Reflections: A Tribute to a College Professor and a College Application Letter  |
| Professor Emeritus Leo Nickole ’49 at an event celebrating the 40th anniversary of the Spring Musical at Alumni Weekend, 1993. Photo/Emerson College Archives |
There’s a lot of reflection going on during these days of Covid. I can only
speak for myself, but with all this time and distance, I find myself better able to digest
quietly much of what comes my way. Two things really touched me in different
ways this week.
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The first was a tribute to my daughter’s college professor, Leo
Nickole. He was a legend at Emerson College in Boston, where Lee studied as an
undergraduate. I remember being very impressed as a youngster myself by the
theatre department professors at Brooklyn College. They were the artistic gods
of their calling then, so I understood the wellspring of emotion that came
forth in a zoom tribute with 50+ ( I think) performers singing “Our Time” from
“Merrily We Roll Along.”
This was the last production I saw Lee in at Emerson
before she graduated, and the song itself is an anthem to hope for the future.
You can imagine how emotional it was to see my daughter, now a second-grade
teacher with two daughters of her own, singing her heart out -a heart that held
many memories of that time in her life. As I recall (and that is a loaded concept), it
was a good time for her. She was living in Boston (the first time she had
happily left home. Earlier attempts at sleepaway camp were disastrous) and had
lots of friends and a serious boyfriend who, at the time, became part of the
family. That was my rosy recollection of my daughter’s time away at Emerson.
The reflection that ensued for me was that I really didn’t
know all that much about my daughter’s time at Emerson, save for the few visits
we made to Boston to see her in a show. There were more than a few, but
they are episodes in my memories - the productions and the roles she played
as a young actor. I was so proud. I was living my dream through her and I
freely admit it.
But my reflection revealed to me how little I really know
about how my daughter was during those four halcyon years of her life. I am not
proud to admit that I wrote few letters to her. There was no text or email in
those days, which makes life these days for parents of college-age students so
much easier.
She came home for holidays, of course, and other occasions,
with boyfriend in tow, and I remember (and remember what I said about my
rose-colored memory) that she always seemed happy. But what did I know? I was
in an emotional maelstrom, fighting for my life, and I was only too glad that
she was far away. The maelstrom was my second husband who had deteriorated
mentally (bipolar was the diagnosis) and I was doing my best to keep my head
and the little head of my second daughter (only 5 or 6 at the time) above
water.
I lost so much during those years – my own wellbeing took a hit from
which I barely recovered. My little daughter still bears the scars and
struggles on in the face of the fact that she has no father (to speak of) and
is now expecting her first child. But, in the context of this reflection, I
lost my first child. When she came back to me after graduation, and she always
comes back in her glorious resilient way, she was a fully formed woman. And, I
expect, what was fully formed were her opinions of me and the deep sadness she
must have felt somewhere inside knowing that I was inaccessible to her during
those years – trying to hold my own in a second marriage that was one of the
worst decisions of my life, and trying to raise a second child in the
maelstrom.
The second thing I found most touching this week was an
essay that my current love found in an anthropological dig in his archive of
collections. It was written by his daughter, who is now 26, wrote when she was
applying to attend Temple University. I found it both fascinating and
impressive incorporating both the strategy of “tugging at the heartstrings,”
which she described as “self-aggrandizement,” while telling a story that was
horrifying from the standpoint of the child who experienced it. She told of a
time when her 7-year old self was left alone in her house. She didn’t remember
why and doesn’t address that unusual fact in the essay. She simply says, “Who
knows why?” or, “I can’t remember.”
At some point, the alarm went off in the house and she was
completely terrified and ran to hide in the bathroom. Then, instead of leading
the reader through a narrative about how this experience traumatized her for
life, she credits and thanks her parents for having provided enough tests in
her childhood to make her the “mature, self-assured, self-determined”
individual that she has become.
Reading her essay, I felt her pain, knowing
that her independence grew out of her ability to build the defenses she needed
in life to withstand the many obstacles that life can bring – the divorce of
her parents, adolescence going between two households including dealing with
new step siblings in her life who weren’t always accepting.
This is a tough
young lady. At a recent party for the birthday of her father, she made a very
touching speech (which, of course, she had written) that was filled with
gratitude for the love and support that he had given her over the years. She
also thanked him for accepting her sexual exploration, a revelation that was
both poignantly honest and brave. But this is Rebecca.
What is the substance of my reflection during these moments
when we all yearn for our children and wish that we could be living in a
“family village” with all loved ones around us? I think we often make it very
difficult for our children to love and respect us. They must work hard to
overcome the obstacles that we often selfishly and mindlessly throw their ways.
I could list the endless decisions I’ve made that have affected my kids and I
see it all around me in others. Then, I also see those who fearfully live their
lives to protect their children at every turn from life’s demons. It can’t be
done.
