Under the Birch Tree

by Nancy Chadwick

  “You did what? Where were you?”

  “I was at a bar, not far from here, and it was crowded with lots of pushing through to move around. I don’t know how it happened. Don’t worry, it’s not like I had a lot of money in it. I’ll check back there when they open later tonight.”

  “Oh … I stopped by to see your brother after my dental appointment.”

  Oh, God, stopped in on him unannounced? Why?

  “Since he lived so close to the dentist and it was such a nice day. You know, he was out mowing the lawn? Your father could never get him to mow the lawn when …”

  “Okay, Mom, okay. He was taking care of his place. I’m sure he’s doing just fine with working and keeping house.

  “I wasn’t allowed inside, though.”

  “That’s probably another good thing.”

  I don’t remember Tim and me talking on the phone during my college years, probably because Mom kept me up to date about his wellbeing and what he’d been up to. Seeing Tim and Mom on holidays was enough to keep us plugged in to each other.

  And I did get my wallet back. O’Donohue’s called and said they were holding it.

  In my third year, I realized not only how much I had grown up but also how far I still had to go. Getting to know these male friends last year had been a whirlwind in desire and anticipation with an overactive mind as the driving force. Why doesn’t anything work out? If I’m so great and cute and fun to be with, why don’t I have a boyfriend? I also wondered why I hadn’t heard any of my female friends sharing similar sentiments. I reasoned they either had boyfriends, or they couldn’t possibly be bothered with them and just didn’t care. It was high school talk, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself by bringing up the subject of boys when an eye-rolling reaction from the ladies was sure to follow. I chastised myself for thinking that the topic of males was the only conversation among women whose emotions were the key element in female bonding. I saw how my women friends were comfortable with themselves, seeking fun and overall enjoyment of their days.

  “Lynn, Deb, and I are going to the Mug Rack on Friday for the concert,” Carol, my former dorm mate, said to me. “You wanna come? They usually have really good bands, and the Union is never too crowded at that time.”

  “Let’s do it. Anyone else going?” I asked. I was hinting to see if any guys were included or if we’d be meeting anyone knew.

  “Don’t know. I just had a really long week and want to rock out and get crazy.”

  I noted how Carol kept her focus on herself and did not make mention of anything that had to do with boys, enjoying a Friday night with a few friends and letting Carol be Carol. I especially recognized my ease at joining the craziness, dancing, and laughing. I didn’t need the subject of anything male to be what bound my female friendships.

  My perspective of the male friendship had shifted. I had male teaching assistants—graduate students—for photojournalism and British literature, and had viewed the teacher–student relationship as bounded by a line until I got to know them, and that included outside the classroom.

  “We’re off to O’Donohue’s, want to come?” Chris, the quintessential newspaper guy and my good buddy asked me at the end of class.

  “Sure, sounds good.”

  “Tom and John from the paper are coming. Rick said he’s coming too.”

  “Rick? Who’s Rick?”

  “Mr. Johnson.”

  “You call him Rick?”

  “Yeah. We’ve hung out before. He’s cool. We’ve had a couple of beers, shot some pool, you know.”

  “Really? Like you’re good friends, huh?”

  I quickly saw how a rapport could be developed where a friendship could be forged between student and teacher.

  During a midterm exam in British Lit, we had to write an essay about a piece of literature that created laughter after a serious discussion in a previous class. When I finished my exam, I handed my blue book to Mr. Sullivan. He scanned it while I stood in front of him until he worked his way to the end page where he read, “… and that’s all I can say about this because that’s all I know because we started laughing and didn’t finish discussing the analysis.” Our laughter turned our faces red as we recalled that discussion. We walked out together.

  “Thanks, Mr. Sullivan, for a great class.”

  “Thanks, and it’s Denny. You can call me Denny up until I get my law degree. And then it’s Mr. Sullivan.”

  Denny? He wanted me to call him by his first name?

  I was learning more about how friendships can be deepened by watching a few female friends become more concerned with their happiness and wellbeing, and where the removal of a boundary line ignited new friendships outside the classroom. I had seen the role of laughter and not taking myself too seriously as friendship-maker.

  By the end of the school term, I was tired of my boyfriend-less angst, drama, and questioning why nothing works out for me. I reasoned I couldn’t grow until I let go of that preoccupation. In releasing, I had made room for newness that had become integral to my adult life’s outlook.

  One day I was strolling through center campus and stopped in front of the St. Joan of Arc chapel, dating back to the early fifteenth century, brought from the village of Chasse in the Rhone Valley, southeast of Lyon, France. This intimate place was a haven for prayer and reflection as the heart of the university community. There was something about this reverent, small structure that offered connections, grounding, perhaps recentering, to me and to others who would stand in its presence. My mind captured snapshots of gratitude, replacing my outlook of what I didn’t have with what I did have, acknowledging the growth of my many connections. I realized my belief in God was maturing too, and that my reliance on something unconditional would always be there for me. Classroom knowledge about God and evolution into a daily practice of a faith-driven life had become part of my membership in the Jesuit community. Perhaps it was both, maybe the same.

  Marquette gave me not only a sense of place but also a sense of being, beyond the physical connections. My understanding of the role of God in my life had evolved from my first memory of praying to him to show me the light when I was under the swimming pool’s surface. I had practiced my religion through my grade school years, completing the sacraments of Holy Communion, Penance, and Confirmation, but I lacked the dedication of these Catholic rites of passage through my life. Intellectually, I learned about my faith and God but grew to understand that their importance lies in their relationship with me. The university reawakened my living a life with God. My faith became the only relationship that never caused anxiety, frustration, or loneliness for me. God was another connection I acknowledged. God was home.

  It was time to go back to my apartment. In a lingering moment, I recited words of thanks. The pause gave me the opportunity to see how the chapel was nestled in the center of a few encircling birch trees. God had spoken. I would forever be held by birch trees in thought and God in spirit.

  I was learning more about this university, my relationship with it, and its tenets for life, one that included a spiritual blessing where my faith gave birth to a new connection. I didn’t need the Catholic Church to grant me my religious identification or give me permission to call myself a person of faith. I no longer needed to feel guilty about not going to Mass every Sunday or giving up something for Lent or repenting judiciously on the holiest days of the year. I did not have to follow the traditional Catholic ways to confirm my loyalty or commitment. My relationship with God and prayer defined me as a spiritual being who had faith in something greater. I came to understand how I fit into faithful living, not how faith fit me. My belief was my own, and through God, I learned more about myself. And it was personal. I turned toward God, my God who I believed wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.

  I would miss the views of center campus, realizing I would be there for only one more year. Reflection was automatic, as if a switch turned whenever I sat in the only chair in my apartment to watch a pulse of s
tudent traffic shuttle in and out while looking out at my world. I had my own square footage, and I counted my blessings in silent meditation. But soon I realized I had no place to go for the summer. Where do I belong? Where do I go from here? Dad was living in South Carolina with Selma, his fourth wife, (Laurie had died of cancer), in a house he had built along the thirteenth hole of a golf course. Visiting him was like being in a stranger’s house and living with my mother would be stepping back when I had moved forward.

  So I stayed in Milwaukee that summer and moved to the Saint James Apartments, a 1930s vintage building complete with caged elevator. My new apartment was large, with three spacious bedrooms to house four roommates, a dining room, kitchen, and even a small balcony. It was a welcome change from being alone in 425 square feet to spending my last year with friends.

  During the summer, I worked evenings doing data entry of insurance claims, which left entire days open to find something, anything, to do. I would walk miles just to the grocery store, stroll around the empty campus, sit in the public library, wander through Italian Fest at the lakefront. Because I had no friends to distract me, I had ample time to think too much and then think about things a little bit more, and then maybe I’d analyze the whole thing again. Inactivity and gaps in time left me open to a wandering mind.

  I often sat on my balcony after eating dinner. I would look at the stars and wish upon them and write in my journal under a glowing moonlight while listening to the city noises. There would be unusual darkness in a city. Then I’d look up to see the glow of the city lights bursting against an ashen sky. I was assured when I saw a glimmer of light that the heavens were trying to tell me there was light out there, really there was.

  My observations were not limited to skies above and streets below. A rustling of leaves diverted my attention as something uncharacteristic for a cityscape. In the corner of the balcony, slender tree limbs had grown, extending their reach over the deck. I walked closer to have a look. I recognized the leaves and the wispy branches flowing from a trunk of peeling bark. A birch tree! I felt its aloneness, standing in the corner of the alley and overgrown in shape. We had our spots to be, and we were making the best of where we were and what we had.

  Jeff, a business student, lived upstairs. He had a motorcycle. He wore a black leather jacket and blue jeans, and his black curly hair escaped from his helmet but never waved in the wind while he rode his bike. A black moustache outlined his upper lip, and with every burst of laughter, his upper body wriggled and his smiling cheeks perked up, crushing his brown eyes shut. He would pull around to the back alley of the apartment and run the engine hard until I walked out and paid attention to him with a wave hello. Just like in the movies, I thought.

  “Hey, how are you?” he’d yell up to me. “You want to come out and play? It’s a great night. Just a quick ride?”

  I was down the back stairs before he could pull out the extra helmet.

  “I’m surprised you’re out. You are always studying, trying to make the best grades for grad school.”

  “I am and you’re right. That is and will be my focus. I don’t have time for anything else except this one ride so shut up and hop on.”

  “You can actually ride one of these things?”

  “Now hold on to my waist.”

  “What happens if I hold on too tight? If I squeeze tighter will we go faster?” I said.

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “Hey … look … check out—”

  “That moon, it’s huge, it’s so bright against the black sky.”

  “It’s so big you can almost see its different shades of color.”

  Bike rides under the stars, and sharing study breaks at night all contributed to a relationship I didn’t understand. I knew he had a girlfriend, but he never spoke about her. “I just find our friendship so refreshing,” he said to me.

  On Valentine’s Day, I received a card under my door. Jeff’s personal note ended with, “… and you saw the moon too,” referring to the serendipitous moment on the motor-bike. I left it at that.

  Later that week he called.

  “Hi … Jeff? Are you sick? You sound so quiet,” I asked urgently.

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I got my, my … Can you …”

  I hung up the phone and ran up a flight of stairs in a panic to his apartment. The front door was open. Alley lights cast dim shadows in an already-dark room, where I could barely see Jeff’s outline sitting slumped on the floor. I ran to him. “Are you okay?” He looked at me, nodded. He couldn’t talk. A runny nose matched his weepy eyes.

  “My god, what happened?” I asked.

  “I didn’t get the grade.”

  “It’s about a grade? Did you fail?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, what’s the problem?”

  “It dropped my GPA,” he yelled.

  I didn’t know what effect a lowered GPA had on admittance to grad school, if any. I wondered if he was being too dramatic.

  I offered him a hug and a hand to hold, but the consolations didn’t work. So I thought I’d sit with him, up against the wall, for a while longer, in silence.

  I was sorry for Jeff, and I hoped I could do something to make him feel better. I wished I could take us back to those moments on his motorcycle, where the endless black night and glowing moon made us feel limitless and unburdened, unlike other nights sitting on my balcony when my birch tree and I felt our limitations. We were stuck in the wrong spot as we tried to make the best of where we were. But I couldn’t. I knew he had to go through what was necessary to get what he wanted and where he wanted to be, just like me. We both had our moments, and this was one of them for Jeff. “I’m glad you called me. Thank you for thinking of me,” were the only words I whispered to him.

  “I don’t know what I can do for you,” I added.

  “It’s okay. Go. I’ll be okay,” he said softly.

  The new year arrived. I needed self-confidence like any warrior needed armor. But in retrospect, I thought I had come a long way since my first year. When I glanced at my student ID picture, I saw a young woman with round oversized eyeglasses, a toothy smile with dimples, and brown cropped hair framing an innocent face. Just my head shot told you that the rest of me, all five foot three, 118 pounds, was petite and easily overlooked in a crowd. But now I saw myself evolving from a speechless schoolgirl to an inquisitive, driven young professional who maybe wasn’t going to be easily overlooked after all. I was learning to connect to myself, to trust that I would figure out who I was and that God hadn’t let anything bad happen to me.

  defining moments

  Defining moments highlighted my senior year. I had heard older, middle-aged adults talk about their defining moments, so I considered these would not happen until I got older, say, in my thirties! I thought I was on the right track when I was twenty-two, albeit a little early in life, because of my defining moments. They became noted markers that let me see my growth’s progress like a child’s standing up against a wall to be measured against a yardstick.

  My first revelation happened in my advertising class, where we had to create an advertising campaign for a final project. I was a business manager on the team for the campaign because I had a knack for seeing the big picture and pulling necessary elements together to present a detailed, attractive package. This automatic inclination came naturally and granted me confidence. I considered my discovered talent and interest a sign that signified a direction to pursue after graduation.

  Additional moments were surprises that called just as I was knocking on the door.

  “I need to start class with an announcement, if you can just listen up for a minute here,” Professor Lynn said. He was a fifty-something Ad Campaigns teacher, one of the best, I thought, who looked like everyone’s dad, with his pipe smoking and casual dress to match his attitude. He would always look straight at you and hesitate for a moment when responding to a question posed to him, then ans
wer it with a smile.

  With pipe in hand, he started class. “I received a letter from Thompson Recruitment Advertising, they’re right here, just up the street from us, a small agency that specializes in recruitment ads,” the professor continued, “and they have an opening in their office for someone to work part-time as an intern. I also want to add that this is the first-ever offer this college has had for an internship with an outside company. So whoever gets this opportunity could be a real trendsetter here.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said, raising my hand. I felt the students’ gazes on me.

  Professor Lynn handed me the letter.

  “It’s an opportunity,” he said. “Good luck.”

  My credibility as a student and as a new working professional was defined by my professor’s announcement to the class. His confidence in me showed in his smile and a chuckle that worked in unison with his pipe-smoking rhythms.

  A defining moment followed when I got the job. It didn’t matter that I was an unpaid intern reading newspapers and cutting out tear sheets and answering a ringing phone, because for a couple mornings a week I wasn’t a student but a working professional as I embraced the rhythm of the small recruitment advertising office. My defining moments were events that left lasting impressions. I had yet another place to be.

  In early May, as the school term neared its end, it was time to leave the university. I was nervous about my exit interview at the J-school because I didn’t know what it was or what to expect. It seemed so final, so abrupt, as if I had to sign out with a final act of permanence. I think my hesitancy was excitement in disguise, an indication the end had arrived and all my hard work, my experiences, and my struggles to be on my own had come together. The interview contained the ingredients for success and a map for the future.

  I met Professor Lynn in a small office next to the stairwell on the second floor in the J-school.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, taking a chair next to me. A soft, yellow-orange glow from an old desk lamp was the only light on our faces.