Back to School, Part 1

After getting stuck in a slow moving parade of commuters this morning led by a big yellow bus, there's no doubt the kids are back in school and summer vacation is officially over.

 

It's been early June since heaving my last heavy annoyed sigh at this daily inconvenience, so long, I almost didn't remember how to do it with enough self-righteous vinegar. But a short delay in the drive to work is nothing compared to the mammoth dislike I felt as a kid when three months of summer fun came to a screeching halt the day after Labor Day. Sure, I warmed up to the idea once the leaves started to turn; but during those first few weeks in September, I literally loathed being a conscripted classroom shut-in. But if going back to grade school in the familiar surroundings of my own neighborhood was a pisser, imagine the seismic shock waves of stress trembling through me on me the first day of school, upper education style, about 900 miles from home.

If I had to go to college- and out of high school I really didn't- Whitworth College (now University) would have been at the bottom of my list. A JC close to home, or maybe one of the UC system schools would've been more to my liking. Maybe someplace like, the University of Southern California. I always pulled for their football team, anyway. And the weather in L.A. is always nice, at least compared to Whitworth, based in the dark, foreboding far-away tundra of Spokane, Washington.

But, no, brother Steve ended up at Whitworth and somehow hooked up with his first wife, Lynn, there, too. And though hardly a Bible college, Whitworth was also a place unashamed of its traditional and Christian values. So, with Mom assessing me an immature pagan and Dad finding me woefully unprepared for the real world, and both, for years, insisting I strive to follow in my freaking brothers footsteps- Whitworth was naturally the perfect place for me. It was settled.

 

Steve and Lynn backed the idea, too, although they didn’t shove it down my throat, as Mom and Dad did. They were more subtle, intimating how Spokane was a nice laid back town and Whitworth, a friendly close-knit campus. As an added bonus, with the ratio of girls to guys slightly skewing in favor of the guys (more co-eds than dudes), there was also a suggestion that my odds for meeting a nice girl or two along the way were much better at Whitworth than going to college someplace else. So they urged me to try Whitworth, but not anyone’s sake but my own; to expand my horizons, and circle of acquaintances, and prove a point to the folks- and myself- that I was up to the challenge of being out on my own.

I knew better, though. I was a slug. No girl would want me even if I was only guy at Whitworth. Plus, I'd already been to Spokane and on campus twice- dragged kicking and screaming,  once to see Steve in a college play and later on, to his wedding- and found the campus and the city lacking any redeeming qualities. Both times I left town wondering why my brother would consciously make Whitworth his college career destination of choice. For sure, I wanted no part of it and was beyond shock when I got opened up Whitworth’s letter of acceptance. I was hoping nobody would find out, but Mom had collected the mail and seen the return address. She knew. To this day, though, if Whitworth College was willing to let in a middling student like me, then I firmly believe their admitting standards were suspect. Nevertheless once they did, and with USC or UCLA apparently not wanting me, I was good as gone.

 

The question remains, though, why I’d balk over putting practically three states between me and my parents. It was every kid’s fantasy, and should have particularly been mine. But I’d had an okay year at American River Junior College, had been a successful first time Little League Coach, had a lot of good friends in Sac, was making some new ones, and had an okay part time job. I thought I was doing all right for 19 years old. I just wanted my own place and didn’t want to move roughly 800 miles to get it.

 

The die was cast though; it was Whitworth or nothing. In that case, I’d have taken nothing, too, but that really wasn’t the choice. Basically, I had no choice and once Dad dropped me off after a grueling 14 hour drive spent in long stretches of uncomfortable stony silence broken only by occasional arguing over the matter, I was officially a Whitworth freshman.

 

And as I suspected, I hated the place from the beginning.

 

I missed my friends, bummed out about being in such a cold lonely place and intimidated at the whole idea of dorm life and college in general. I was stoic and sullen and didn't go out of my way to talk to too many people right away, either. In other words, I was probably an ass. One person I did talk to was my first roommate, Paul McDonald. Like Whitworth, I didn't want to like him either, but couldn't help myself. Paul was a skinny, tall quiet kid from Wapato, Washington who reminded me of John-Boy Walton. But Paul wasn't a creation of Earl Hamner, he was the real deal- an absolute peach of a person who must've been given an extra dose of empathy at birth, because he genuinely seemed to understand and y care about my well-being, and took great pains to look out for me.

Paul also had a pretty little blond girl friend, Adrianna, also from Wapato, and both kept insisting I join them in many of their activities--including mealtimes and movies. Two or three times a week, they'd cajole me into having a meal with them in the dining hall. Paul knew I didn’t like to eat alone, and was avoiding the dining hall almost altogether. But I’d go with them and we’d wait in line together and once inside, Paul would practically force me to eat. Loading up his tray with more items than he could possibly want, when we all sat down he’d transfer the excess over to mine. They wouldn’t let me leave till I’d cleaned my plate.

 

Then on movie night Friday’s, Paul would disappear (leave a few minutes early) and  Adrianna, knowing I had no date or the prospect of ever getting one,  would come over and ask me to escort her to the Auditorium so she wouldn’t have to walk alone. Of course Paul was already waiting there for her and when Adrianna and I showed up, they’d both take one of my arms- so I couldn't sneak away- and we’d all three go in to see the movie. It was silly and I knew what was going on. But they were both very kind and sweet to me, more so than I deserved and appreciated more than I could ever tell them.

God must’ve been working behind the scenes in all of this too, though, because of the 1200 plus students on campus that semester, He couldn’t have put me with a better first roommate. I was too stupid to realize it then, but God had truly blessed me. But if Paul was good for me, when I think about it now, I must’ve been pretty lousy for him. In my own zone way too often, I flat out sucked at being his, or probably anyone else’s, roommate.  But when my misery needed his company, during that first semester away from home, Paul was always there. So I am truly grateful for Paul McDonald.

The room Paul and I shared was on the second floor of South Warren Hall. It faced east, towards Cowles Auditorium, and overlooked the parking lot. And mixed into the landscape when I looked out the window, was a literal mini-forest of tall pines. However, this posed a problem for me because I began to enjoy that view and didn’t want to like anything about being at Whitworth. But when the sun came up on clear fall mornings and I got up and looked out my window, the panorama was certainly much more inspiring than my first look at the world each day back home in Citrus Heights, which was always the side of the next door neighbors house.  

Still, during those first months I remained mostly alone and quite timid. I felt like a fish out of water. Except for classes, I hardly went anyplace else on campus. And if Paul and Adrianne didn't force me to go to the dining hall with them I seldom ate at all, opting instead for a candy bar in the Student Union Building. (I guess that’s why Paul sometimes felt led to ‘force-feed’ me. He probably knew I wasn’t eating much). But if I was hungry, but too shy to be seen in the dining hall, I'd tap into my checking account (and the money I made working over the summer), and take myself to dinner, usually at the same place. In fact, I began going there so often (Mr. Steak on North Division) that the manager began to know me by sight.

 

I guess in a family restaurant like Mr. Steak, a lonely looking single dude must've stuck out like a sore thumb.  Nevertheless, when I was there, Carmen, the manager, always made me feel like the most important person in the joint. He was a big, loud, friendly Italian guy who always wore a little carnation in his lapel. Why a big Italian guy was managing an American-fare chain restaurant I don’t know. But he always made time to talk to me. He got me to confess I was in college and away from home for the first time and I think he began to feel sorry for me because on nights when I only had money for a salad and a coke, Carmen would bring me a couple of big dinner rolls- on the house.  “Your mother would want you to keep up your strength. So eat. If you want more, let me know.” And sometimes when I did ask for a full meal off the menu, he wouldn’t charge me at all. "Don't worry about it. Your money's no good here anyway. Besides, you look like a starving college kid, so tonight dinner's on me".

 

Of course he was exaggerating; I wasn’t exactly starving. Through candy bars, care packages from home and meals with Paul and Adrianna, I was eating enough to stay alive. But yeah, I liked Carmen. Who wouldn't? He gave me free food. Plus, after Paul and "Mom" Hendrick, our kindly dorm mom, he was the one of the first people in Spokane to make me really feel at home, or at least okay about being there. And though eating off campus probably retarded my initial college growth, somehow it felt safer being in the anonymity of a restaurant with a bunch of strangers, than in a room full of college students. For some reason, I just knew I’d be completely alone in Levitt Dining Hall and subject to intense mocking, either for not having anyone to eat with or because I was clearly a loser. That’s why I often ended up at Mr. Steak.

It was during those days I felt as if my life was completely upside down. College was supposed to be fun. Living on campus in a dorm was supposed to be fun. Being young and free to experience new things, meet new people and expand my horizons was supposed to be fun. What could possibly be so appealing about going back to Sacramento and the land of parents? What was holding me back at Whitworth? I didn't know the answer to that puzzle, but knew I couldn't wait for the term to end so I could get the hell out of there and hopefully never set foot in Spokane or at Whitworth again.

It didn’t help that Mom called from home once a week to see how I was doing. But I sounded so depressed she'd apologize for calling and hang up. She’d call again later on, but my outlook didn’t change much. But I think we all thought it'd be better when she and Dad came for a visit and when they did at the end of because I’d been feeling so isolated since getting to Whitworth, I was actually glad to see them. But, after arriving on Friday night by Sunday morning I couldn’t wait to see them go.

 

The first night I introduced them to Paul and  "Mom”Hendrick, and then they took me to dinner, but it wasn’t a happy time. Mom was on me about my hair and why I wasn’t giving Whitworth a chance. I had laundry and homework to do Saturday morning, so they didn’t come out again till Saturday afternoon. In the daylight I was able to show them around school and try sounding more enthused about the entire Whitworth experience. However, they saw through the act and took me out to dinner again and again not really to eat, but to have a nice, long talk. And again, nothing was resolved

 

We went round in circles for a couple of hours, I thought I could convince them that sending me to Spokane wasn’t working out; that it’d been a mistake. That I’d do much better going to college closer to home, or at least in California. But we fought and argued- not just over the scholastic logistics- but everything. Especially Mom and I. Too busy stewing in separate soups of anger, with positions rigidly premeditated there was no room or consideration for any counter arguments. Just arguments. Almost non stop.

 

I’m not sure where she was coming from; but during the course of the meal, slash, discussion I barely listened. My beef all along, besides being homesick, was being told Whitworth was it, where I’d be going to college, case closed. I resented how the decision came down. And all that subdued fury was now coming to the surface. It was embarrassing. People were looking at us and Dad had to keep telling us to calm down. I think had the whole Whitworth debacle been my idea, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have wasted so much time resenting it; I might even have liked it, liked being there. Or I still might’ve hated it. But at least, coming or going, it would’ve been on my terms. It’d be my destiny I was charting. Not them doing it for me.

 

During dinner I hardly ate anything. I don’t think Mom did either. Hostilities had ceased by the time we left Klinkerdagger’s, but it was a weekend of intransience, two against one; Mom and Dad, especially Mom, against me. However, before they left the next morning I did manage to extract one concession. It was actually Dad’s idea. He said if I finished out the semester he'd give me all of Christmas break and the month of January to find a job. If I did, I could get an apartment, stay in Sacramento and never have to go to college again if I didn't want to.

 

But if I didn't find a job, then I'd have to go back to Whitworth for the spring semester and finish the entire year. After that, negotiations would re-open whether to return again, quit college altogether or attend someplace else.  When we shook hands on the agreement outside their hotel, it sounded great. All I had to do was hold on for another month and a half and then I’d be free. Once back home, if I couldn't land a job in six weeks doing something, than I was completely lame and deserved whatever Whitworth threw at me in the spring.

 

So, we had a deal. Still, that may have been one of the worst weekends of my entire 19 and half years of life. Though I hated the aloneness I often felt during that first semester at Whitworth, I was happy to be left alone once Mom and Dad had left for the airport. I almost felt like celebrating, but there was nobody to celebrate with. So I had a solitary lunch at Bob’s Big Boy feeling terrible that the cold, disheartening and emotionally charged weekend had left behind more bad feelings and questions than smiles and answers. Then I went back to the dorm and tried to concentrate on a little more homework

 

However, though gone, I wasn’t quite allowed to forget Mom and Dad had been there. Dad called that night when they were back home and said Mom cried on the plane all the way back to Sacramento and, as the remaining fall semester days unfolded, I should just think about that and my crummy attitude. Swell. As if being in Spokane and at Whitworth wasn’t sucking enough, now I had that on my brain too. I wanted to curl up in a ball and blow away in the blustery fall winds. Or cry.