communion. Yet another sin. When the priest placed the wafer on my tongue I had trouble swallowing it. I was submerging the symbol of the most holy and pure into the rot inside of me. Without confession, my guilt now multiplied. And yet, I had broken free from a dogma that I knew was irrational, unfair, and unkind. I had started to form a new identity apart from the Church and it was both exciting and frightening. That’s not to say that my struggle was over. I still vacillated between anger and fear, reason and belief.
In 1962, my last year of high school finally arrived. What I was going to do for a career was not a matter of much concern for my family. My brothers had to go to college because they were future breadwinners and a solid education would give them an edge in the job market. My father, in particular, thought spending money on higher education for me made about as much sense as buying a car for our cat. True, my poor grades in grammar school had kept me out of the classical, or college-prep, track in high school. But even if they hadn’t, I had no reason to believe that a college career would have been encouraged or funded. A girl like me, it seemed, should be satisfied just to find a husband who could provide for her and the kids she would soon bear.
My guidance counselor, Mrs. Russo, was the first one to mention Bay State Academy in Boston to me. Bay State offered a two-year secretarial program that taught typing, shorthand, and other skills that I could parlay into an office job, one of my few employment possibilities. When I discussed it with my parents, my dad scoffed. What did I need more schooling for? For her part, my mother became a surprising ally. She insisted, against my father’s strident objections, that he would fork over the money for me to start Bay State in the fall. So, as my last year of high school wound down, I got ready to go to what would be the closest thing to a college I would get near for quite awhile.
Bay State Academy was actually a great experience for me. I met women I liked and I learned some valuable skills. That’s why, when it came time for the second year, I was disappointed when my father put his foot down and flat out refused to pay for it. “It’s a waste of money,” he declared. Especially now, since Dave Mallory at Kressler Engineering had a job opening that would be perfect for me. Dave was an old friend of my father’s. He was the vice president at Kressler, a thriving structural engineering firm in Boston. I had learned enough at Bay State Academy to do the available job and to save my father a year of tuition. If he only knew who I would meet at Kressler and the path it would start me on, Dad would have happily written the check for my second year at Bay State.
At six-foot-two, Michael Cohen had a commanding presence, and when he swaggered through the Kressler office few people, regardless of where they sat on the corporate totem pole, failed to notice him. After his size, the first thing I noticed about Michael was his hands. They were long and delicate, yet strong. He was twenty-three, had flawless skin, dazzling blue eyes, and a deep voice that was so sexy it sometimes made my knees weak. He also had blond, wavy hair that he wore long—or at least what was considered long for the time. Michael was the “office boy,” but if there was ever a misleading title that was it. That his intellect and confidence soared above his position was apparent to everyone.
When he wasn’t running errands for our bosses or printing blueprints, Michael sat in the desk next to mine. One Monday morning, when I asked him how his weekend was, he responded with, “Great, I fucked all weekend.”
“Whaaaaaat?”
“Yeah, we just got up to eat.”
Was this guy for real? No one—and I mean no one—in my world talked about sex that openly. His comment left my eyes wide open and my jaw hanging. I must have looked silly, but it didn’t faze him. He then asked me about my
In 1962, my last year of high school finally arrived. What I was going to do for a career was not a matter of much concern for my family. My brothers had to go to college because they were future breadwinners and a solid education would give them an edge in the job market. My father, in particular, thought spending money on higher education for me made about as much sense as buying a car for our cat. True, my poor grades in grammar school had kept me out of the classical, or college-prep, track in high school. But even if they hadn’t, I had no reason to believe that a college career would have been encouraged or funded. A girl like me, it seemed, should be satisfied just to find a husband who could provide for her and the kids she would soon bear.
My guidance counselor, Mrs. Russo, was the first one to mention Bay State Academy in Boston to me. Bay State offered a two-year secretarial program that taught typing, shorthand, and other skills that I could parlay into an office job, one of my few employment possibilities. When I discussed it with my parents, my dad scoffed. What did I need more schooling for? For her part, my mother became a surprising ally. She insisted, against my father’s strident objections, that he would fork over the money for me to start Bay State in the fall. So, as my last year of high school wound down, I got ready to go to what would be the closest thing to a college I would get near for quite awhile.
Bay State Academy was actually a great experience for me. I met women I liked and I learned some valuable skills. That’s why, when it came time for the second year, I was disappointed when my father put his foot down and flat out refused to pay for it. “It’s a waste of money,” he declared. Especially now, since Dave Mallory at Kressler Engineering had a job opening that would be perfect for me. Dave was an old friend of my father’s. He was the vice president at Kressler, a thriving structural engineering firm in Boston. I had learned enough at Bay State Academy to do the available job and to save my father a year of tuition. If he only knew who I would meet at Kressler and the path it would start me on, Dad would have happily written the check for my second year at Bay State.
At six-foot-two, Michael Cohen had a commanding presence, and when he swaggered through the Kressler office few people, regardless of where they sat on the corporate totem pole, failed to notice him. After his size, the first thing I noticed about Michael was his hands. They were long and delicate, yet strong. He was twenty-three, had flawless skin, dazzling blue eyes, and a deep voice that was so sexy it sometimes made my knees weak. He also had blond, wavy hair that he wore long—or at least what was considered long for the time. Michael was the “office boy,” but if there was ever a misleading title that was it. That his intellect and confidence soared above his position was apparent to everyone.
When he wasn’t running errands for our bosses or printing blueprints, Michael sat in the desk next to mine. One Monday morning, when I asked him how his weekend was, he responded with, “Great, I fucked all weekend.”
“Whaaaaaat?”
“Yeah, we just got up to eat.”
Was this guy for real? No one—and I mean no one—in my world talked about sex that openly. His comment left my eyes wide open and my jaw hanging. I must have looked silly, but it didn’t faze him. He then asked me about my
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