by Bob Purssell
MIT
Editor’s Note: Barbara O’Leary left a very detailed account of her MIT experience. Much of the material relates to her studies, and because of its technical nature, I felt the reader would not find such information either interesting or appropriate for a biography. Therefore, I have briefly summarized the academic side of Barbara’s undergraduate life.
Because of her advanced preparation, her willingness to exceed the normal course load, Barbara O’Leary had effectively a double major in mathematics (course 18) and electrical engineering (course 6). Initially, like technical students around the world, she took courses of a general nature intended to give her the background needed for future specialization. That specialization began in her sophomore year and focused on information theory and its application to electronic computation. Her undergraduate GPA was 4.8 on a five-point scale.
In addition to providing details on her scholarly endeavors, the MIT material also provides glimpses into her nonacademic undergraduate life. Because a number of the vignettes help us better understand Barbara as a young woman, I have included them.
* * *
In April of my sophomore year, there was a tango revival. Like a fair number of my fellow students, I learned the rudiments. Unlike most, with my athletic prowess, my tall, slender figure, I was a natural. Now obsessed with truly learning the dance, I joined the campus Tango club and spent an inordinate amount of time practicing. In time, after becoming skilled in the intricate steps and movements, I achieved a degree of proficiency in the modern, expressive forms of this exotic dance.
Flattering myself that I was a milonguera,[27] I felt that I was ready to step up to the next level. Was I trying to satisfy my sexual urges? Probably. But whatever the reason, I decided to buy a dress so I could enter a tango contest. These garments are very expensive, so I was on the prowl for a bargain. One day, I saw and bought a most provocative gown at a consignment store and had it altered to fit my figure. With more me than gown showing, I attended the first of many tango festivals. Immediately, I became, because of my look and skill, a partner of choice. Men, some more than twenty years my senior, sought me out, and together we became one for the duration of the dance.
Dancing the tango well involves a paradox. The woman must submit utterly and follow the lead of her partner. Then, and only then, can her dancing rise above the mechanical and become a display of both artistry and passion. Hence, a second paradox, the man must be utterly masculine, confidently guiding the woman but never overshadowing her.
I love the tango to the depths of my soul. While I dance, those passions that so dominate me, that so trouble me, emerge in ways that will not bring harm. In fact, the women whom I competed against for prizes were often the most supportive. One grand dame, an older woman whose grace and beauty still drew comment, whose dancing was always a source of envy to the rest of us, once told me, “You have much to learn, but you have what we all want … the fire.”
* * *
Haunted by the memory of the Dutch police fishing Gisele’s body out of an Amsterdam canal, I endeavored to avoid the temptations that ruined and then ended her life. Practicing abstinence, I refused offers of sex. After attending a party, I went straight back to my dorm room sober and alone. My dates, few in number, were always tame affairs with, at most, a goodnight kiss. This is not to say that I was in complete control of my sexual impulses. Every once in a while, to my great distress, the sexual dam I had so carefully erected would burst. Then I would be terribly vulnerable. Desperate, I would try to hide away behind my books or stay long hours in a laboratory. However, this seldom worked for very long.
For example, one Saturday night, having lost sexual control, driven by my needs, I left the library and raced back to my dorm room. Even though it was a chilly March evening, I put on a tank top and tight fitting jeans and went out determined to find SEX.
At a neighboring school’s dance, my welcome mat had the desired effect. An average-looking guy clumsily hit upon me. Since I was not looking for Mr. Right, but rather Mr. Right Now, we went to his room. After I said hello, his roommate got the hint and left. I all but threw my date on his bed and proceeded to push my tongue deep into his mouth. We exchanged the most intimate kissing, and I enjoyed one sexual fantasy after another. The guy, for his part, much enjoyed my demanding and provocative kisses. We moved on, and I let him slide his hand underneath my tank top. To my intense gratification, he caressed my hardened nipples with a much-appreciated gentleness.
With nary a protest from me, the guy next unzipped my jeans and slid his hand gently inside my panties. I thought, this is too good to be true, as he began to stimulate me; instantly I became aroused.
When I said, “Wait! Let’s do this together,” he stopped and let me extract his hardened cock from his pants.
The guy asked, “Do you want me to count to three?”
Giggling, very ready to let loose, I replied, “One.”
When he said, “Two,” my sexual tension was extreme; he was hard as a rock.
Together we said, “Three,” as we both climaxed.
Done, we both lay on his bed laughing. After our laughter subsided, I sat up. Looking at my partner’s stained pants, I said, “You’re a mess. You’ve got to change.”
“What about …?”
“Let’s do some more partying. We can come back and do some more later.”
After saying, “Sounds good to me,” the guy got up and began to drop his trousers. The site of his now shrunken penis had the usual effect.
Pulling up my jeans, I asked, “While you’re doing that, where’s the …?”
“Down the hall, on the right.”
Pulling my tank top down over my breasts, I walked out of the room, shutting the door behind me. In a few moments, I was outside in the cold air headed back to my room.
As usual, embarrassed and humiliated by my sleazy hit-and-run behavior, I immediately went to bed and hid beneath the covers.
* * *
Perhaps this is a good time to deal with the homosexual question. In the years after I became a public figure, some have speculated that I was gay, others have attempted to smear me with that innuendo and still others have produced “evidence” that I have had homosexual affairs. The simple answer is: No, I never had a lesbian relationship.
To those who feel such an answer is implausible; let me give a more detailed explanation.
Yes, in college, in a college town like Boston, there was a great deal of sexual freedom and experimentation. Some women tentatively explored homosexual relationships; others adopted a most visible lesbian lifestyle. Tall and athletic, possessing some beauty, and most of all being available, I had my share of offers. Some were blunt invitations to have sex; others were carefully phrased suggestions that she and I should establish a relationship. Not interested, I brushed these proposals aside.
The most difficult situation I faced occurred in my junior year. My lab partner, Heather, was smart, really smart, and what is most important in a lab partner, practical. Unlike many other students, our experiments worked well. We would often collect three or four times more data than what the instructors had expected. Better yet, it was good data, with much less variation than the results produced by the other students.
One December evening we were in Heather’s room, which was a single. We had finished analyzing the data from our latest experiment and were completing our write-up. With no warning, tears began to flow down Heather’s face.
Confused, I asked, “What is it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t. I’m too humiliated.”
With not a clue of what was to come, I almost jocularly urged my friend to open up. “Come on. We’re buddies. Did I do something?”
“No-no, it’s me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Heather got u
p and went to her closet. She took out a hanger. On it hung an attractive red sweater and a leather miniskirt.
With tears coming down her face Heather told me, “I bought this for you.”
Confused, not understanding any of this, I said, “For me? I-I don’t…”
“Yes. I tried it on. It looks very good, flattering actually.”
Not making the remotest connection, I blurted out, “But I thought you bought it for me?”
Placing the sweater and skirt over the back of her desk chair, Heather sat next to me on her bed. “No,” she said, “I didn’t expect you would understand.”
Frustrated, I pleaded, “Tell me.”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes, if I’ve done something, I want to know.”
“I’m in love with you, Barbara.”
This came as a complete shock. No one other than my parents had ever said those words to me with Heather’s intensity. I was speechless.
“There I’ve said it. Now you know. Now you know why I’m so humiliated.”
The other offers of lesbian relationships had come from women that I hardly knew. However coyly presented, they were basically pick-up proposals, the essence of which was: even though we don’t know one another, let’s see what happens.
Heather was different. We had worked together, palled around for a year and a half. We had told each other our little secrets; I had sought out her company.
Her face in her hands, she sobbed and then said, “I bought the outfit so you would like me.”
“Heather, I do like you. You know that.”
“No. Not like me as a friend. Like me as your-your lover.”
Seldom have I felt so awkward. I was torn. I hated seeing my friend cry, but there was no way I could accept her offer of a lesbian relationship.
“I dream of-of you holding me, of you thinking about me. I would do anything if you would. Anything.”
A tear ran down my cheek. Slowly we put our arms around each other. Now my tears joined hers.
It was the only way that I could say no.
* * *
I seriously began considering my post-undergraduate future in the spring of my junior year. The Institute, from an academic standpoint, had exceeded all my expectations. Additionally, because of the many activities and facilities available to a member of the MIT community, I was enjoying life surrounded by people that I liked.
Should I stay in the academic world?
My father, my faculty advisor, my fellow students all encouraged me to go to graduate school and get my doctorate. Even Mrs. W encouraged me in that direction with, “After you get your PhD, you’ll make even more money.”
I took some job interviews. The jobs that sounded real were not that interesting; the interesting jobs sounded implausible. When I brought up the subject, about half the interviewers told me getting a doctorate was a good idea.
Finally, I spoke to the professor who taught my nonparametric statistics course. He listened to me, before saying, “I think you’re asking the wrong question.” When I asked why, he explained, “A doctorate degree is a means to an end. You should be asking: what do I want to do with my life?”
“That’s a big question.”
“Indeed. If you’re interested, I have a way that will help you get the answer.”
Opening my notebook, I responded, “I would appreciate any help you can give me.”
“I call it a self-assessment. First, write down the fifteen best things you have done in your life and why they were important to you. Second, write down the fifteen most enjoyable things you’ve done and why you liked them.” After I nodded, the professor continued, “When you analyze what you have written, it will tell what you do well and what satisfies.”
Two Sundays later, I spent the whole day doing what the professor suggested. That evening, when I tried to analyze the result, the picture that emerged seemed confused and hazy. I put my work aside, figuring that if I gave my mind some time to cogitate, an understanding would emerge. The week went by and still I had no insight.
On Friday, quite by accident, I crossed paths with the professor while he was heading to the Walker Memorial for lunch. Seeing me he asked, “Did you ever do that thing we talked about?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and now I’m trying to figure out what it all means.”
“I’m surprised; very few even attempt what I suggested. If you want, I’ll take a look at what you’ve done. I’m free after four.”
That afternoon, I cleaned up what I had written, and by four, armed with my self-assessment; I arrived at the professor’s office. As he read he commented, “This coaching of the hockey team shows leadership; make sure that’s in your resume.” After he finished, the professor asked, “You like physical activities; you take risks. How does that fit, say, with the work I do?”
I had not thought about how I would fit into a job. I always had thought in terms of the job itself. Not wanting to offend, I tentatively said, “When you think about it like that, for me that is, it-it doesn’t.”
“That was my conclusion.”
Getting his message, I told the professor, “You’re suggesting that my choice should match my strengths and preferences.”
With a knowing grin, the professor replied, “Sounds like a reasonable approach to me.”
* * *
While at college, during my first two summer vacations, I worked for Mrs. W’s firm. Increasingly, the company gave me greater responsibilities and assigned me to work on some of their most important projects. My work pleased my bosses, and I enjoyed the fast pace of the financial world. As the spring semester of my junior year progressed, I realized I wanted to broaden my horizons.
However, I did not want to hurt myself in the process. Mrs. W had been good, very good, to me. If I was going off in another direction, whatever I did had to more than equal the experience I would get by working for her company.
I arranged to take some interviews for summer jobs. The jobs, while okay, did not excite me. I all but resigned myself to working once again for Mrs. W’s company during the summer between my junior and senior years. In late April, frustrated, I was talking to one of the career counselors who handed me an email printout and said, “Take a look at this. It just came in.”
The email explained that the navy was looking for qualified United States citizens, ages eighteen to twenty-six, who were currently pursuing technical degrees. Qualified candidates admitted to the program would spend the summer between their junior and senior years attending the Information Warfare Orientation course. If the candidate passed, upon college graduation, he or she would receive a commission as an ensign in the navy’s information warfare branch.
Although not a summer job, the course intrigued me because it seemed to tie the intellectual in with a hint of adventure. I told the career counselor that I was very interested.
By that evening, I had received an email that directed me to “complete the attached application and return within five working days.” I thought that was rather pushy and doubly so when I started to fill out the application. The form ran to three pages and instructed me to “give the most accurate and detailed responses possible.” To this day, I am surprised I did not just forget the whole idea because it took me five hours to complete the overly detailed application.
Three days later, I received a registered letter informing me that my interview would take place in downtown Boston in the Government Center complex. This was unusual, since the common practice was for job placement interviews to occur on campus. The last paragraph warned, “Interviews take three hours; please adjust your schedule accordingly.”
My intent obvious, dressed in my interview suit, at 8:00 AM, I promptly entered the lobby of one of those buildings that seem to radiate a cold harshness. After joining the throng passing through security, a guard asked me
whom I was visiting. When I told him, he instructed me to stand off to the side and wait for an escort. After a few minutes of trying to be inconspicuous and hide the fact I was waiting to begin an interview, the Grumpy Old Woman appeared. With a sour expression, an officious tone, and a haughty manner, she ordered, “Follow me, young lady.”
As I dutifully trotted along, I wondered, all this for a job interview?
Eventually, I ended up in an austere conference room containing the plainest of tables and four folding chairs. As the Grumpy Old Woman departed, with what seemed like disdain, she said, “I’ll tell them you have arrived.”
So much for warmth.
Waiting, I reflected on the décor, which I dubbed “extreme Spartan.” Since there was no mirror on the wall, I discounted the notion that the navy interrogated prisoners in this room.
As time crawled by, I began wondering if one-way mirrors were an interrogation necessity.
Finally, two navy officers arrived, introduced themselves and began my interview. The no-nonsense lieutenant gave me an overview of the orientation course. After a few minutes, I knew it involved lectures and laboratories in cryptography plus some physical training.
“What we’re looking for in information warfare,” interjected the lieutenant commander, “are people who attack problems in innovative ways.”
The lieutenant asked, “Is that the sort of thing you’re looking for?”
The cryptographic work sounded intriguing. If I had taken this interview before I had undertaken my self-assessment, I would have honestly answered that I was very interested. Now however, I knew that grinding away in an office trying to crack some code would not satisfy me. I thought of telling my interviewers as much. However, I held back, fearing that such a comment would end my interview immediately. With manufactured enthusiasm, I answered, “Yes, it sounds very interesting.”
“Good,” replied the lieutenant commander. “We schedule three hours for these interviews because we find the better, the more complete the interview process, the better it is for everyone.”
I nodded that I understood—of course, I did not—and the lieutenant said, “We’ve reviewed your application. We’re going to use it as the basis for your interview. Please feel free to add material. If there’s something that we don’t correctly understand, please tell us so we can get it right.”
