the back of the classroom. To my horror as I pulled out my notebook, I noticed everyone around me scribbling in blue booklets. I’d completely forgotten we were having a test on the Civil War.
My stomach felt like I had swallowed a six-pack of razor blades. What if I failed? Back to Long Island, that’s what.
Professor Friedman handed me the exam and a booklet. “Miss Levin, you’re lucky I’m in an exceptionally good mood this morning.”
I gulped. “Sorry I’m late, sir.”
I rarely sweat. It could be one hundred degrees with ninety-percent humidity and I’m dry as a rattlesnake. But that morning, perspiration flowed from every pore like an automatic sprinkler system on Ex-lax.
As I scrutinized the exam, I believed it possible to squeak through a passing grade on the multiple-choice questions. I’d taken honors social studies in high school and remembered quite a bit of American history. But the essay questions were another story. We were given a choice:
Discuss Lincoln’s war strategy after the attack of Union troops at Fort Sumter.
OR
What was the meaning and purpose of the Emancipation Proclamation?
I chose the latter. All I could recall from Dr. Friedman’s lectures was that the Emancipation Proclamation was an executive order that committed the Union to ending slavery, a controversial decision even in the North. That one fact by itself would not get me a passing grade on the exam.
Taking a “creative” approach I filled up a whole blue book comparing the Emancipation Proclamation (hereafter referred to as EM ), to my own “emancipation” from Long Island middle class, non-socially conscious, unenlightened, materialistic values.
Like the slaves in the EM , I, Laila Levin was now free. This meant I could now do whatever felt good. No guilt attached either. Note: I did not mention drugs, sex, and rock and roll, but assumed Professor Friedman knew that ‘felt good’ referred to them.
Like EM , my decision to lead this new life was very controversial. To my parents for sure, even to me at times.
After two hours, I reeled from the classroom in tears. I doubted Professor Friedman would appreciate my unusual take on the essay. For the first time in my life, I might actually fail an exam. I’d never gotten a grade below a B . Usually, pulled straight A ’s.
What if I lost my scholarship? I’d refuse to go back to Long Island. I belonged with my new family. With Chris and Ben. Why did I keep screwing everything up? I couldn’t even screw the right guy, for chrissakes.
Following class, I headed to the U.B. clinic. The Bodine girls had said you could get birth control pills there. They’d often spoke in whispers about enduring painful pelvic exams by ‘Dr. Grumpy.’ A small price to pay for the ‘magic pills’ that provided women with their freedom.
I sat in the waiting room for over two hours reading an old Look magazine with Mia Farrow on the cover. Finally, a nurse with a shock of bottle-red hair led me to an examination room and handed me a cloth gown. She told me to undress, scoot my hips down to the end of the table, and place my feet in the stirrups.
Shortly after, ‘Dr. Grumpy’ arrived, checked out my chart, and squinted at me.
I squeezed the nurse’s hand as he began the exam. She said to think about something pleasant like ice cream. I closed my eyes and pretended I was body surfing in the ocean in Florida. My family had spent many Christmas vacations there.
After the doctor was done, he told me everything looked okay “down there,” and scribbled out a prescription. I asked him how soon the pills would take effect.
“Just because you’re on the pill now young lady, doesn’t give you a license to be a whore,” was all the response I got.
The nurse shrugged.
I filled the scrip at the local pharmacy on Main Street. The hell with the moralistic doctor, my parents, and the whole establishment. I was now armed and ready to have some fun.
It was late afternoon and
My stomach felt like I had swallowed a six-pack of razor blades. What if I failed? Back to Long Island, that’s what.
Professor Friedman handed me the exam and a booklet. “Miss Levin, you’re lucky I’m in an exceptionally good mood this morning.”
I gulped. “Sorry I’m late, sir.”
I rarely sweat. It could be one hundred degrees with ninety-percent humidity and I’m dry as a rattlesnake. But that morning, perspiration flowed from every pore like an automatic sprinkler system on Ex-lax.
As I scrutinized the exam, I believed it possible to squeak through a passing grade on the multiple-choice questions. I’d taken honors social studies in high school and remembered quite a bit of American history. But the essay questions were another story. We were given a choice:
Discuss Lincoln’s war strategy after the attack of Union troops at Fort Sumter.
OR
What was the meaning and purpose of the Emancipation Proclamation?
I chose the latter. All I could recall from Dr. Friedman’s lectures was that the Emancipation Proclamation was an executive order that committed the Union to ending slavery, a controversial decision even in the North. That one fact by itself would not get me a passing grade on the exam.
Taking a “creative” approach I filled up a whole blue book comparing the Emancipation Proclamation (hereafter referred to as EM ), to my own “emancipation” from Long Island middle class, non-socially conscious, unenlightened, materialistic values.
Like the slaves in the EM , I, Laila Levin was now free. This meant I could now do whatever felt good. No guilt attached either. Note: I did not mention drugs, sex, and rock and roll, but assumed Professor Friedman knew that ‘felt good’ referred to them.
Like EM , my decision to lead this new life was very controversial. To my parents for sure, even to me at times.
After two hours, I reeled from the classroom in tears. I doubted Professor Friedman would appreciate my unusual take on the essay. For the first time in my life, I might actually fail an exam. I’d never gotten a grade below a B . Usually, pulled straight A ’s.
What if I lost my scholarship? I’d refuse to go back to Long Island. I belonged with my new family. With Chris and Ben. Why did I keep screwing everything up? I couldn’t even screw the right guy, for chrissakes.
Following class, I headed to the U.B. clinic. The Bodine girls had said you could get birth control pills there. They’d often spoke in whispers about enduring painful pelvic exams by ‘Dr. Grumpy.’ A small price to pay for the ‘magic pills’ that provided women with their freedom.
I sat in the waiting room for over two hours reading an old Look magazine with Mia Farrow on the cover. Finally, a nurse with a shock of bottle-red hair led me to an examination room and handed me a cloth gown. She told me to undress, scoot my hips down to the end of the table, and place my feet in the stirrups.
Shortly after, ‘Dr. Grumpy’ arrived, checked out my chart, and squinted at me.
I squeezed the nurse’s hand as he began the exam. She said to think about something pleasant like ice cream. I closed my eyes and pretended I was body surfing in the ocean in Florida. My family had spent many Christmas vacations there.
After the doctor was done, he told me everything looked okay “down there,” and scribbled out a prescription. I asked him how soon the pills would take effect.
“Just because you’re on the pill now young lady, doesn’t give you a license to be a whore,” was all the response I got.
The nurse shrugged.
I filled the scrip at the local pharmacy on Main Street. The hell with the moralistic doctor, my parents, and the whole establishment. I was now armed and ready to have some fun.
It was late afternoon and
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