Quest for a Gentleman: Sins of the First Freedom

CHAPTER ONE

At seventeen years old, I was thrilled to have gotten into Plantation Grove College. (As if it were so hard.) After years of hearing high school teachers, relatives, and parents constantly inform me to get a good education, my only purpose for doing so was simply to meet men. Not boys, and cute guys; but men. For someone who had just given her life to Jesus Christ at 16 years old, meeting men certainly should not have been first on the agenda for college. I thought to myself for just one minute, . . . or two, I’m going to buckle down, get to work, and get my education. Forget trying to have friends. I’m going to stay by myself at all times and read my Bible. I’m not going to talk to anybody. I’m going to be nice to everybody I meet, but I’m never going to get close to anybody. I’m going to be a loner and just study all the time. If anybody asks me a question, I’m going to always say the right thing so that I will never have any enemies. I will read my Bible every night so that no one will bother me spiritually. I’m ready for the real world now. I’m ready for college!

Yeah, right. College. The big C word. A land with an unlimited supply of hardbodies, ruffnecks and GQs. Oh, my! I could not wait until the day to move onto campus. At the start, Mom did not want me to move onto Plantation Grove’s campus. She really did not think it was necessary. Dad didn’t want me to move on campus because he simply did not want to have to pay for it (which is something he is usually complaining about). But, finally, Mom gave in. If only I had listened to Mom! Why didn’t she use that parental domination routine where they say stuff like, You ain’t livin’ on campus, and that’s final!? Of all times, she had to let me find out on my own that campus life ain’t all that. Oh, how I wish she had put her foot down.

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I should have been familiar with the Plantation Grove area by now considering that I had an audition with two of the music instructors there a few months before. Ms. Stonewash was the piano instructor; the only whitehead I saw at Plantation Grove College for a long time. She sat across the room from Mr. Duccio, who taught, . . . uh, who taught, . . . uh, . . . to tell you the truth, . . . I don’t know what he did at that school. I think they called his class Music Lab. The course was numbered MUS 000. They obviously could not find anything for him to do, so they made up something. Jennifer went with me the day we had to audition for our scholarships. I was given $2500 for singing two songs. That was pretty good considering Music was not my first love.

Friday, before the week I was to move onto campus, Mom and I went to find a certain Dr. Bennett E. Brinkley. I was not necessarily sure what we were going to find him for, but I tagged along. Once we found our way to his office, his look alone frightened the heck out of me. He was a balding elderly man with glasses. But his presence was nothing less than noble. He struck me as the typical professor. Normally, I would have become a chatter box full of cheerful words, but his stance intimidated me to the extent I was at a loss for words. He was polite to us, but in a very quiet nonchalant manner. His office was large enough to hold four computers, desks, and a large table. There were books, books, and miles of books on shelves that went all the way to the ceiling. Then there was a little mini-office in the back where he kept a copy machine. I do not remember him offering us a seat, but we made our way to the table anyway when we observed him sitting down. He had begun filling out a schedule for me when Mom offered words of warmth. She hoped to relax the mood in the office she and I were both feeling. But, Dr. Brinkley replied in the shortest of ways; almost in a way that implied that he was not interested in carrying on a conversation with us. He was in no way rude, but simply unconcerned about being friendly. He hadn’t any time for that sort of thing. There were too many important things he needed to busy himself with. Mom noticed that one of the courses he listed for me, Music Theory I, was held at 8am. She commented to me about getting proper rest. Dr. Brinkley interjected with the words, Be sure to be on time because at eight o’clock I’m locking the doors. I lived in fear of Dr. Brinkley from that point on.

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Sunday morning, August 21, 1990, Mom and I packed vigorously. She was the only person around to help out because Dad was in New York on business. I took practically everything in my bedroom that I did not need, along with other things that I went to the extent of buying thinking they would come in handy. As far as wardrobe was concerned, I took nothing but useless old clothes that I would not dare wear anywhere else. (A smart move for someone who was hoping to find Mr. Right.) I was constantly being informed that whatever I decided to take with me would face the risk of being stolen. So, I took the clothes that would not pose much of a risk.

After loading everything we could possibly load up, Mom and I were off to Plantation Grove College: Where History and the Future Join Hands (and they each say to one another, Who the heck are you?).

CHAPTER TWO

The day I moved into Sanders Earl Hall, I immediately began to feel a little homesick. Just moving things into my room was enough to make me feel as though I was moving far away. I had never been away from home before. But at the same time, I was eager to know what freedom was like. I had never tasted it before. Mom has always been protective of me, and now that I was mature enough to realize it, I could not blame her. Breaking my leg all the time was a habit I just could not seem to shake. I was never allowed to ride the school bus because Mom always thought that the kids would cause me to fall and, again, I would end up in the hospital. I was diagnosed with Fiber’s Dysplasia in my right femur when I was in the first grade. The deficiency left me with very brittle bone tissue in that area. No where else, just the femur. I use a cane so that I will not place too much weight on the bone. Since first grade, I had taken four falls which all landed me in the hospital for surgery on this leg, so Mom definitely was not taking any risks. Aside from all the pain I feel with the changing seasons, or from constant wear and tear on the bone, I never really felt disabled despite how others viewed, or how often they teased me. Out of all the times Mom allowed her fears to play a part in my not socializing with this crowd and that crowd, the one time it could have changed my entire life, she went against her better judgment and allowed me to move onto the campus of Plantation Grove College.

*     *     *

I could not wait to look at my dorm room. I chose Room 16 because it was down stairs, and in my condition, there was no way I was going to enjoy climbing a flight of stairs everyday just to get to my bed. Another reason I chose the room was because it was the last room on that hall, and the windows were positioned at a 90 degree angle. I felt that the sunlight would be brighter for my roommate and myself. When I walked into the room, I saw the heads of two beds pushed against the biggest window with a very large desk between them. On top of the desk on the left and on the right, there were messages welcoming me and a certain Bianca Catchings to Plantation Grove College. I wandered around the room. It was old, dirty, creepy, and disgusting. The closet doors were falling apart, paint was chipping, the mattresses had these weird dark stains on them. But I didn’t mind. I simply admired the fact that this was going to be my new home. I felt independent at that very moment. I rushed to help Mom with whatever else needed to be brought inside.

After moving everything in, and setting everything up, Mom waited around as long as possible to meet my new roommate. Bianca had called me every week prior to moving day. We had gotten to know each other over the telephone, and I was content in knowing that my roommate was someone who could crack me up like there was no tomorrow. She definitely had a gift. I told Mom so much about Bianca that she wanted to get a good look at her before she left, but she took to long to show up. So, Mom took off and left me in the room to stare at the walls. When the boredom become unbearable, I got up to leave. As soon as I opened the door, there was a chocolate complexioned girl with short hair standing at the door with her hand stuck out as if she was just about to turn the knob. As she smiled at me I noticed that her hands were full of all kinds of stuff, and an older woman was behind her. I yelled out, Bianca!?

Sheila?!

Yeah, girl!

Hiya doin?!

Come on in! We were ecstatic about finally seeing each other’s faces. I said hello to the lady whom I assumed was her mother. She and her mother both went through the same routine that Mom and I went through to get all of our belongings into the room. Back and forth to the car, back and forth to the dorm room. It was a good thing Mom and I had a van to load everything only once so that we would not have to go back home again.

After I sat around getting used to the way my new roommate looked, and meeting her mother, I decided that I had better familiarize myself with the campus some. So, I walked outside to the front of Sanders Earl Hall, or S.E. as its name soon became known as, where everybody was hauling as much junk in as possible while trying to get in a little socializing. I saw a lot of guys, but none of them were what I had expected. It soon occurred to me that I was looking only at men of my age. The upperclassmen were not to be on campus until another two or three days from then. This particular day was Sunday, therefore the faculty and staff would be back on the next day; which meant that we had better do all of the socializing we needed to do during the time designated for us to get things in order.

I walked around the campus as much as possible. I think I made it as far as Burelle Hall before I became completely exhausted. Burelle Hall was the building which housed the Music Department. It was the building where Jennifer and I had our auditions. It was the building that would become home to our music minds. It was a ragged old rusty, dusty building where the floors creaked every time you took a step. It was two stories tall, but nobody bothered going up to the second floor. I looked at the building and thought to myself, I have to spend the next four years taking my main courses in this dump? How can I work effectively and earn a degree under these conditions? I did not finally accept the state of Burelle Hall until I came to realize that all of the buildings on Plantation Grove’s campus were mostly in bad shape. I wondered what they were doing with all the money given to them. They had not given scholarships to every single student enrolled at Plantation Grove College, so what was the problem? Why not come up with a really nice fixer-upper plan for the place? I felt sorry for the students who had come to Plantation Grove from New York City, Houston, Chicago, or even Atlanta. Those students who thought going off to college would be like A Different World were sadly mistaken. There was certainly nothing they could do about it now. They were trapped there with no way out. They had sent their applications off, gotten accepted to one of the best schools in the United States. Unfortunately, they had not seen the campus first.

In spite of its living conditions, Plantation Grove was nationally known for its high production of students who go off to med school, law school, and graduate school. There was no other historically Black college in the state of Mississippi that held the record for producing bright, well-educated, established Black men and women other than Plantation Grove College. A student certainly could not be materialistic and expect to pursue a good education from there. Materialism and a Plantation Grove education simply did not mix. With a reputation so widely observed, who would have guessed that when we entered under that heavenly white gate at the main entrance, the outcome would be of narrow roads, hanging moss trees, parking spaces full of rocks, and old plantation buildings?

I observed as much of the campus that my little four feet ten inch half crippled body would allow me. I then headed back to the dormitory to plunge into my bed.

CHAPTER THREE

Orientation Day for New Students. We were encouraged through administrative letters to attend orientation, and I actually wanted to see what it would be all about, so I made my way to Hamilton Hall. I remember it being very dark outside, and I could not help wondering why they would hold something like this at night? As a result, nothing made sense to me as far as people I saw walking, names on buildings, the shapes of buildings, etc. I simply went where ever people told me to go, not even realizing I was going to Hamilton Hall. I remember a big open room filled with folding chairs, blue chairs, and little desk chairs. Pretty lame for an auditorium, I thought. I took a seat somewhere in the middle of the assembly and tarried for whoever the speaker would be. The assembly hall soon began to fill with hundreds of students. Soon, a man began talking to us as if we were little children. A manual was handed to each one of us. I remember flipping through it as he turned toward the stage. It was at this time when I noticed a line of students sitting on the edge of the stage with their feet dangling like a bunch of kids; and, when it struck me, I said to myself, Hey, there’s Patricia Clayborne!! She had her hair styled! And, she had no glasses on! I couldn’t believe it. It was so good to see her. At first, I wasn’t even sure if it was her. She didn’t seem quiet and shy like she was during school. I went to junior high school with this girl; we were in Girl Scouts together; we even went to high school together where she graduated as co-Valedictorian in the Class of 1989 only one year ahead of me. She was forced to be labeled co-valedictorian because she tied in cumulative grade point averages with another girl that year.

Despite all of the activities we were involved in together, we were never actually friends. She and I were what people in my generation have been known to refer to as, hey and bye friends. Those persons who you know everything about, your parents know their parents, but the you never find the time to get to know one another.

Patricia was always the butt of jokes all throughout school. But, it was only in Girl Scouts and academics did she show those losers what really mattered. Our classmates always made fun of her behind her back because she would never do anything with her hair. The guys were even worst about it. She had pretty long hair, but she would only wear it in a ponytail. We know how Black folks are about not having a perm. I guess she figured what would be the point if she was only going to put it in a ponytail anyway, right? She wore those glasses that made her eyes look really, really small. I always wished she had worn contact lenses or something. For a long time, I honestly thought that she was going blind. I thought that the older she got, the worst her eyesight was getting because the lenses kept getting thicker and thicker every year. I would ask, ‘What’s going to happen to her when she gets to college when she’s really going to have to see? Her eyesight will be gone, and she won’t be smart anymore."

Fashion statements did not speak well for Patricia, either. She always dressed homely. Her baby doll collars and granny dresses made her look like a wall flower. Those socks pulled all the way up to her knees never seemed to go out of style with her. But who cared?! She obviously felt that it was unimportant to look her best. She never dated anybody, so what was the point in that? She always carried the attitude that she really had no time for guys. Therefore, I did not really know for sure whether she actually wanted a boyfriend or not. If she did, she certainly played the desire off well. She wanted what was most significant: Her education.

During public school days, I had friends who would make negative comments about Pat, but I never had anything less than total respect for her. She was smart. What else did she need to be other than that? The very people who were so worried about the way she looked probably would not have been graduating from school anytime soon anyway. So, when I saw her Orientation Day, sitting on that stage with her peers, I was so relieved that she had done something to her hair and that she had taken off those glasses. Now, she would have the last laugh, right? All of those changes did not make her face look any more tolerable, though, but it was a step up.

I could tell that her confidence was up a lot when the speaker asked the students on stage to give their names. She was slinging her long locks from left to right. The fact that she had placed effort in styling it at all convinced me that she was now serious about what kind of impression she