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Florida and Beyond
After my graduation from Cornell University in 1950, I
moved in with my parents in Long Beach, Long Island, and went looking for
a job. I found that the business and professional world was not very
interested in women college graduates. So, I studied shorthand (I'd
already taken typing in high school) and thereafter held a number of
secretarial positions.
I felt, however, that I wanted to do more with my life
and decided to go to law school at the University of Miami, Florida. My
parents were strongly opposed. They believed that a woman's future lay in
marriage and raising a family and that my getting a law school education
would deter any future suitors. But I had no suitors at the time.
What I did have was $1500, saved from my various jobs. It was enough to
get me through the first year of law school. After that, I didn't know
what would happen.
The University of Miami Law School put me up in a garden apartment type of
building with three other young women. The four of us shared two bedrooms,
a living room, dining room, and a kitchen. We were an unmatched lot.
None of the others were law students. One was in graduate school; one
never attended classes and did not intend to, although her parents thought
she did--she was only there to meet college men; the third turned out to
have psychological problems; she was my roommate.
Our first arrangement was for one of us to cook dinner for all four one
week, after which another one would cook the following week. Even though
cooking had never been my forte, I managed to prepare the first week's
dinners. Thereafter, however, none of the other three did any cooking.
Seeing this, I suggested that we each maintain our own food supplies and
cook for ourselves. My housemates took umbrage at this proposal but
eventually agreed.
This new system necessitated my labeling all the food I had in the
refrigerator. It also resulted in a considerable amount of awkwardness
since I appeared to be the only one doing any cooking. When I would seat
myself at the kitchen table to eat, the others would circle around me and
give me dirty looks.
One morning shortly after I moved into this apartment, I realized
something was terribly wrong with my roommate. When I awakened, she was
holding her hairbrush in her hand and shrieking in a hysterical voice,
"You moved my hairbrush!" She believed her hairbrush was not in the exact
same spot on the dresser where it had been the night before and that I had
moved it, and she was terribly disturbed about this. From then on, I only
went into our shared room for my clothes and slept on the floor of the
living room.
I wrote my parents a letter, telling them about my experiences on campus
but not about my living situation. I did, however, mention casually that
it was somewhat difficult for me to grocery shop without a car.
When my mother read this letter to my father, he didn't say a word but
left the living room for the bedroom. My mother, surprised by this,
followed him a few minutes later, only to find him packing a suitcase.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Didn't you hear that letter?" he responded.
"Yes, so?" she asked.
"The girl needs a car," he said. "I'm going down to buy
her one."
"But it's erev Rosh Hashanah -- the eve of the High Holy
Days," protested my mother.
My father repeated, "The girl needs a car," and
continued packing. Then he took the train from New York City
to Miami, checked into a Miami Beach hotel, and called me.
"Who is this?" I asked.
"It's your father," he answered.
"My father's in Long Beach," I said. "Who is this?"
I did not believe it was my father because my father had
a strong Yiddish accent and this man did not, and because I had left my
father in Long Beach only a few days ago.
"It's your father," he said again.
"Is this Hal?" I asked.
I had just broken up with Hal Levine, a man I'd dated
off and on for a couple of years. I'd met Hal one New Year's Eve in Miami
Beach on one of my family's winters there. He lived in New Haven,
Connecticut, but it would not have been out of character for him to follow
me down to the Miami area.
"No," he said, "This is your father.
"If you're my father," I asked, "what's my Yiddish
name?"
"Sheyndel," he said.
"Hi Dad," I said.
I'd never spoken to my father on the phone before. He
never made phone calls, and when I called home, my mother always answered
the phone. Apparently, my father's Yiddish accent was not evident on
the telephone.
My father arranged to meet me so he could buy me a car.
After we accomplished that, he came by to see my living quarters.
That's when he learned that I was sleeping on the living room floor. He
said nothing to me about it.
When he returned home, the first thing he said to my
mother was, "Lina, we have to sell the house and move to Florida."
"Why?" she asked.
He explained to her that "the girl" was sleeping on the
floor and they had to move down there so I would have a decent place to
live while I attended law school.
Within two weeks, my parents had sold the house to my
brother, Hermann, a realtor in Long Beach; had had their furniture and
personal belongings shipped; and were ensconced, with me, in a newly-built
home in North Miami Beach.
Three years later, when I graduated from law school, I
was twenty-nine years old. My mother was still preparing all my meals,
washing my laundry, and doing my ironing. She still waited up for me to
come home when I was out in the evening. During the time I had gone
to college, if I ever came home later than my mother expected, the police
were always there to greet me.
The moment Mother heard that I was going to move to
Washington, DC, to take a job with the Department of Justice, she began
planning a move there with my father. I told her she could not continue
following me around the country, and, reluctantly, she and my father
agreed to remain in Florida.
©1996 by Sonia Pressman Fuentes
This excerpt appeared on May 25, 2001, in the
Story Lady e-newsletter and website.
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