"Little" Sister

When I say it that way, it sounds bad. It was not one sided. I was an intern for my thesis research. Time with Veronica was like a second internship. Of the two, Roni taught me more. My sister-in-law, Sheila, has a lovely phrase for it, "Learning hurts because part of your innocence died." They make up words like bittersweet to describe my relationship with Veronica.

The end came a few days before I was going to blow off fall semester and stay on at the shelter. As was my normal routine, I left the legal-aid office, stopped by the news/coffee/sundries store and picked up two lattes with an extra shot. I knew as soon as I opened the door that something was wrong. Two hours later, still with two lattes in hand, Veronica was gone from my life. She always told me a clean cut heals best.

I did not cry then, or ever, about the breakup. Cruel cuts were an old enemy. I knew how to hold the edges together til scar tissue formed. Oddly, it made things easier at the shelter and legal-aid center. No one knew Veronica, but they knew her tactics. If you read Othello, the only person that believes Desdemona was unfaithful is her husband. I was the only one that thought Roni held deep feelings for me. All the people I worked with considered her a manipulative bitch.

Maybe Roni's abrupt approach did leave less scarring. It kept me from taking some irrevocable actions, for which I am thankful. Not having her around allowed me to focus on my notes and preparation for my thesis. My new emotional state caused me to reconsider my basic approach. It may be funny to think that a sociologist would forget human factors, but that is what I had done.

Work proved good therapy. My last Monday, I dragged in on less than three hours of sleep. Mimi Montenegro, the director, told me to grab a cot and get some sleep. Four hours later, they had pulled together a going away lunch. I was touched. While I made no friends that summer, several people respected my work and my dedication. We had a fine time over chicken wings and pizza.

It came as a shock when someone asked about Veronica. Suddenly, the whole room went quiet. It was so much like a movie I had to laugh, which broke the ice. Soon everything was back to normal. Later Mimi told me that she had been worried about suicide. I did not mean to laugh, but I couldn't help myself. Then I couldn't stop.

Mimi pulled me into her office and closed the door. When I stopped shaking, she said, "OK. Not exactly what I expected, but it's something. Why does suicide strike you as funny?"

I may have been a bit loopy, but I could tell this was a very serious question. Since I did not want men in white coats visiting, I had to choose my words carefully. To stall for time, I put my head my hand and waved the other index finger at her. Mimi allowed it.

Looking up, I said, "Thank you. I appreciate the concern. It is not entirely misplaced, but it is not really needed.

"If I understand your thinking, it goes like this. Jo is an unattractive girl, who has never had a serious affair of the heart. Along comes a major league player and uses that heart for a doormat. Breakup happens. Heart shatters. Jo throws herself into her work, while self-medicating with God only knows what. After a long binge of a weekend, she shows up looking like something the cat threw up, then goes into hysterics.

"Is that about right?"

Mimi stared at me. Eventually, she blinked and let out her breath. She shook her head and said,
"Damn. I've seen you Ivy League types come and go, but no one is as clinical as that, not about their own love life. That's damn near perfect. Where did I go wrong?" It was a very good question and still loaded.

I thought for a moment, then said, "I guess at the heart shatters part. Hmm. Who'da thunk it? Look at it this way. I have no experience at emotional break ups, but I have much experience with cruelty. That and I had a shitload of work to catch up on. And..."

Mimi took it from there, "Work is therapeutic. Not the first time I heard it. As of now, you are on half day. Take the rest of today off and come in at noon the rest of the week. I'll log it as assigned paperwork, which it will be. Just not paper work I need to file. You're a tough bitch. I saw the hard shell and figured a soft center. Now, get out. I got work to do."

I killed a couple of hours, then went to the legal-aid office. Since that was pure volunteer, I just informed them I would be switching to morning hours my last week. All that got me was a raised eyebrow. I explained that my morning conflict was resolved. With a shrug, my schedule was reset.

It was liberating. For four days, I had the chance to explore Boston from the vantage of a resident. Veronica was into clubs and parties. I had a chance to sample the local art and theater scene. That was how I met someone who would become important later—Elspeth Otis-Endicott.

I had just seen Waiting for Godot, the quintessential play on existentialism. It is a good choice for local theaters because there are only five parts and no set to speak of. As with many simple things, the play is difficult to do well. This production managed a bit above mediocre, mostly because the actor playing Estragon was so convincing.

Every theater district has its associated discussion point. I was in the mood for some heated debate, so I followed the crowd to a coffee shop. By the time I arrived, the resident blow hard was already in full blather. We agreed on one thing—that the production was mediocre. The reasons were diametrically opposed. He favored the actor playing Vladimir and disdained the set and setting. Since the setting is supposed to be bleak, the rundown auditorium suited well. I did not give a damn whether the lights showed what time of day it was supposed to be and said so. So it started and developed from there.

My debating opponent, David Winthrop, was a Harvard alumnus, with honors he said. I had to choke down a laugh. Haughtily he asked my credentials. I admitted to some hours from Rutgers, which is the state University of New Jersey. It's a good school, but not Harvard. I let Mr. Winthrop develop a good sneer, then mentioned graduate school at Yale. Mouths fell open. One smallish young woman stared daggers at me.

That smallish woman was Elspeth. With names like Winthrop and Otis-Endicott, you expect Boston brahmin and you get it. I would learn that Elspeth liked a firm hand, so it is not surprising she clung to a bombastic pile of self-important shit. Elspeth later told me Winthrop was a mid level accountant for First Boston National Bank. Small wonder he needed to prove his virility in coffee klatsches.

We argued a good hour before Winthrop started foaming at the mouth. While he was, literally, incoherent, I spared a moment to look at Elspeth. Because of the impact, I would polish the technique over the next three years. It was nothing more, or less, than a clinical assessment of the person inspected. In my mind, I cataloged the details, good and bad, with no emotional content. The emotional detachment is key. While it meant little to me at the time, I noticed an effect. Elspeth says it changed her life.

It would an interesting story to say Elspeth and I contacted each other, but no. After destroying Mr. Accountant Winthrop, I went home and forgot about him—and her. Two weeks later I spent days recounting my experience to thesis advisers, faculty members, flatmates and social acquaintances. Not once did I mention either Mr. Winthrop or his shadow. At that point, I did not even know her name.

She remembered mine.

Chapter 4 -- Kickstarting the Motor

Summer turned quickly to fall. I was piling on hours to graduate at mid term. To consume the rest of my time, my thesis had cloned. There was enough material in my notes to do at least three solid papers. My original concept was a discussion of the impact of shelters and halfway houses on the inner city. A necessary thread running through this was a description of how the shelters and houses, not to mention legal-aid services, interacted with local and state government offices.

The original topic became my senior thesis, mostly because it was easiest. I graduated. Nothing much changed, because I turned to the legal-aid aspect and kept working. During winter break, the University emptied out. I barely noticed. Over the break my graduate thesis got fat, turning into a 400-page monster. When I met my new thesis adviser, Madalyne Stone, she was not amused.

People are impressed that I graduated Yale in two and a half years. You need to understand I transferred most of my core credits. In high school, I did not have a social life, so I studied. By my junior year that included courses for undergraduate credit, through the state university system, i.e. Rutgers. Add the summer sessions to the Rutgers credits and it comes out eight semesters, just like it is supposed to. I am much more proud of getting a PhD in a year and a half.

It was not easy. I mentioned my thesis adviser was not amused. I think Madalyne to spend the spring semester telling me to settle on a topic. Since she expected to be gone by fall, I would become someone else's problem. Instead, she had work to do starting with 400 pages of reading. I give her this much, she had a good supply of red ink.

Madalyne and I butted heads from the start. For example, I would not call her Professor Stone. Her PhD was still damp and she was not on a tenure track, hence the job search. For her part, Madalyne did not want to allow research done as an undergrad. Within a week, we were in Donald Eisenmann's office. He was not yet Dean of Graduate Studies, but that was a formality. He already did the job.

From my perspective, the meeting went well. Madalyne started by objecting to my dress. I had safety pins in my face and a nipple ring showing through a hole in my shirt. This was the Assistant Dean's office, so she had a solid point. Dr. Eisenmann nodded, then motioned for her to proceed. Madalyne did for about ten minutes, while I said nothing. Once Madalyne finished with her objections, Dr. Eisenmann said to me, "Your turn." I liked that.

Rather than speak, I started laying paper on the desk. First was the Beast, complete with sticky notes, colored paper clips and all of Madalyne's red ink. Next to that, I lay the footnotes, references and bibliography. Next to those, I stacked my summer notes and raw data. It was a big desk, but I came close to burying it. For the first time, Dr. Eisenmann smiled. "I see the difficulty."

Madalyne probably has mixed feelings about the meeting. Dr. Eisenmann cut her in pieces with polite precision, then gave her the relief she wanted. Her new assignment was to coordinate another summer in Boston. I was to focus on the legal-aid aspect of my work. As my adviser, Madalyne was to provide a list of points to cover with the research. In exchange, her duties toward my first draft were suspended.

With my next year thus parceled out, he said to me, "Alice Dumervil was very taken with you. She warned me you would be a shock, which you are, but she said you were smart. She might have added, you have a flair for politics. Nine out of ten times, these meetings end with me tearing strips from the grad student's hide. The tenth time, I call security. You are literally the first student to answer with silence and documentation. I'll assign someone tenured in the fall. Now, go make Yale proud." I write that last line, with the source, in every notebook I carry.

For a while Madalyne was in shock. The meeting had not gone as she had expected, to say the least, but she recovered. As things were realigned, I had work to do and Madalyne did not. Within a week I realized that Dr. Eisenmann was right. The Beast was just a first draft. I needed to narrow the focus and add to my research. Also, no one ever told Madalyne to make Yale proud. Given that, I could cut her some slack. Things began to move more smoothly.

Chapter 5 -- Boston II

That summer was like and unlike the previous one. I stayed in the same flat. I worked at the same legal-aid clinic, doing the same job full time. Once again I took notes and rewrote them every night. A lot of the people were the same. I was different.

Everyone said so. I dropped in at the shelter. Mimi hugged me and told me I had grown. Some of the recurring clients at legal-aid said similar things. Two of the girls from the flat said so. I hooked up again with an old one night stand. She said it. Things went smoothly for two months, then Veronica said I was different.

Boston is a big city, but neighborhoods are small. I had been in Boston a little over a week when I first saw Roni. She was with a date, so I did not confront her. Instead, I kept an eye out. I saw her three times in the next two weeks. Then I was too busy to go out for a week, followed by another dry week. It was more than a month before we made eye contact. Veronica winked and turned away.

It was getting toward the end of the summer before we communicated. We never spoke. Instead, she sent me a note when we happened to be at the same restaurant.

Hello, Jo.

I see you looking good. I wish we parted better last summer but it needed a clean break. You were going to do something stupid and I couldn't have that. We were friends, with benefits of course, but it was never long term. I hope you don't hate me because I did it for you.

This time, I hope you forgive me staying away. I don't know if I love you, but I think I might a little. Parting would be much harder. I have a guy now and he would not understand.

Roni

I did not cry, but that seemed less of a problem than the first time. I folded the note and reread it at least ten times the next morning. At lunch, I went to the shelter. Mimi saw me right away. I just handed her the note. She read it, then sat back with a stunned expression.

Finally she said, "Life sucks all over. I know you had no idea this was going on last year. Can you tell what she's talking about now?"

That was easy. "She meant that I was thinking about skipping fall semester to stay in Boston. I could have graduated in the spring."

Mimi disagreed. "But, there was a chance you might never go back. I agree with her. I would not want that on my conscience either. I think better of her. I think a lot better of her. I even like her style. She's right about something else. It would not be good to get close now. Still, that can change. If you ever want to contact her, let me know." I had not cried, but Mimi was.

Chapter 6 -- Riding the Beast

The next year at Yale should have been hell. I wanted to finish Grad school in spring, which meant a heavy class load, on top of my dissertation. Once again, I had no life. Fifteen grad hours is a lot. I took eighteen in the fall, then twenty-one in the spring. Fortunately, I arrived with a new draft of the thesis. This time my adviser was a full Professor, Dr. Gupta. He used almost as much red ink as Madalyne. On the last page, he gave me a wink.

Dr. Gupta had specific ideas. As part of his process, I had to digitize the work, so I hired a service to type it all in. Once that was done and checked, we worked on getting the footnotes in place. Through it all again, then again. Spell check. Grammar check. I noticed my speaking patterns came to match Dr. Gupta's hatred of contractions and adverbs. By Thanksgiving, I was feeling good. He told me to set it aside til after finals. Like Forest Gump and money, it was one less thing to worry about.

After my last final, we met in Dr. Gupta's office for tea. He had family in Sumatra, India. They would send him a quarter pound of local product every month, which is a lot of tea. One of our rituals was to use some of it. I still have the tea habit, when working on a bill or amendment. Speeches take coffee. That's just the way it is. Winter break took tea, coffee, and No Doz because Dr. Gupta wanted me to reduce the word count by a third.

I tried. God knows I tried.

Over the break I managed to cut out about twenty percent of the verbiage. The problem was that every time I found something I could cut, I found some other thing that needed elaboration. It was two steps forward and one step back, til I wanted to scream. The day after New Year, I went to Dr. Gupta's office with my tail between my legs.

Dr. Gupta waved me to one of the good chairs and poured tea. He insisted on finishing one cup and beginning the second before discussing business. When he judged the time right, he asked, "How much did you add?" I must have looked shocked. Dr. Gupta smiled, indulgently I thought, and shook his head.

"Please. It was an exercise in re-examining your work. Removing text requires careful examination of both the content and the context. Like any good argument, there are things to add, elaborations to make. If it is only twenty pages longer, I am satisfied." This time, I know I looked shocked. He asked, "What?"

I said, "I managed to carve off almost twenty percent, about sixty-five pages. The big gains are in the notes." Dr. Gupta started laughing. Before long I joined him, even though he was a sneaky SOB.

He said, "Leave it here. I will get some third party readers to comment on it. If it is done as you have begun and progressed as you have described, you may be asked to defend it. For now, go. Do such things as young women do for entertainment. I do not wish to know. We will meet in one week."

It was not that easy. Yale does not hand out graduate degrees like candy. I had substantial revisions and editing still to do, but perhaps that was the point. At the beginning of my third graduate semester, I was already polishing my dissertation. This was a good thing because my class load was a bear. Dr. Gupta told me to do what young women do for fun. Mostly I slept. In my spare time, I filled out applications for fellowships.

Sociology is not the best degree for job seeking. It was not that I needed to work. The family had plenty of money, so I could cultivate roses or something equally useless for the rest of my life. Sean was done with the Army and had become CEO of the family business. There was a guaranteed job if I needed one. As with many other things, I wanted to cut my own path.

The traditional avenues are law, consulting and teaching. I leaned to the latter. If I wanted one of the top teaching positions, even a Yale PhD would not be enough. Rather than go out in the world and make a mark, I chose to go into post graduate work. Yale and Harvard are names everyone knows, for good reason. That did not make them the best schools on Earth—alumni opinions to the contrary. Penn's Wharton business school, for example, often tops both Harvard and Yale in the annual rankings. Dartmouth was nearly as good in the social sciences and they needed a teaching Fellow. I made calls and filled out forms. In March I drove up for an interview. If it is any indication, at 22 I was not the youngest PhD applicant.

Hanover was like going home for me. My small city in New Jersey backs up on forested land. Much of New Hampshire could loosely be described as forested. Trees are the rule, not the exception. A corner is as likely to blind because of foliage as from anything man made. It should be no surprise this is where sugar maples grew wild.

Hanover the city is really just a large town, with a famous school for a neighbor. The main drag has single story businesses—a bookstore, cookware, houseware, and hardware stores, cafe's, bank annexes. There are no big office buildings or big chain stores. It's about as far from inner city Boston an hour of driving can take you. That said, they took me in stride: tall, braless, wearing punk hair, safety pins through my skin and artfully tattered clothing. I gave them points for that.