A personal history can be chronological — a “big story” — or it can be many little stories whose through-line is just the voice of the teller. Here is one like that…
Chabot College – spring, 1963
Monday morning. I am wearing a red top, short white skirt, not too high heals. Michael is teaching at 10 o’clock, English 1A. He drives up, parks. The Aston Martin is out of place at this junior college, Michael is out of place. Beautifully out of place. Brooks Brothers, clean shaven, baby face, the new teacher could be in danger if that’s the way he wants it. A class of women: new students out of high school, need-to-get-a-job mothers here to get educated for the job market, house wives; I used to be one.
I wait until Michael opens the door and gets out, gently closes the door, walks over to the coffee stand. I follow at a good distance. We order coffee, me first. He really looks good, good and distant. I think, “I’m your new student, but you don’t know it yet.” I put cream and sugar in my coffee, stir it carefully, take a sip and spill it all over my totally white skirt. I slip away, spilling coffee as I try to get to my car. That’s the last time I ever wore a totally white anything.
Wednesday, English 1A, Michael. I get there early, take a seat near the back of the room, stain free clothes, comfortable on this mother-of-six divorced woman looking for Godot, waiting for Michael.
~ Frances
