by Ann Huber
One day I overheard a conversation between my mother and a teacher at their parent/teacher conference. The teacher insisted, “Based on Ann’s behavior in class, Ann is destined to be a follower, not a leader. She does not seem to show initiative or drive to achieve any particular goal. Ann just does the work which is assigned.”
“Thank you for telling me the truth,” my mother said.
It stunned me and I never forgot it. Netty never discussed it with me and kept this horrid secret to herself. But I didn’t believe it to be true. Eventually, a plan formulated itself, without any conscious effort on my part, which drove me to be the best at everything: the way I looked, the way I behaved, the way I excelled in school.
It turned out I was just as driven as the others in this class of striving immigrants—and ultimately just as capable. I joined the Red Cross Chapter where I became the vice-president. I also joined the Library Helpers where I worked my way up to president.
Since around the age of 13 or 14, I had been an avid reader of popular law stories by such authors as Louis Nizer. “I want to be a lawyer,” I once announced to my parents.
“Women don’t become lawyers,” my father scolded. “They become secretaries, nurses, teachers, and librarians.”
The Women’s Liberation Movement had not yet made its way into the mainstream, but surprisingly my father was an early proponent of women’s independence—up to a point. He hammered into me a need to be self-reliant. That meant that I was to be able to take care of myself and support myself, “You should never have to rely on a man,” he told me. But this apparently did not mean I could take “a man’s job.”
As a catalyst for the change in the direction of my personal development, I was getting to know the kindly librarian, Mrs. Anne Galler. Unlike most of my female teachers who were older single women, Mrs. Galler was a pretty, young married woman with a career and two young children. She quickly became my role model. I saw my future: As a librarian, I imagined, I could work and be home for my children during the summer. I dismissed my long-time interest in the law without a second thought, not really thinking about whether I was better suited to the library than the courtroom.
My rise continued steadily. By senior year, I had achieved an appointment to the Leaders Corps, the group of top students who presided at school functions in a special uniform, sporting a green and silver insignia broach and ring, which I still own. I loved wearing the uniform. For me it represented acceptance. While all the students sat in their seats, we walked up and down the aisles, keeping order and helping the teachers.
My self-esteem went up another notch after I was nominated for homecoming queen in my senior year although I ended up as first runner up. I think it was then that I started to believe that no matter how hard I tried, there would always be someone better—a hard pill to swallow for someone who wanted, needed to be the best. Although I did not realize it until I was forty years old and running for our Town Council, these activities were harbingers of my future political aspirations, as were my political conversations with my father. I enjoyed being the center of attention, being listened to and admired.
My father would boast, “My daughter is going to go to McGill.” However, my parents didn’t know anything about what was necessary to get into college. All they knew was that “McGill University is the best university.” Therefore, it was my only option.
My high school graduation photo, proudly
wearing my Leaders Corps pin, 1967.
After I took the SATs in English and French, it became clear that I would easily be able to gain admission. What would not be so easy for me was to earn a McGill scholarship, which I missed by a few points. I did qualify for a $1,000 provincial scholarship. Considering the first year tuition was $365, it turned out to be a lot of money.
I was disappointed about being unable to get the McGill scholarship but even more disappointing, very hurtful really, was the way I was treated by the Soroptomist International Association, whose stated mission was the support of women’s education. Our girls’ Vice-Principal, Ms. Thompson took me aside one day and suggested I apply for a scholarship offered by that organization. Together, we filled out the application. Proudly, I wrote to Herm and told him about it.
Months later, Ms. Thompson anxiously pulled me aside again. “I am so sorry to tell you that your application has been denied.” She continued, “It was rejected because you are Jewish. I should never have suggested that you try for this one.” This so offended my sense of right and wrong that I never forgot the unexpressed anger I felt when I heard the news—my first experience with blatant anti-Semitism. What was the point of even trying when the deck was stacked against me? I learned not to try for things I thought I could not achieve. I would persevere endlessly if I thought something I wanted could be done; but if I had any inkling that there was any institutional bias, I would not even try.
Herm was not there physically to help me deal with the pain of the Soroptomists’ rejection. But, in his next letter, he characteristically tried to soften the blow with humor, not fully grasping my distress and disillusionment. “I was disappointed about the Soroptomist thing, and thinking about going down to their office and giving them a piece of my mind, but I decided I couldn’t spare a piece. I was already mortally wounded when I saw your SAT scores which were higher than mine.”
Being so young and inexperienced, Herm and I thought it might be the mature thing to continue to date others while we were living four hundred miles apart. My friends knew I was completely committed to my relationship with “an American” but I still went to all the dances and dated other boys. Herm did likewise at Temple University, but less so. He took our friend Manya to an ROTC Ball in their freshman year, took her skiing another time where she hurt her knee, and motor-biking a third time when she hurt some other body part. Part of Herm’s attraction to me, I think, was that I was quite hardy. One date Herm had arranged, which ultimately fell through, was, “With a beautiful, voluptuous girl but not to worry,” he told me, “I am not going to let her get too fresh with me.” I never did find out if this was real or not.
I did not disguise my lack of interest in the local and unsophisticated boys at Outremont High School resulting in the following yearbook note:
She is the girl who is forever expecting letters from the States or writing them. Her activities extend from the Red Cross and the Library to sports and the Leaders’ Corp. She is always busy, works in her spare time yet manages to be a scholarship student. Ambitious and hard-working she hopes to become a librarian in Philadelphia.
Herm wasn’t able to come to my prom but supported my decision to go to the dance with my friend, and former steady boyfriend. He wrote, “Tommy is a better dancer and I don’t dance.” He did, however, admonish me not to “kiss your date.”
I was looking forward to wearing a hand stitched, long, lined green chiffon dress I’d made myself, with a matching green silk wrap. Both later became great dress-up clothes for our daughters.
In retrospect, I’m not sure if our “open” dating idea was really a mature thing or not, but no harm was done to our relationship. Herm and I both came from a family history of few, but serious love relationships. By the time we parted in Atlantic City, something extraordinary had happened to us. We had formed an attachment, a bond, a commitment that remained remarkably stable over a long distance for so long and endured a lifetime.
Still, every separation was increasingly more difficult and as graduation was fast approaching, talk about being together more became inevitable. It seemed only natural to Herm that I should go to college in Philadelphia. I saw no obstacle to such a plan.
My father and mother had other ideas. McGill University would be my only application for 1967. Their only daughter was not going anywhere.
Chapter Twelve
SPRING/SUMMER 1967
ALTHOUGH I WAS a good student and a generally obedient daughter, I rebelled in minor ways. My mother was a weak disciplinarian, often interjectin
g herself between my father and me. Once, I remember, I went snowmobiling with friends in the Laurentian Mountains and crept home at some ungodly hour. Long before I returned home, my mother had put my boots by the front door so my father would think I was safely tucked in bed.
Innately, she seemed to understand my need to be independent, unconventional, and even a bit oppositional. I wore nylons to school with my uniform even though it was not permitted. I often put on lipstick after the principal’s inspection at the school’s front door. Though I had an early curfew, I’d always call home and ask to stay out later with one excuse or another. I was not one to live by the rules and in fact, delighted in finding ways to break them.
I frequently violated my curfew, smoked secretly, successfully hid my cigarettes in the mailbox in our building’s lobby because it was my job to check the mail, and dated various boys despite my mother’s strong disapproval. She didn’t understand that both Herm and I had agreed to that arrangement. Nonetheless, I was not prepared to defy my mother or my father by leaving for university in the United States at the age of seventeen. Yet even before my acceptance letter to McGill arrived, Herm was already pestering me about going to school in Philadelphia for my sophomore year. I promised him I would.
Our separations became harder and harder for both of us but especially for Herm. He often complained about being lonely without me and missing me, “All I have to do is study and think about you and maybe watch a little football.” I, on the other hand, was pre-occupied with high-school graduation, college, and my future.
The year 1967 was not only a big year for me but for all of Canada. The country was celebrating the centennial of its independence from England, although it was still a member of the British Empire and loyal to the British Crown. As part of the celebration, Montreal hosted the World’s Fair, Expo 67, which attracted more than 50 million visitors from all over the world.
Expo 67 opened to huge fanfare in April, a good weather month. Some mornings still carried a chill, but the sun was a welcome sight after the long winter. Everyone was excited about visiting Expo, and the competition for getting a “passport” (ticket) was intense. The passport was also a souvenir booklet for accumulating a stamp of each pavilion’s logo. Some pavilions were in much greater demand than others, such as the Russian and the Canadian. We had to stand in line for hours just to pass through them. I was enchanted with the novel architectural wonders such as the U.S.A.’s huge Geodesic Dome, France’s Pavilion which has since become Montreal’s Casino, and Habitat 67, a revolutionary concept for high density development in an urban setting.
Expo brought the city to life. Most Montrealers visited at least once, and many hosted guests from all over the world. Herm’s parents came with their friends, Mr. and Mrs. Leon, and their sons in June. With very sentimental memories, I remember greeting Herm privately. He held me in a bear hug for a long time while I cried joyful tears to see him again. His parents and their friends were all surprised that a serious relationship had continued between us despite the pressure of long separations.
Since school was over by then, and I only held a part-time job at Woolworth’s, I was able to spend most of my time with Herm and his parents at Expo, and my mother joined us. One day we stayed so late, she suddenly became acutely anxious about getting home in time for my father. “I have to get home,” she blurted out as she turned and abruptly left the group. I can still picture her, wearing a flowered, sleeveless shift that rustled from side to side as she ran to get on the subway. The Leons commented on her strange behavior for which I could offer no more adequate explanation than, “My father doesn’t like it when she’s not home, when he returns from work, to make his dinner.” I was ashamed to tell them how possessive and jealous he was and how angry he could become.
At the end of their visit, I returned with Herm to Philadelphia for a couple of weeks in what proved to be a turning point in our relationship. We started obliquely talking about marriage, each afraid to use the actual word. We talked about how many children we wanted, about where we would live, and what we thought it would be like to be together for so long. I did not dare bring marriage up directly, thinking it was the man’s job to broach the subject. Besides, I thought marriage would be a few years off, after I graduated from college.
As evidence of our increasing endearment to each other, Herm stopped calling me by my name, calling me by a nickname he gave me, Farfel. No clue where it came from, but he has a knack for giving everyone nicknames. Farfel was the first of many nicknames, changing every ten years or so. It later became Farfela, Farf, Pussycat, Little Fella, and more recently Cutie Pie—now on a license plate Herm purchased for my birthday a couple of years ago.
His letter following my visit was funny. He followed every sentence with the words, “I love you.” I enjoyed reading his letters immensely. He could never say it too much as far as I was concerned. Though we’d spoken of marriage only obliquely, he also mentioned that Pesche was resigned to the fact that it would be a Montreal wedding. It was a surprise to me that Herm and his parents were talking about marriage plans.
When I returned, I went back to work at Woolworth’s and worked at the Expo’s Israeli Pavilion cafeteria, too, surely adding to its success. Working both jobs, I saved every penny for college since my parents would not be able to make any contribution to my education. Unlike Moishe and Pesche who had achieved some measure of financial stability, Netty and Sandu lived from paycheck to paycheck. Our financial situation was always a strain. We always lived in an apartment. We never had a car. That’s why the vacation to Atlantic City had been such a big deal.
Starting college was so exciting for my mother, grandmother, and me that preparations became a family affair. From my mother and grandmother’s perspective, the most important aspect was my wardrobe. With their help, I embarked on sewing an appropriate collection of suits. (In Montreal, jeans had yet to become our generation’s uniform.) Following patterns as I had learned in ninth grade, I did the machine sewing; my mother did the fine handwork such as buttons and hems; and my grandmother did the pressing. It was a beehive of activity rivaling the General Motors assembly line.
My father watched from the sidelines with little to contribute, not that we tried to include him, either. He was pretty disillusioned with everything by then, leaving early for work, struggling to make a living, and coming home drunk a few afternoons a week to my mother’s dismay. If she did not leave him alone when he came back, it led to a screaming match. I found it best to ignore it.
Walking through the double arches that mark the entrance to McGill University on Sherbrooke Street, in a yellow wool skirt with matching tweed jacket, I felt very mature on my first day of school. I met this new phase of my life with great intensity. I didn’t even mind that, in addition to my supervisor’s job at Woolworth’s, I had to work as a waitress in Victoria Hall, the girls’ dorm, where my stomach did summersaults every Sunday serving ham. It remains such a foreign smell to me that I still cannot tolerate it.
I was a commuting student with a financial assistantship as a waitress in the dorm. Unlike the wealthy, suburban students whose parents and grandparents had attended McGill, I was the first one in my family to attend university. My fellow students ignored me as I carried heavily loaded trays to their tables. They never cleaned up after themselves or offered thanks. I was a little resentful at the time but figured it was my lot in life. I didn’t have the family connections or the family money to go to college without working. Looking back, I marvel at how condescending my fellow classmates were. Besides waitressing in the dorm and working at Woolworth’s that year, I gave private piano lessons to young children, all necessary to make ends meet.
My best friend, Kathy, did not apply to McGill, choosing instead the former Sir George Williams College, now part of Concordia. I was sad that she wasn’t there to share the excitement. A number of my former classmates did go to McGill; I had never been totally accepted into their clique in high school. At college, it was e
asy to abandon them, or maybe they abandoned me, for new friends.
Again, I felt like a fish out of water. So I was thrilled when Herm drove up for a weekend in October. We went out with Kathy and her friend, Elliot, to whom Herm took a liking. The time flew by as we walked and walked miles of the city and spent time around McGill. I had a famous psychology professor, Donald Hebb, whom Herm admired, having studied all about him. He was able to attend one of his lectures, but was disappointed. The lecture was held in a huge classroom with coliseum-style seating and Hebb was a pretty small and boring figure down at the podium.
There was a little café on Sherbrooke where then little-known Leonard Cohen, poet and folksinger, sang. I sometimes went to hear him with friends, but not the weekend Herm was there, unfortunately. Cohen’s music appealed to us, though, since he often sang about a lover in Montreal, a haunting song now quite famous: “Suzanne takes you down to her place by the river… She feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China… And the sun pours down like honey on our lady of the harbour….” The latter reference is to a statue of a woman atop “Notre-Dame de Bon Secours,” a church overlooking the St. Lawrence River shoreline in Old Montreal, blessing the sailors.
Long distance phone calls were very expensive then, so after Herm got back to Philadelphia, he made a person-to-person call to me and asked for himself. This was a signal that he had arrived safely. I told the operator, “There is no one here by that name,” and hung up. No charge for outwitting Ma Bell with that little trick. However, Herm later wrote, “Five minutes after I hung up, the operator called me back and asked for Herman Huber. So I figured it was you and I said, ‘this is he.’ Anyway, she then asked me why I called and asked for myself, and she warned me that it was a violation of some code or other, and that I could be fined for that. Nothing came of it, it was just a warning.” It didn’t stop us from repeating the trick when necessary.
