You Can't Buy Love Like That

by Carol E. Anderson

  Now I felt totally exposed—first for sharing what I had done before, and second for telling her I had similar feelings toward her. She was quiet for a while as I sat nervously wishing I could roll the words I had spoken back up into my mouth.

  “I’m really sorry that you were so hurt by what happened,” she said. She reached over and touched my hand reassuringly. “I can understand why you would come to that decision—I just wanted you to know what I was feeling.”

  The problem was that I was feeling that same pull toward her and had been for months. I was sure that on a subconscious level my awareness of these feelings was part of the reason I broke my engagement with Mike. My attraction to Nicky was scary enough, but now, here it was again. With women it was so much harder because it snuck up on me. It always began as friendship, and love grew out of an intense emotional bond that was unparalleled with men. Yet I could never imagine living as a lesbian. Though I had never met one, my imaginings about gay women were the worst: I had heard stories about butch and fem partnerships, one person trying to act like a man, the other like a woman. In my mind they all rode motorcycles, smoked cigarettes, and were unemployed. God knows why I had such ridiculous ideas. They appeared to be thought forms that hung in the social ether. Wherever they came from, I couldn’t see myself in that group.

  The envisioned pain of acting on the lure of Julie’s charm was enough to keep my promise to myself not to get involved with her throughout the vacation. No wonder she hadn’t been that keen on dating Mike’s brother when I introduced them last fall, though we double dated for a few months. If I were to be honest, there were signs that we were more attracted to each other than I was to most friends, even then. I remembered when we were together how close she stood to me, and the physical pleasure I derived from that. Or how she would touch me lightly in passing, seemingly by accident, and the tingling sensation that would arise as a result. The final occasion the four of us spent together was the wedding of a good friend in St. Joseph, Michigan. It was winter, and, after the reception, we’d gone to the dunes on Lake Michigan and sat in the parking lot at the beach, watching the wind and snow whip across the ice and sand. Julie was in the front seat making out with Steve, and Mike and I were in the back seat doing the same. I recalled the flash of desire I’d had to be kissing her, instead—a thought I instinctively buried the moment it came.

  Now she was free to say aloud what I intuitively knew but didn’t want to acknowledge. And because Julie hadn’t been subject to the overpowering, harsh indoctrination of the Baptist church—or any other such religious paradigm that invoked visions of damnation for having hopes of a relationship—she had no qualms about telling me what she wanted. That made it all the harder to keep my word to myself. Our time in Florida was as healing as it was captivating with the now-open disclosure of our attraction. She was the first person I ever told about Nicky, and, as much as I had feared that level of honesty, her compassionate response was reassuring beyond any I had imagined in my terrified mind. My secret was out—even if only to one person.

  We returned to Kalamazoo, and our emotional intimacy deepened as we spent more time together, as did the desire to act on the physical attraction. My yearning for depth and complexity in thought and discourse felt like an addiction—a drug that was hard to find with people in general and most especially for me with men. It was the absence of this quality in Mike that, in spite of all his other wonderful traits, made it impossible for me to marry him.

  One night Julie came for dinner at my apartment and stayed to talk until it was midnight. Sitting on the couch, we shared more deeply about our childhood experiences and our plans for the future—laughing at ourselves and with each other. Each time we got up to get something, we sat back down closer together, until we were right up next to each other. My body continued to betray my will as we talked on, the rush of lust combined with tenderness reaching out to all my nerve endings—the terrible longing to touch her face, to hold her close, to yield to the hunger for physical connection. That night my intention to never sleep with a woman again was overpowered by the sweet craving of the moment. I couldn’t believe I was allowing myself to drop over this cliff once more. Somehow the darkness felt like it could protect me and us from any negative outcome, and I gave in. It was the first of many nights we slept together, arms and legs entwined, loving the freedom the night allowed and wishing the sun would never rise.

  Here I was, once again, splitting internally into a public and private self—two parts of me that never found a unified home. Julie’s intelligence and creativity were so seductive, and physical desire seemed so natural when I was attracted to the substance of a person. Yet, even after all my doubts about Christianity, I couldn’t rid myself of the shame that always descended to crush the rousing pleasure of being together. The wounds caused by loving Nicky were still too fresh and haunting, and I knew I could never be happy choosing a life that was in such opposition to my family’s beliefs—and my own.

  I often wished I had been raised in a household without any religion. There were legions of wonderful people walking the earth unencumbered by internal threats of punishment—people who cared for the poor, were generous to others, and worked for positive change. They were Christian in their deeds, but they didn’t suffer the agony of living with a “God albatross” about their collar, robbing them of their daily joy.

  I didn’t know how to be brave in this situation and couldn’t tell if it took greater courage to stay or to leave. What did it mean to be fearless—to follow your heart when your heart was torn in two directions? It seemed the only way to combat the power of my feelings for Julie was to find a job in another city and force myself to leave.

  chapter

  10

  crossroads

  It took a while before a path to a new opportunity, away from Kalamazoo, opened up. In the meantime, my part-time job at the business school combined with substitute teaching was wearing on my nerves. Without Mike as a cover, I was even more petrified of being labeled a lesbian. I awoke many mornings with a churning gut and feelings of self-doubt. Though I knew it was right to break my engagement with Mike, my anxiety about marrying him was replaced with my apprehension of an uncertain future, more complicated now by my feelings toward Julie. Substituting at the local high school was not my dream job—it was an endurance contest—and I was outnumbered by, and insufficiently prepared for, thirty screaming teenagers expert in terrorizing novice teachers. I needed to get out of there for many reasons, so I intensified my job search.

  As I was getting ready to leave my apartment one morning in February 1971, a small ad fell out of my pocket when I pulled out my gloves. My mother’s efforts had moved temporarily from the goal of getting me married to the goal of finding me reliable work. The newspaper ad had come from her. I had already turned down a plethora of secretarial offers she had secured for me at Ford Motor Company, determined to hold out for a teaching job. I had also developed my leadership skills in college as president of my pledge class, as an RA, and as the historian in my dorm. I’d received accolades for marshaling forces to build the homecoming float for my sorority and for achieving third prize for the dorm in a campus-wide competition for best snow sculpture. A major gift of my college education had been the development of my self-confidence, which now equaled the level my father had always had in me. Though determined to discover my own way without help from outsiders, in a moment of desperation, my resolve wavered, and I picked up the ad and dialed the phone.

  A gruff, gravelly voice answered on the other end. “Hello, Stokehouse here.”

  “Hello, my name is Carol Anderson, and I would like to apply for the teaching job at your school.”

  We talked for about twenty minutes before he said, “Do you know where the Burger Chef is on Dix Road?” I looked at the ad again, making sure it was for a teaching position.

  “Yes,” I answered cautiously.

  “Well the school is right next door, but we are finishing the build-out
of the space and working on the drywall. Meet me there at four o’clock next Monday.”

  I was elated that I had an interview for a teaching job at a private business school—a full-time position at the Danbury School of Business in Allen Park, Michigan, a Detroit suburb 130 miles away. No longer engaged to Mike, there was no need to stay in Kalamazoo, and, with Julie’s and my increasing involvement, there was a very good reason to leave.

  Mr. Stokehouse and I met the next week at the Burger Chef, and over french fries and a Coke, I told him of my love of teaching, my interest in helping people grow, and that I had put myself through school as a secretary so I could teach from a place of experience. He listened through to the end of my monologue, nodding his head, but not saying anything or asking any questions. In a desperate moment to punctuate my commitment, I blurted out, “I’ll even help you finish the drywall if you hire me!” I think that final gesture sealed the deal.

  He smiled for the first time in the interview and said, “You’re hired. Can you start in two weeks?”

  This was my first real position, and I was both excited and apprehensive, as I was to teach all of the classes that were offered: Shorthand, Typing, Business Math, and Personality and Poise. Typing and Shorthand were a breeze for me; Math a little questionable; but, Personality and Poise? That was going to be a stretch. My natural instincts leaned either toward matters of substance or toward athletics. I was better prepared to teach field hockey or the Inner Workings of the Soul than to educate people how to behave in superficial ways to create a positive image. But I was undaunted by the title and decided I would add my personal flair to the class and I would survive.

  Like many private business schools, Danbury served a multitude of students enrolled in government programs like the Manpower Development Act, which provided training for women on welfare. The goal was to teach women skills that would equip them to secure decent jobs with decent pay, allowing them to get off of government subsidies. I had no idea what that meant, but I met the challenge with the idealism and gusto that only a twenty-three-year-old eager for permanent employment could muster.

  This job also provided a way to break the intensity of my relationship with Julie. It was a driving motivation to move, now that Mike and I were not going to marry and I had no meaningful employment in Kalamazoo. I needed to leave. I hated to leave. I was more confused than ever and more tormented. I could start over in a new place with everything—a new job, a new vision for my life. And I would meet a new guy. I was sure of it.

  Julie was dismayed at my departure. I was, too, but I couldn’t contend with the ongoing angst that someone would find out about our relationship and I would be doomed. We agreed to remain friends and to commit to keeping that boundary while still savoring the joy we both cherished in our relationship. It was hard for both of us and especially for her, because she did not share my internal anxieties. She had no reason to stop, and I envied her for that, but, as much as I tried, I couldn’t rid myself of the shame and guilt that plagued me from my fundamentalist upbringing.

  I found a small apartment in Dearborn, halfway between my parents’ house and my job, on an upper flat with natural light that filtered through the windows most of the day. My passion for teaching was increased by the multitude of issues these particular students—most in their thirties and forties—presented, and I was determined to see them all graduate, whatever it took.

  At the end of each semester, I wrote a progress report on every student. Later David Stokehouse, the elder son of the owner, told me the leader of the Manpower program confided in him that my assessments were more astute than those of the psychologist who worked with the students. This encouragement nurtured the seeds of my emerging desire to be a psychologist and prompted me to take evening graduate classes in psychology at Marygrove College.

  While the Danbury School of Business was a great place to get started as a teacher, it took a toll on my idealism. I was teaching third-generation welfare recipients and learning of the historic downsides of this system, which often crippled people instead of helping them. While getting on their feet, individuals could be penalized with loss of payments if they worked too many hours, thwarting their ability to adequately use skills they acquired through programs like the one in which I taught. Many would return to welfare for support, since the pay wasn’t enough to make up the difference. I could feel the frustration of the numerous fine women in my classes. I also understood that the system was too big for me to change—and I didn’t want it to change me. With two years’ experience behind me, I landed a new job at a vocational center in a public school district, which paid twice as much to teach three four-hour sessions of a class called Total Office Procedures (TOPS).

  This school was designed to prepare students for the real world following high school, so the class was run like a model office. I fell in love with the students and spent many hours counseling them on the traumas of adolescence they were experiencing, as well as teaching them secretarial skills. I was twenty-four and an intuitive teacher as well as their enthusiastic champion, encouraging them and taking great pride in being their confidant. I never tired of listening to their stories and helping them find a way through their teenage chaos.

  I was especially fond of one student named Kathy and was continuously challenged by her antics, which jeopardized her enrollment. She was a younger version of myself—alternately vulnerable and defiant, boisterous in public, sensitive in private. But with me, she talked openly about her fears and showed the devastation she felt upon receiving poor test scores, thinking herself stupid or incompetent. In the next breath, she would lash out about the absurdity of certain rules, trying to cover her exposed tenderness. One day, the assistant principal came to my class looking for her. When he told me she was on the verge of expulsion for driving her car to school, I explained that she was a rebellious kid, but a good one, and that she would probably disregard the rules and continue to drive for the last two weeks before graduation.

  “You need to decide if you want to throw her out of school for this minor infraction, knowing she will probably never finish high school, or let it go,” I told him. Bill looked at me, smiled and shook his head, and then left the room. Kathy graduated, and I was relieved that she had made it.

  At one point, John, the principal, suggested that I spent too much time counseling the kids. Just days earlier, in moments of my own self-reflection, I had added up all the days I had been alive. It amounted to 8,766 days, if you counted four leap years. Then I tried to remember the times I felt most seen, alive, important, or encouraged, and each one had to do with the moment that someone took the time to really listen to me, to believe in my dreams, to take me seriously, or to build my confidence. I asked John to add up all the days he had been alive and to tell me what was important to him. If it was any different than my discovery, I would listen to his advice; otherwise, I was going to go on spending time talking to the kids. He never again asked me to change.

  Living in a new town, I was removed from anyone who might have suspicions about me—no former college chums around, no high school friends who might have suspected that I was interested in women. Thoughts of Gina, Nicky, and Julie drifted farther away, and my fears about being gay subsided. I took more classes at Eastern Michigan University in the evening, where I discovered an appetite for learning that had been squelched in my working-class upbringing, where all the focus was on helping my brother succeed. While I had finally graduated from college, I had never applied myself in a rigorous way. Indoctrinated with the mindset that my brother was the “smart one” and I was the “creative one,” I had little understanding of my true academic gifts. Taking graduate classes now, I felt intellectually challenged and discovered I had a talent for crafting thoughtful arguments. And positive feedback from my professors inspired me to greater aspirations. While my mother encouraged me to date more, I was content to spend time working on school assignments, creating lesson plans for my students, and enjoying the freedom of not
being afraid.

  Another Mike came into my life as a friend several months after I started work at the vocational center in the fall of 1973. He wasn’t attractive to me—his scraggly brown hair drifted over the back of his collar and stuck out on the sides like wings. He had a thin moustache and scars from acne that marked his face like scattered buckshot. Though he wasn’t fat, he would be considered plump, and when he wasn’t wearing overalls, he dressed in ill-fitting, straight-legged cotton pants. Large round glasses with wire rims sat on the bridge of his nose, magnifying his eyes. Hanging out with him was harmless because there was no juice there; he wasn’t appealing to me, and he was married.

  We had a mutual zeal for teaching, however, and over time we found a philosophical connection that led to spending time together after class in fervent discussions. Our shared interests in education were amplified by a childlike joy in simple pleasures. One day I brought a kite to school, and we flew it over our lunch hour. The cloudless sky was a vibrant blue, and the kite bounced and twisted in the wind for our entire break. Everyone who went by wanted to fly it or comment about how it should be a box kite, or that it should be bigger, or that we needed stronger string. It was a study in the human tendency to try and make things better, rather than just enjoy them as they were. Hating to bring it down when the bell rang, we tied it to a tree in the courtyard, where it flew the remainder of the day.

  When we left school that afternoon, it was still aloft, and we agreed to leave it tethered to the branch, promising to meet at six o’clock in the morning to see if it was still up. If it was, we would continue to fly it before class; if not, we would go out for breakfast. We both arrived in the parking lot at the same time and raced to the back of the building to see if it was still airborne. It was not. We found it on its side in the field behind the school, wounded in a crash landing, so we left it to rest in peace and went off to breakfast.