by Carol Selick
Four lovely women brave as Joan of Arc,
Living in a world of fear, trying to make their mark.
Stronger together, they stand their ground,
There for each other until their courage is found.
January 1970 brought a new year, a new decade, a new semester, a new house, and, with time, a new beginning. Marsha and Melanie shared the bigger upstairs front bedroom and Bonnie and I had the smaller one. We were messier than they were and not big on hanging our clothes up from the night before. Bonnie even kept her skis on the floor in between our beds. The first one to go to bed guided the other one. The whole room was like an obstacle course!
We tried to create a sense of normalcy but an oppressive cloud still cast its shadow over all our lives. From the black burlap curtains in the downstairs windows to my roommates repeated visits from the sex squad detectives, we were constantly reminded of the rape. Sometimes late at night, I peeked around the burlap curtain and was relieved to spot a police car slowing down in front of our house. Marsha’s father had requested to the detectives, that the DC police nightly patrol our house.
My parents, still very worried about me living off-campus, made no effort to hide their concerns.
“Hi, Dad. What are you doing?” I asked on one of my Sunday night check-in calls, trying to sound casual.
“I’m doing some artwork,” he told me.
“Great, what are you working on?”
“I’m designing tombstones for hippie children.”
“That’s not funny, Dad! We feel safe here. Don’t worry.”
“Someone has to.”
“I’ll talk to you next Sunday. Say hello to Mommy.”
I quickly got off the phone and tried putting the conversation out of my mind. There was no way I was moving back to the dorm.
“What’s gonna happen to those guys when they catch them?” Melanie wondered after yet another trip to the police station, to identify the suspects in a line-up.
“Don’t tell me you’re worried about them!” I said to her.
“I don’t know. Do you think we invited this into our lives on some level? Were we flaunting our sexuality and drug connections?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. There was no question in anyone else’s mind that they deserved to go to jail. “Think of it this way. Do you want them to hurt other innocent women? They have to be caught.”
Every time life was starting to feel normal, another crisis caught us off guard. One night, Melanie was rushed to the hospital, doubled over in pain. It turned out she had a serious pelvic infection brought on by gonorrhea. She’d tested positive the night of the rape, but no one had even bothered to contact her! Bonnie and Marsha were luckier. New tests showed they had never been infected.
I was still seeing Michael, and growing more and more in love with him. I was sure he felt the same about me, so when we started spending less time together, I never questioned it. I felt so secure in our love, I didn’t see the end coming. Maybe I wanted to be fooled.
“Carol, I’ve got to talk to you,” His voice sounded different, weaker. Something was off.
“What’s up?” I tried sounding casual.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m falling for someone else.”
I hung up the phone, feeling like I was falling, too—falling off the face of the earth. I was still crying an hour later when Bonnie found me and made me go upstairs to bed.
For the next three weeks, I had a ritual. I’d come home from class, lie on the couch, and listen to Laura Nyro records. Her songs were filled with deep emotions and her strong voice wailed out in a woman’s pain. From the regret of a lover’s breakup in I Never Meant to Hurt You, to a man’s inability to commit in He’s A Runner, her music comforted and supported me. By the third week, I’d turned my grief into anger and stopped blaming myself for the break-up. Just like in one of Laura’s songs, I realized that Michael was somewhat of a “Flim-Flam Man,” and I mentally knocked him off his pedestal.
One day Bonnie made a new attempt to console me. “Look, this totally sucks,” she said, “But it will make you a better songwriter.” Something in me resonated with her words, and I stopped feeling sorry for myself and wrote a new song.
I wanted to be fooled, I wanted you to lie,
Just to hear you say, you love me one more time.
I knew you didn’t mean it, I knew you weren’t mine.
I can’t be mad at you babe, I wanted to be fooled . . .
In time, the heaviness of the winter lifted. On a beautiful sunny late morning in March, Marsha and I climbed out her bedroom window and sat on the townhouse roof. It was so much fun sitting out there I spontaneously burst into Elton John’s “Your Song.” Passing below, a group of black school girls dressed in plaid uniforms looked up.
“Hey! You can sing!” one of the girls yelled up to me. I knew my voice was strong. It not only carried easily into the street. It carried me through my heartache, my fears, and my dreams of stardom.
Singing on the roof inspired me to answer an ad in Washington’s underground newspaper. It seemed like it was written just for me: “Grace Slick sound-alike wanted for DC rock band.” I decided to go for it!
I sang Grace Slick’s “Somebody to Love” and got in the band. I was stoked!
The guys in the band were real characters and really good musicians. Tommy, the guitar player, was a sweet, mellow guy with long straggly black hair. He wore a plaid flannel shirt and faded jeans. My friends and I called guys like him “crunchy chewy” types. They were all about eating granola and getting back to nature. At the first rehearsal, I asked him if he was a Virgo. He nodded, looking surprised. I knew by the way he insisted that every note of every song had to be exactly like the record.
His best friend, John, was the bass player. They knew each other from high school in Virginia and their playing was tight. John had wavy, light brown hair that was parted in the center and fanned out to his shoulders. When he played the bass, he closed his eyes and moved his body back and forth as if he were in a trance. He was either stoned, really into the music, or both. It didn’t matter, his playing was hot!
Jeff, the drummer, was the only married one. He had some government job during the day, so his dark brown hair was shorter than the other guys. “Music’s the only thing that keeps me sane, Carol. Nine to five is not my thing.” He took a toke off a jay. “But I like, have responsibilities, ya know?” I admired him for that.
During one of our rehearsals, John pointed to an old electric Wurlitzer keyboard in the far corner of the basement and asked me if I played. I explained to him that I mostly played classical piano and didn’t know much about rock chords and improvising, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He insisted I accompany myself on a blues song by Tracy Nelson of Mother Earth, “Down So Low,” and I really got into it. It was a difficult song with two key changes and I spent hours learning the chords. If the guys thought it was worth taking the legs off the fifty-pound Wurlitzer and dragging it along to gigs just so I could play one song, I was going to do my damnedest to perform it well!
Our first gig was outdoors at the Washington Monument, as part of a Peace Concert featuring local bands. There was no formal stage or audience space. We set up on a grassy incline bordering the monument, as people walked around aimlessly, looking unsure as to why they were there. Organizers were giving out anti-war pamphlets and passing around petitions. A rock band a few feet from us was winding up their last song, Country Joe and the Fish’s great ironic Vietnam protest, “Feel Like I’m Fixin to Die Rag”.
We began our set with “Wooden Ships,” which fit in with the anti-war theme. When we got to the chorus, our three-part harmonies sounded pitch-perfect! Our practicing had paid off! I started to relax into the music. We did two more Airplane songs and then I felt my nerves kickin
g in as I adjusted my mic stand and took a seat behind the keyboard. I played the intro of “Down So Low,” then let loose and belted out the first verse, all about loss and heartache. All the hurt and pain from my break-up with Michael and the hell from my roommates’ rape came pouring out of me. I stared down at my hands all through the song, playing the chords I’d memorized, not daring to look out at the audience. When I finished, the crowd burst into wild applause just as thunder began rumbling in the background. Was it a sign from the universe that I was on the right track? The oncoming storm cut our set short, but I left on a performance high I wanted to feel again.
I liked working with the band, and my new feeling of confidence increased my desire to write and sing my own songs. Blues was definitely my thing. I wanted to dig deep and express what I felt in my soul about being a woman. My passion spilled over into my music appreciation class, where I wrote a term paper about three groundbreaking women blues singers: Bessie Smith, Billie Holiday, and Big Mama Thorton. They didn’t just sing the blues, they lived it. I would never know what it would be like to be a black woman trying to make it in a segregated society, but that didn’t stop me from feeling their music. We were women trying not to get fucked over in a man’s world.
April rolled around, but Melanie, Bonnie, and Marsha were still far from ready to open up to springtime romance, but unselfishly encouraged me to move on from Michael and “get back out there.” Going deep into my music was helping me come out of my funk, and one day I realized I was eyeing the hunks on campus. They couldn’t all be heartbreakers, could they?
9
THREE’S A CROWD
Just give me some real affection.
I won’t waste time making my selection.
I guess I’ll love anybody who’ll let me.
“I’m almost there, slow down!” I screamed, but by the way the bed was shaking, I knew it was too late. I was so close but not close enough. Jerry lay on top of me like a dead man with a smile on his face.
“Did you come?” he whispered.
“Almost. I just needed a little more time.”
“You really turned me on, Carol. I couldn’t wait.”
“That’s okay, maybe next time.” I tried sounding hopeful.
“Just relax, it’s your turn now.”
Jerry was one of two guys I was seeing. No one I knew used the word “dating” - it was so 1950’s.
Jerry was high energy and a great guitar player. Whenever he got excited about something, he’d lean his head to the side and his dirty blond hair would cover one eye. I couldn’t stop myself from touching his wayward locks and sweeping them behind his ear. He told me that sometimes when he played guitar, he got so into it, he came. If he can do that while playing the guitar what could he do to me? I still hadn’t climaxed at the same time with any of my partners. Maybe he’d be the one to set me free.
We’d met in music appreciation class. I felt very comfortable with him. We shared a similar Jewish middle-class background. He was from Long Island, and I was from New Jersey, but it was really all the same.
Joshua came from a more affluent family. Melanie had been with him a few times Freshman year but found him too intense, so she introduced him to me. His energy was more subtle than Jerry’s, but his piercing blue-green eyes could look right through me. I never knew what to expect when I was with him. He was funny and cute and liked to live on the edge.
He was doing the hippie thing with his long, dark hair, and moustache but driving around the city in a shiny red MG convertible. Joshua confessed that his family’s house was so big it had an elevator and made me promise not to tell anyone. He also told me that his family would frequently vacation with the Governor of Maryland’s family when he was growing up.
But there was a downside. His socialite mother and workaholic father didn’t spend much time with him. He was the proverbial poor little rich boy, a refugee from his own family just like the guy in Joni Mitchell’s “Rainy House Night.” One thing was for sure, Joshua wasn’t going to become a corporate lawyer and join his father’s law firm, even though his father totally expected him to. The thought of Joshua with short hair, clean-shaven, and wearing a three-piece suit, made me laugh. He was a hustler and had his own “business” on the side, but nothing his parents would approve of.
My confidence level was at an all-time high and I was having fun! The only problem was that Jerry and Joshua both lived right across from each other on “O” Street, not too far from my old apartment at Dupont Circle. I’m having orgasms on “O” Street! I thought as I ran up the stairs to Joshua’s. I wasn’t “going steady”—another outdated expression—with him or Jerry either, so I casually said hello when I bumped into Jerry on the street the next morning as I was leaving Joshua’s apartment.
“It’s getting a little too much seeing both guys,” I told my roommates at one of our roundtable discussions.
“That’s one problem I wouldn’t mind having,” Melanie said, pouring herself another cup of coffee.
“There’s gotta be one you like more than the other. If it’s meant to be, you’ll know it,” chimed in Bonnie, the most romantic of the group.
Marsha nodded and offered me a slice of her homemade banana bread.
With its red and white checkered curtains and walls full of fun forties memorabilia, our kitchen was the most cheerful room in the house. Marsha’s mother had given us a table cloth brightly printed with red cherries on a white background, and some real china cups and saucers with pink roses on them. They were a lot nicer than the plastic dishes my mother gave me.
“Yeah, I don’t know. Jerry seems to be really into me, but I’m more into Joshua. I’m not that sure about him. I just hope he’s not a player.”
“He’s got that reputation,” Melanie warned.
“I know, but everyone’s doing it with everyone. Maybe we’ll fall in love, but I don’t want another heartbreaker.”
Just then the phone rang. It was Joshua.
“Carol, I’m in jail.”
“Is this one of your jokes?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
“No, for real. I’m in jail and I need you to bail me out. You’re my one phone call. I had a few unpaid parking tickets, about $400 worth. Bring your checkbook and I’ll pay you back when I get home.”
“Okay, I’ll call a cab, give me the address.”
I got in the cab feeling angry. How could Joshua have been so careless? I wasn’t too worried, since I knew he had a safety net - his parents. I did too, and for me, it was a blessing and a curse. I felt lucky that my parents were there if I needed rescuing, but it interfered with my drive to succeed. Still, it was comforting to know I would never be out on the street.
My anger melted when I walked into the station and saw Joshua’s scared little face. He looked cute and vulnerable, like a mischievous puppy who knows he’s done something wrong but wants you to love him anyway.
On the cab ride back, Joshua sat very close and held my hand. “You’re my one phone call, Carol. I think I love you. You get me and you laugh at my jokes. I don’t want to be with anybody else.”
“Me either,” I whispered in his ear.
Bonnie was right about knowing. Joshua was the one, and I would have to stop seeing Jerry.
I called up Jerry and told him I was getting serious with someone. He was cool with it but sounded a little hurt. I didn’t tell him who it was. That’s why I was freaked out when I walked into the Student Center a few weeks later to find Joshua and Jerry sitting together. I tried running out the door, but it was too late. Joshua had spotted me.
“Carol, have a seat. Do you know Jerry?” I smiled and nodded.
“We were in a music class together last semester,” Jerry said coolly.
“Jerry put up a sign looking for riders to go to Florida with him over Spring Break. I’m thinking of going. You know how I’m not into seeing my parent
s right now. You wanna come?” Joshua asked me.
“Why don’t you come with us?” Jerry chimed in, with his familiar, soft-spoken voice.
“Thanks for the invite, but I’m going home to Jersey,” I mumbled. “Good to see you, but I’ve gotta get going now.” I couldn’t come up with an excuse. I just had to get out of there.
“Hey, I’ll walk you out. Jerry, I’ll let you know about the trip,” Joshua called back over his shoulder as he ran to catch up with me.
“Wow, that was uncomfortable! I had a little thing with him, nothing serious. You’re my main man,” I assured him once he caught up. He must have been feeling jealous since he gave me a passionate kiss.
The idea of Jerry and Joshua driving to Florida together and comparing notes put me in a panic. What else would they talk about on their long drive? The only thing they had in common was me. I prayed that it wouldn’t work out, but I couldn’t let Joshua know how shaken up I was. My prayers were answered later that week when Joshua told me he had decided to go to Long Island instead, to house sit for some friends while they were on vacation.
I sat on the train to New Jersey wishing I had gone to Long Island with Joshua instead of to my parents. What was a week apart going to feel like? We had started to bond and I was missing him already.
“Rode in the smoking car again, Carol?” my father asked as he gave me a big hug at the New Brunswick train station. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my parents I was a smoker. They were in denial about a lot of things. Smoking was the least of it.
The next day, I woke up in my old bedroom with excruciating cramps and the heaviest period I’d ever had. I started to panic. Could I be having a miscarriage? I’d never gotten pregnant. For one reason or another, I’d never been able to take the pill but was good at remembering to use my diaphragm, even if it sometimes did get in the way of spontaneous moments. Many of my friends had to get abortions, legal or otherwise. One friend in high school had to travel with her parents all the way to the Caribbean to get one. Thank god, things had changed in this country and women could now make decisions about their bodies without risking their lives.