Seems Like Old Times

Seems Like Old Times

All the persons, names, places and events depicted in

Jan's stories are fictional.

Any resemblance to actual events, persons or locations is purely coincidental.

September 1970

“If you drop that advanced placement history class, you’ll spend the rest of your life never completing anything. You’ll never finish college. And you’ll end up just like any other black kid…a failure and a drop out.” The high school counselor emphasized his scolding remarks by slapping his hand on his cluttered, gun metal gray desk and adopting a severely disapproving expression on his face. He waited for the teenager to cave in. She continued to sit before him with her eyes cast downward, deep in thought.

The counselor, who made no secret of his dislike for minority students, leaned forward with an expectant look on his face. When Jenny looked up, she could see in his eyes that he thought he’d won. Either she’d complete the class on his say-so and struggle harder through an already impossible year and ruin her grade point average in the process, or she’d accept being a defeatist. Are these my only options?

Jenny was on the college track and had already been offered scholarships at some of the most prestigious colleges in the United States. MIT had offered a full scholarship when the district psychologist had shared the results of her IQ tests and her Scholastic Aptitude Test scores with the Dean of Admissions, who was an old friend of the psychologist from her college days.

She already was under a lot of pressure at home from an abusive father who got worse by the year and a mother who had given up trying to cope. I’m going to be the first one of my brothers and sisters to go to college. There’s so much riding on what I do.

At school, racial tensions were at the boiling point and she had narrowly talked a group of minority students out of rioting a few weeks before. The librarian, who didn’t realize Jenny’s mother was black, announced that she didn’t like it when the black students came into the library. She had to keep an eye on them instead of getting her work done, or so she claimed. That was the last straw in a long line of slights against them. These students lived in the same neighborhoods as the white students and the Hispanic students. Their parents were teachers, doctors, business leaders. But all the librarian saw when she looked at one of them was the same as what Mr. Doyle saw. I’m just another black kid to him.

I don’t have to prove anything to Mr. Doyle. She had her answer, “You’re wrong.”

“What?” The counselor sat upright and stared at her, obviously not believing that she would actually challenge him.

“You’re wrong. I’ve already got scholarship offers that will let me go to any school I want. I’m a member of the Student Council, the vice-president of the Black Student Union, I’ve been active in the drama department, and I started a program for students who think they might like to be teachers to assist teachers in local elementary schools. After school, I do the family laundry, take care of my dog, do my homework, and clean house. I am not shiftless or lazy, and I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to tell me that I’ll be a failure in life because I drop a class that I don’t have to take right now and that I’m not interested in.”

Jenny waited for his reaction. His face took on an even more severe expression, as he pointed an accusing finger at her and said, “Look girl. You watch your mouth. That’s the trouble with your kind. You don’t know your place.”

Jenny wondered why people automatically assumed she was a pushover. In reality, the more people pushed her, the more she pushed right back.

“Mr. Doyle, would you like to repeat that remark in front of the principal? I’m sure that he would be interested in your opinion of the minorities in this school. I seem to remember his reaction to the librarian’s racist remarks, right before she was suspended.”

“Now hold on,” he said, dropping his outstretched arm and changing his body language to what he obviously thought was a less intimidating pose. Jenny readied herself for the usual back peddling where the bigot claimed that Jenny had either misunderstood him or was being too sensitive. “You misunderstood me. Don’t be so sensitive.”

Bingo! She got both of the reactions that were typical of the white people where she lived when they were confronted about their bigotry.

Jenny got up to leave. “Mr. Doyle. I’m dropping the class. Switch me to typing, if you want. Then, when I’m a failure, I’ll at least have one job skill to fall back on.” She didn’t wait for a response. Jenny left the room and went on to her next class.

June 2000

“Mr. Doyle. I'm so happy to see you here.”

“At seventy, I'm happy to be seen anywhere,” the retired high school teacher and counselor joked. “Although, I don't quite recall your face.”

“Jenny! Look who's here.” Renee excused herself and went to summon her old friend. Renee and Jenny had spent their last year in high school sharing their passion for writing poetry with each other. They speculated about their futures, too, but neither had any clue back then about the surprises life had in store for them.

Renee was now Ronald. He had celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday by having gender reassignment surgery and had lived quite comfortably as a man for more than a dozen years. Even though Jenny was surprised, their old friendship came shining through, and they picked their friendship right up from where it had left off so many years before.

“Where's your partner?”

Jenny peered through the mingling crowd and pointed, “There! Talking with Mrs. Ramirez. I had her for American history. She’s aged well.”

“She was my tennis coach.” Ronald laughed. “You should have seen her face when I introduced myself. I thought she'd stroke out.”

“What about Mr. Doyle? I really didn't expect to see him here.”

Ronald glanced at the old man who seemed to be enjoying himself while he held court with his former students. “He always comes to these things. He said he likes to see if his predictions about his students' futures came true.”

“I remember his prediction about me.” Jenny's countenance darkened. “He didn’t exactly hold any hope out for me when I opted out of advanced placement history. Years later, I found out I had a learning disability that prevented me from learning history the way it was taught in that class. It would have compromised my grades for sure.”

“Well, it really hasn't slowed your career down any, has it, Ms. Fortune 500?” Ronald grinned, and then added, “Are you going to say hello to him?”

“I said everything I have to say to him thirty years ago. He really had a thing against the black students, and with me being racially mixed, it was like he was angry with me all the time because I didn't fit into his mold.”

“You got that right. We lived the upper middle-class life and knew what was expected of us. A lot of us went on to good careers. A few settled for other things, but you were always driven to do your own thing, back when it still wasn't all that popular to do that.”

“I guess.” Jenny glanced over to where her partner had been before and saw her approaching with a cup of punch in each hand.” When Jenny’s eyes met Angela’s, she smiled.

“Ah, love, true love,” Ronald batted his eyes and Jenny could see how handsome he still was. Renee had been pretty, but Ronald was stunning, even in his late forties.

“You know, Ron, I remember having a bit of a crush on you in our senior year.”

“Really? I never knew.”

“That's probably because back then I didn't understand it for what it was. But, later, when I met Angela, everything became clear.” Jenny’s eyes were still locked with Angela’s. She blushed and said, “Look at me in my mushy old age.”

Just then, Angela joined them. “You're not old.” Angela handed the cups to Ronald and pulled Jenny into her arms and kissed her.

“Mmm…What was that for?” Jenny asked.

“The way you were looking at me just now.”

Ronald sighed loudly and batted his eyes, “Pure mush, if you ask me.”

The sound of fitful coughing could be heard. They turned toward where Mr. Doyle had been sitting and saw that a few of their old classmates were patting him on the back and trying to get him to sip some water. In between coughing fits, he managed to glare in their direction.

Jenny turned to Angela and asked, “Dance with me?”

“My pleasure.” Angela allowed Jenny to lead her to the dance floor and held her close, enjoying the sway of their bodies as they moved to a slow, romantic song.

Ronald watched them for a moment with a thoughtful expression. A mischievous gleam came into his eyes, and he turned around to head toward the retired high school counselor. “Mr. Doyle. I'm sorry that I didn't fully introduce myself before. I was Renee Anderson. But you can call me Ron.”