1908–1976)
YALE ALUMNI MAGAZINE
SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 2012
where they are now
PhotoPoetry for five million users—and counting
Tate Pennington ’01 (economics) has, along with classmate Arun Vihal ’01 (engineering), developed a digital application (“app”) that marries Pennington’s childhood passions of photography and poetry and Vihal’s engineering skills. The passion project, PhotoPoet, was never meant to be more than that. Conceived by the classmates on a weekend surfing trip to Malibu, the product was built and rolled out to users by Pennington and Vihal in a swift six months. The application permits users to combine their own photography with classic and current poetry, poetry that is in the public domain and poetry that has been submitted by writers and curated by Pennington himself. The company, which boasts a social good component (for every hundred shares, $1 goes to PEN American Center and $1 goes to literacy programs in Vihal’s home country of India), was recently purchased by Twitter for $40 million.
Yale: Why photography and poetry?
Pennington: When I was small, my parents gave me a Polaroid. I would take pictures of everything, including my family’s feet under the dinner table. My father wanted me to be a baseball player, but I preferred staying inside and reading William Carlos Williams and Walt Whitman. No real training!
Y: Did you consider a photography or English major while studying at Yale?
P: I didn’t really. I would have loved to major in these subjects, but I knew I needed to earn a paycheck. I went the more practical route of economics and thankfully I found my way back here.
Y: Why is PhotoPoet not just another app?
P: Well, I’m biased, but I don’t think enough people have poetry in their lives. We live in a self-improvement and happiness culture full of fixes, but it’s astonishing what a handful of meaningful words can do, particularly when combined with a telling image. I also think people have the desire to create things and this app allows that. There’s also good quality control; you can’t just post any words.
Y: Why the philanthropic component of the business?
P: Arun and I felt strongly about this. He and I have been privileged with a fine education and opportunities and share in a moral compulsion to help people who do not have the freedom we do to express ourselves, or the means to learn the way we’ve been able to.
Leon Truitt ’81—This interview has been condensed and edited.
1:12AM
“A bucket of booze & some pussy.”
A bucket of booze & some pussy will do you a world of good.
So went Jeff’s opening line in the e-mail arranging tonight’s guys’ night.
They’ve been down here at the White Horse Tavern for hours now. Six of them, married and decidedly unmarried, scattered around the crowded bar, which is made from a single, seamless slab of mahogany.
There
are white horses everywhere. Perching atop chandeliers, cantering along darkened ledges and shelves. The most prominent white horse stares down at them from the wall behind the mirrored bar. Tate looks up at it, this familiar creature, and drinks White Horse Whisky in the form of pity shots, one after the other, in an as-ever-futile effort to numb the hard shit. After five shots, he puts up his hand in protest, reminds the guys that his favorite poet, Dylan Thomas, died after downing a record shitload of whiskey shots—eighteen or something—at this very bar, but more shots arrive. He does them. Who is he to turn them down?
The guys take turns visiting the neon jukebox nestled next to the grandfather clock in the corner, to queue up songs old and new. Pharrell and Morrissey, Radiohead and Counting Crows.
Jeff, a friend from high school in St. Louis, always a stand-up guy, organized tonight, corralling a solid crew of his buddies for an evening of anesthetic carousing. Tate feels a vague gratitude for the gesture, but mostly he finds himself judging his company. His first instinct is that they are moneymaking dicks blitzed with beer and high on Investopedia lingo. It’s all market-turmoil this and standard-deviation that, abandon rates and face values, and Tate feels a blaze of relief that he escaped this shit before it was too late. This could’ve been him. This would’ve been him. He’s no better than these dudes.
Tate looks around, and though his mind is getting foggy, he fills with a mixture of awe and nostalgia. This place is a historic landmark for the alcoholic artist; it’s been the cradle and grave of a slew of famous patrons he admires—Anaïs Nin, Jack Kerouac, Norman Mailer and Andy Warhol and Frank McCourt. Rumor has it that the night Belushi died in 1982, Dan Aykroyd arrived at closing time to shut the doors and buy the entire bar a round of drinks. That Thomas slipped into a coma and died days after his epic whiskey record is certainly a cautionary tale of sorts: Do not romanticize the boozing/creative life. It’s just fantasy.
The Ramblers Page 13