“I don’t care what you say your relationship is with this young lady. You need to leave.”
“You can’t kick me out. I pay her tuition. She’s my daughter.” He was screaming. A crowd of girls began to gather in the vestibule, between the lobby and the hall to the bedrooms. They were quiet now, wide-eyed.
“While she’s on this campus, she’s under the direction of the Dean, and while she’s in this building, she’s under my direction. I’m in charge of her and in charge of this dormitory. We do not allow violence on this campus and, certainly not in this building. Get out now.” Mrs. Druid, the was yelling and stood straight, unwavering inches from Daddy, daring him to hit her.
“Get out of my way!” he said. He tried to move around her and reached to pull me to my feet. Two security guards entered the front door and moved towards Daddy.
“Sir,” one of them said. “You need to leave. Now.”
“I’ll leave, but not without my daughter. She’s coming with me.”
“No, Sir. She stays here. You leave.” Daddy took a swing at one of the guards who caught Daddy’s wrist and twisted it around his back. The other guy pulled on Daddy’s other arm and, before he knew it, he was handcuffed, his wrists behind his back. I sat on the floor watching the ordeal as if it was a movie.
“You can’t do this,” he yelled. “I know the governor. I’ll have your badges before I’m done with you.” Mrs. Druid got on her knees on the floor next to me, removed her jacket and used it to apply pressure to my bleeding face. I was dizzy and confused. She put her arm around me and before I knew it several of the girls were there with towels and someone appeared with a bag of ice.
“Miss Druid,” one of the guards said. “Take pictures. Call the City Police and get this girl an ambulance.”
Mrs. Druid got up, left me in the care of the rector, Amelia Thibodeaux, and moved quickly towards a door on the side of the sofa. She came back with a camera and her assistant, Angela Alford, who carried a notepad and a pencil.
“Name’s Susie Burton, Angela. This is her dad,” Miss Druid said as she clicked pictures of Daddy in handcuffs, held on either side by uniformed men. He was screaming obscenities and the guards struggled to hold on to him. Mrs. Druid snapped pictures of everything—me, the books strewn across the room, Daddy yelling.
A few days later I stood in front of her desk, the pictures spread out like a display, and I saw things I hadn’t seen that day. Daddy’s face, a look of hatred and anger, me balled up like a coward, blood all over my clothes, the sofa, the floor; books spread out, some of them bloody, torn, stomped on, a gang of girls standing in the foyer, looks of surprise and amazement plastered across their faces, Lauren and Amelia coddling me and a couple of girls I didn’t know with towels and an ice bag.
I stood there and cried like a baby, stitches across one cheekbone and my lower lip, two black eyes, a wide ace bandage around my ribs. Mrs. Druid came from the back of her desk and put her arms around me, pulled me close to her and let me cry in her arms. The last time I’d felt this kind of love was when Tootsie held me. I missed Toot. I missed Catfish and Marianne. I missed Rodney. No, I needed Rodney.
Mrs. Druid told me she had filed charges against Daddy. I didn’t know what to make of that. She asked me to file charges, too, which, of course I would never consider. He’d kill me. She said that Daddy told the judge he was sending me to school in New York in January and that if I wanted to stay at LSU, she could get legal custody and keep him away from me. I told her I’d go to New York, that I’d probably be safer there. She tried to talk me into staying, but she just didn’t understand and I didn’t try to explain.
Part Five: 1969
Chapter Thirteen
Sarah Lawrence
1969
I REMEMBERED NEW YORK City from a trip I’d taken with Daddy when I was thirteen, a few months after he’d beat me for going to the Quarters. He always took me on a business trip after one of my accidents—a way of saying he was sorry, I guessed. New York City with Daddy had been much different from the massive metropolis where I arrived alone that January, 1969.
As the cab traveled north out of Manhattan, and the jungle of skyscrapers fell away, I became more relaxed. The town of Yonkers was about the size of Baton Rouge, doable. It was built around Getty Square, a charming area of shops, restaurants and government offices. I began to feel better when the cabbie drove onto the small, 49-acre campus above the banks of the Bronx River. The Tudor style buildings were tucked among dramatic outcroppings of exposed bedrock and large oak and elm trees. With about 1,200 students the all-girls school seemed a welcomed change from LSU’s 30,000-student campus.
But I was 1400 miles from Rodney—a world away.
My first semester at Sarah Lawrence was the hardest. I was homesick. New York was so different from South Louisiana and the girls were a lot more snobbish and cliquish than the ones at LSU. It was the spring semester when I entered and the other freshman had been there since August, some since June and they’d already made friends and had their cliques. I felt like odd-man-out.
January 18, 1969
Dear Rod,
I’m miserable up here. It’s so lonely and all the girls know each other and have formed their groups. The only thing that keeps me sane is the memory of the few times we were together in Baton Rouge. I remember how you kissed me and how it felt to have your arms around me.
You make me feel safe. I’m really looking forward to your visit this summer.
Yours,
Susie
January 15, 1969
Dear Susie,
There’s nothing that makes me happier than opening my post box and seeing your handwriting on an envelope inside. I live to hear from you. I can’t believe he sent you so far away from me. I miss you terribly. I think about our long talks and how you put your head on my chest when we sat together on Jason’s sofa. I can still smell your shampoo and that lilac, or is it lavender, scent that seems to come from your body. I love everything about you and I really miss you. I’m counting the days until I can hold you again.
I love you.
Yours, forever,
Rod
*
It wasn’t enough. I thought about him all the time, no matter how hard I tried to put him out of my mind. My loneliness made me long for him more. He wrote that he missed me in every letter and told me in the conversations we had on the phone every few weeks.
I stayed in New York for summer school because Daddy said he could only afford one airline ticket a year and I should save it for Christmas.
June 3, 1969
Dear Rod,
It’s June. Only six weeks before you come to visit me. I can think of nothing else. I miss you so much. I still remember how it felt to kiss you. Sometimes I wish we weren’t so dedicated to wait until I’m eighteen. But it’s just one more thing I love about you. You are so wise. Girls here are very open about their relationships. Half of them sleep with other girls, the other half with guys. I witness broken hearts every day and I can’t count how often I’ve heard, “I gave it to him, and he dumped me.” My daddy always said, “Why buy the cow if you can get the milk free.” His way of saying I’d be sorry if I ever did it before marriage. I’m not sure why I’m rambling on about this. I’m really glad we are waiting. It will be worth it.
Yours,
Susie
*
The campus was almost deserted in summer, only one dorm, half-filled. I counted the days until Rodney came to see me in August.
August 1, 1969
Dear Susie,
You are going to be angry, but know that I’m angrier than you are. I can’t go to New York this summer. I worked two jobs but still didn’t save enough money for the trip and for my dorm and meal ticket for the fall and spring semesters. I’m so sorry. I miss you more than you could ever miss me, and I think about kissing you and holding you every minute of every day.
This has nothing to do with
how much I love you. Please forgive me. I feel like such a failure. I know I’ve let you down. I’ve let myself down. I never want you to think you can’t trust me to do what I say I’m going to do.
I have a broken heart. I love you. More now.
Yours forever,
Rod
I cried for days, until I ran out of tears, but not sorrow. It was a week before I could finally answer his letter.
August 14, 1969
Dear Rod,
I’m not angry. After I cried myself half to death, I came to the conclusion that we should not hope for things that will probably never be. We should realize that none of our plans will ever be realized because of who we are and where we come from. I am learning to appreciate the memories, especially those in Baton Rouge, knowing that those idyllic times were probably once-in-a-lifetime moments. I want to be grateful for what we’ve had, not ungrateful for what we can’t have.
Please don’t be so hard on yourself. I trust you to always do what you say you will do. Remember, I know what it’s like to be controlled by outside forces, unseen rules and doctrines greater and older than ourselves.
I think about kissing you, too. Maybe, one day.
Yours,
Susie
*
I met a girl from Maine who invited me to go home with her at the end of the summer term. Kennebunkport was fabulous with its lower village and Dock Square located right on the Atlantic Ocean and the Kennebunk River. I watched schooners and ships make their way down river to the sea and was amazed at the beautiful old mansions built in the 1600’s by wealthy sea captains. They reminded me of the plantation homes in Louisiana. Although the town reeked of wealth and privilege, everyone was friendly and down to earth. I understood why this beautiful port, that smelled of salt air, rich chocolate and boiling lobsters was a vacation destination for New Yorkers. Millie’s family was wealthy, but her attorney-dad, whose clients included the Kennedys, the Billings, the Sedgwicks and the Vanderbilts, was welcoming and kind.
Millie turned out to be needy and spoiled and began making sexual advances towards me. I fought her off for three weeks and slept with my eyes opened at night. I’d stare at the tall ceilings with rich crown moldings over shiplap walls and inhale the salty breeze that blew through the sheer curtains into the huge bedroom. I thought about Rodney constantly, but couldn’t tell anyone about him. I felt like they’d know that he was, well, I just couldn’t discuss him.
I liked Millie, and I had nothing against Lesbians, half the girls at Sarah Lawrence were gay, but I couldn’t imagine myself with a girl. After all, I was in love with a boy. I finally had to tell Millie that it wasn’t about her, it was about me being in love with someone else. She pretended to understand and then she tried to pump me for information. It was a game of cat and mouse, for sure.
Finally, the first week of September, we headed back to New York. I never thought I’d be so happy to be in Yonkers.
The girls at school were older and different in lots of ways. I began to understand how Southern girls were unlike northerners. No one seemed to understand me, they thought I was a prude, that my manners were, “stiff,” that my use of “Yes. Sir” and “No, M’am,” was stupid.
I was really lonely on my 18th birthday that October. It wasn’t like I missed birthday parties and celebrations, I didn’t have many of those growing up, anyway. It’s just that it seemed eighteen was a right-of-passage that should be spent with someone who recognized that I was now an adult. I didn’t tell anyone at school it was my birthday but I went into the city after my last class that afternoon, found a payphone in a coffee shop and called Rodney with the twenty dollars my dad had sent me. It was the best birthday present I could give myself.
“I was hoping I’d get to talk to you on your birthday,” he said. I started crying and couldn’t stop. “You’re going to waste your money crying. Talk to me.” Soon we were laughing and planning. We tried not to talk about seeing each other because it seemed so pointless, but we pretended we might be able to get together when I was home for Christmas in a couple months, even though he’d promised his dad never to see me in Jean Ville.
Other than that phone call, I found my sanity in the letters from Rodney and Marianne. He wrote diligently twice a week and told me how much he loved and missed me. Marianne filled me in on Catfish and Tootsie and her progress at Toussaint Vocational-Technical Institute, Or Too-Vo-Tech which was located about five miles outside of Jean Ville and had a bus that took her there every day. She was going to be a Licensed Practical Nurse in two years and she was so excited about her classes. She told me about learning to give shots and bathe patients. She said she had a girlfriend and that even though they had to pretend they were just friends, they’d found a community of lesbians and a few places where they could “be themselves.” I was still confused by Marianne’s sexual orientation but I loved her like a sister.
Rodney was working at a gas station in Baton Rouge on weekends and during school breaks. He told me he was saving money for an airline ticket to New York. I didn’t get my hopes up after what had happened in August.
When I walked around the city, scaling the skyscrapers and dodging the fast-paced pedestrians on the wide sidewalks, I would see mixed-race couples walking hand-in-hand in plain sight. I wondered at the difference in laws and rules between the north and the south. The aromas from delicatessens and street vendors made my stomach growl, but I had no appetite. My loneliness and isolation were heavy cargo and my soul felt weighted down.
Thanksgiving loomed and my depression became so acute I began to make poor grades. I lost weight, couldn’t sleep and began to run a fever. Daddy called when he received my mid-term report and told me if I didn’t bring my grades up by then end of the fall semester, I’d be returning to Jean Ville—for good. He wasn’t going to waste his money.
The only thing worse than being in New York alone, would be living in Jean Ville. I had to get a grip! I decided to spend the Thanksgiving holidays studying and catching up.
Most of the girls left campus Friday afternoon, the week before Thanksgiving. Several girls invited me to go home with them, but I declined, afraid to be faced with another vacation like the one with Millie, plus I needed the time to get my school work done. There were a few students on campus from other countries who, like me, didn’t have a place to go for the holidays, but I ignored them and concentrated on academics.
I started across Andrews Lawn the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving and headed to the Esther Raushenbush Library to begin my week of catch-up. It was a beautiful fall day. The gold, red, and amber leaves fell like rain from the Ash, maple, pear and honey locust trees that lined the lawn and the breeze had a fresh sea-scent, even though we were landlocked. I inhaled deeply and considered getting my act together. I had to forget Rodney and get on with life.
Halfway across campus I heard someone call my name.
“Susie. Hey, Susie Burton. Wait up!”
I turned and thought I saw Rodney running towards me, but I knew it was a mirage. I’d been having them during sleeping and waking hours. I turned back towards the library.
“Susie. Wait!” The voice was closer, but I thought I was hearing things and I refused to give into my psychosis. I continued to plod across Andrews Lawn.
“Susie, Baby, please wait!” I stopped in my tracks when I heard, “Baby.” Only one person called me that. I didn’t turn around. I was afraid I was wrong, hearing things, schizophrenic.
I heard him panting as he got closer and, finally, I felt his warm breath on my neck and his arms wrap around me. His familiar scent fell into the air around me and I inhaled deeply, afraid to wake up from such a vivid dream. I thought maybe I was swooning from the stress of it all—no food, no sleep, no Rodney.
Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, his breathing slowed and he murmured, “I’ve missed you,” into my neck and I twisted inside the circle of his arms to face him. Tears ran down his face and I saw
my reflection in the glassiness. I was crying, too. I couldn’t believe he was real, that I was in his arms.
Neither of us thought about being seen in public together. We were the only two people on the planet. Eventually we walked, holding hands, to a bench under a huge live oak, its green foliage a promise to remain through the upcoming winter, the hope not lost on us. We whispered about what it felt like to be together, what the loneliness had been like, why we were meant to be together—all the while, neither of us had faith we would see each other again after this visit.
“You’re so thin, Susie,” he said, pulling me to him, feeling my hip bones push against his.
“I’ll be better now,” I said and rested my head on his chest. He stroked my hair that now reached my waist.
“You hair is much longer,” he whispered.
“I haven’t thought about it,” I said. “I guess I haven’t taken very good care of myself.”
“I like it,” he said. Later he told me that, in that moment, he visualized me naked, “Your golden-streaked hair draping your shoulders, barely hiding your breasts.” He shuttered. I giggled, and he said he thought I read his mind. He blushed.
He’d booked a hotel room in the city, near Harlem, for the week.
It was marvelous—riding the buses and trains together, walking on the sidewalk holding hands, having dinner at cafés, dropping into delicatessens and being served without question, having coffee and talking for hours in small baristas. We visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art where we were enthralled with Nelson Rockefeller’s recently donated collection that included African art and pieces from South America.
We went to the New York Public Library three times where we found volumes on slavery and read newspaper accountings about the Supreme Court decision in Loving v Commonwealth of Virginia in the massive reading room. Rodney was especially interested in the case and found interviews with Mrs. Loving in magazine articles. She was colored, married to a white man, and they had several children.
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