A WAY OUT: One Woman’s Journey to Redemption

By Dr. A. G. Marra

A Way Out is her first book that attempts to shed light on the hidden world of abuse. In this book, she exposes a world that was kept hidden and silent for much of her life. She writes with compassion and insight, having lived much of her life in an environment where love was substituted with verbal and physical abuse, first within her immediate family then by choosing a partner who reflected that world. Her compassion for those who have suffered at the hands of loved ones and strangers resonates throughout this book.

Through her experiences, she hopes that those who suffer from abuse will find their way out.

The author resides with her husband in a quaint New England town where she enjoys entertaining family and friends, taking long walks, immersing herself in prayer, and praising God for the blessings and graces He has bestowed on her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823022132

Book preview

Part One

The Beginning

To My Readers:

During the past thirty years, I made several attempts to write this story. It was once titled, My Maiden Voyage. In fact, it had numerous titles, all attempts trying to capture the reader’s attention but none telling the true story. Each attempt at writing would get me so far and then it would stop. I was told and believed it was writers’ block, stuck in a place that had no future, no plot, no plan. I would leave it for some time, years would go by, and my desire and motivation would fade. The story I thought I wanted to tell would recede into the background of my life and never see daylight. Then one day when I became retired and the children were grown with families of their own, grand parenting services no longer needed, I was sitting in my den, idle and alone. I began a conversation with the Almighty. Feeling internally empty and misdirected, I asked Him, Why Father, why can’t I find the desire to write my story? He answered without any further provocation, as clear and calm as I envisioned Him to be: My daughter, you are not writing the story I want you to write.

It was then that I made a deal with Him. Making deals was a behavior I learned in childhood when I wanted something but was getting told I couldn’t have it. OK, I said, You help me write the story you want me to tell, and I will record it. And so it began. This partnership with God has taken almost two years from its start to its completion and every step has been filled with moments of joy, pain, and sorrow. The idea of writing this story was His wanting me to tell not only my story but the stories of other women who I have met along this journey. The characters’ names are fictitious, but the events and experiences are real. I have changed the names of towns and places to further conceal identities, and protect them from exposure, but in all cases, the events and experiences are true and unembellished. Alexandra Grace Marra is a composite, an amalgamation of women, whose stories were shared with me, and some I have shared with them.

I have used the subjective voice to personalize the events and show the raw truth that lies behind them. I use dialogue between characters to show how patterns of relationships repeat themselves, unintentionally in some cases, purposefully in others. There is always a veil of secrecy which covers the victims and the perpetrators of abuse. And, if that veil continues to hide the realities of abuse, there is no salvation, no escape. I believe that God’s purpose in having me write this story is His way of healing me while also attempting to heal others by exposing the truth and removing the curtain behind which so many others are hiding.

Prior to His divine intervention, the stories I previously started but never finished were a source of embarrassment for me. Like so many others, I felt a shame that was intricately woven into our lives. There is a deep-seated belief that, for some unknown reason, we believe that the acts of verbal, physical and sexual abuse are our fault, a punishment that we deserve. God helped me expose the truth. He protected my identity and guided me every step along the way. He also led me to stories where the pain and suffering of others could be told without personal acrimony.

It became necessary to divide the book into two parts. In Part One, the story elucidates the interactions and relationships between the characters and events which shed light on the overt actions and effects of abuse. Part Two delves more deeply into the covert actions that unfold in Alex’s life and what she needed to do to begin her journey to health and eventually redemption. It is possible to read one part without the other, but to do so would not tell the whole story or provide a context that describes the depths of abuse and its effects.

Alexandra Grace Marra represents many women who have experienced the trauma of abuse and the associated addictions to drugs, alcohol, and bad relationships. Those addictions do not only affect her, but the ones she loves. My purpose is to show how our lives are impacted by our relationships, and the underlying issues that enrich or destroy them. The trials and tribulations of Alex’s life may resonate with some readers or be denied by others or, for still others, be an abstraction that has little meaning or understanding. In all cases, however, the events she experiences demonstrate the realities and truth of an abused life. Like so many, I am grateful to have been able to rise from the depths of despair and pain; not only by my own strength or courage, but by those who have stood by me and showed me love, patience and understanding. It has been those qualities and those individuals who have helped me survive and will hopefully help others survive as well. I am grateful to everyone.

God has shined a light on this path that I am on. He has helped me recover from my own past and has guided and protected me through all the events in my life that have brought me to this place where I am starting to feel most whole. It has been a long and difficult journey; one He believed I could handle and one He helped me get through every step of the way, despite my refusal to believe and trust. The Father of us all has coaxed, prodded, and supported me through this effort, using my background and my life to shed light on those who are suffering and looking for A Way Out. His guidance and forgiveness, mercy and love, made it possible. My firm belief is that it’s the only way.

Is this a religious story? Not necessarily, it is more a pilgrimage I have taken hoping those of you who have experienced the pains of abuse can take comfort in knowing there is another way for healing. We have choices, we make decisions, but we must ask ourselves are these choices and decisions repetitive causing us to continue to suffer or do they provide a different path forward, or A Way Out from the past? I have come to believe and appreciate that, though our destinies are uncertain and, our voyage solitary, we are guided by many lights along the way; some are bright, others faint, but in all cases, a way to lead us forward.

In Chapter 12, line 12 of St. Paul’s epistle to the Romans, he says, Rejoice in Hope, Endure in Affliction, Persevere in Prayer. St. Paul’s words give us hope for the future, knowing there will be struggles and pain along the way, but through prayer we will thrive. My pilgrimage never began with these thoughts, or beliefs, or faith. It has taken much time and steadfastness on His part to bring me here; to write, to share, and at times refer to scripture wherever and whenever it seemed appropriate and pertinent. The books, stories, and individuals that have influenced my life are also referenced, supporting and elucidating the paths we choose to follow or ignore. Collectively, it is to hope and to wish with prayer and humility that somehow what He has guided me to say will be what you need to hear. It may be to cast a brighter light on the dark world of abuse or provide encouragement to take the journey that leads to your Way Out.

Remember and believe that …goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord, forever, Psalm 23:6 AMEN!

Dr. A.G. Marra

Chapter 1

The Road To Hell Is Paved

With Good Intentions

If your thoughts and actions don’t align with what is in your heart, you will never have peace. Matthew Kelly, Life is Messy, p.181.

I thought back to those early years of my life and remembered how I searched for such alignment. Believing I had found it, I pursued it, only to find I was mistaken. The first time I knew my alignment was faulty was when I discovered that my values and those of my culture were mismatched. I was born into a highly influential Italian culture where women had specific roles that were aligned with the men they married. Marriage was the primary goal for us girls at the time. I, however, never saw that role for me. Maybe later in my life when I felt I had achieved my desired goals marriage would be in the picture, but to graduate high school, find a nice boy and get married, as my grandmother would often remind me, would not be how I envisioned my life. Maybe eventually, I would tell her, but not now. My eyes and thoughts were focused elsewhere. This decision became one of many that would fly in the face of my culture and its customs.

School was a sanctuary for me. It was a place where I was happy and successful. I had some friends, was thought of as smart and funny, and it was a place where my sense of humor and sense of self was realized. School always held that special place for me. Not that I remember much of what was taught, though I was a good student, managed to get all As throughout elementary school, getting my first and only C in home economics. Getting that C I thought was an omen that told me, marriage and little Miss homemaker were not in my immediate plans.

I don’t really know where to pinpoint the place or time when the diversion from the expectations of family, friends and culture, began, but the one place I can point to is the conversation I had with one of my seventh-grade teachers, Mr. Hyde. He was the type of teacher who was sincerely interested in his students and inspired them to think about their future and explore opportunities that were out of the ordinary or the expected. He would spend time with a few of us after class, getting to know us as people and not just his pupils. I listened to him and thought deeply about his goals for each of us and it was then that I developed goals of my own, idyllically, believing I was suited for a different path.

Following through with those goals would bring a whole host of emotions: joy, conflict, confusion, and pain. Unaware of the consequences that might result from this path, I confided in Mr. Hyde that I did not want to attend our local high school. He listened and questioned me, asking me first why then where and, finally, toward what end? My answers were a bit contrite, not too well thought out, simple, I don’t know, somewhere else, and I think I want something different for me. Mr. Hyde had some suggestions for my somewhere else and provided a list of several schools within a twenty-mile radius from Reddington, two of which were in metropolitan Boston. All the schools were exclusively female, and all but one, was religiously aligned with the Catholic faith. Being baptized and confirmed as a Catholic, I found those schools to be less of an issue, but I was attracted to the non-religious one. With Mr. Hyde’s assistance and that of the guidance office, we sent for information that would help me narrow down the choices. After reading the various brochures, we chose two schools, one Catholic school in South Boston and a public, all girl school in Dorchester. The Dorchester school was considered one of Boston’s premiere schools which required specific grades and an entrance exam.

Up to this point in my planning, I had not discussed my desire to attend a different high school with my parents. As far as they were concerned, I would be attending Reddington High School like all my cousins had done. I now had all the information I thought I needed to convince my parents that either one of these two schools was where I wanted to go. Surprisingly, when I approached my parents with the idea of attending another high school, both were receptive. My father’s reaction followed my mother’s showing not only an interest but some enthusiasm. My father’s opinion on matters that affected the family would be closely aligned with my mother’s opinion, showing little if any opposition. My grandparents however, especially my little, Italian grandmother had a different opinion, one she vocalized to my mother and me. I listened to her reasoning which was not that complicated. She didn’t want me to be too far away from home and Boston apparently was too far. She also wanted to know why I would want to go so far when we had a perfectly good high school right here in this city. It didn’t take me long to understand a possible explanation for my mother’s support. Her relationship with her mother was contentious.

To be fair, my mother always had high expectations for her children. Expectations that often exceeded our developmental capabilities. She never understood children, had no knowledge of child development, and so, whatever expectations she held, whether appropriate for our age or not, they were going to be enforced, sometimes ruthlessly. My decision to explore a different high school did not come under her ruthlessness. She was in total agreement; in fact, she showed a sense of pride in my wanting to attend school elsewhere. Since this decision was mine without too much influence from anyone other than Mr. Hyde, I felt supported, happy and confident that I was on a solid path for my future. Not only was my mother supportive of this decision, but she was also interested in learning about the schools and their programs.

My mother, Nettie, short for Jeannette, was not book smart as she often referred to me. She was life smart having left high school in her freshmen year to explore the trade of cosmetology. She was a force to contend with, highly opinionated and high strung. Nervous Nettie my grandmother called her, defiant in the ways of our culture, demanding in getting what she wanted, and antagonistic to an extreme. The idea or belief that she would be supportive of my decision was surprising and confusing for me. I was well-prepared for an argument, but instead she shared a part of herself that gave me some insight into her person, my mother.

You know Alex, she said as we put aside the reading materials from both schools, I wanted to do something different when I was your age. She was looking back, remembering her own experience of choosing a different path. I always loved fashion and wanted to be part of that world. I didn’t have the necessary skills for design, but I knew what I liked and what I didn’t like when it came to clothes, accessories, and hair styles. I thought if I started in hair dressing, I could branch out, maybe take courses in fashion design but that was not to be. I could see the disappointment in her face, a dream unfulfilled. She explained how by the time she would have been a junior in high school, she had earned the one thousand hours of training that certified her as a bona fide hairdresser. She worked full time at a local salon where she met different people, from different cultures becoming more worldly in her thinking than many of the young women who remained in school and followed the customs of the time. Of course, she said, it was totally against her parents’ wishes. I had to fight to do what I wanted. My parents, sister, aunts and uncles offered no support, just objections. I don’t want that for you. As I sat there listening to her, I felt fortunate that she remembered what it was like to want to go against the expectations and values of our culture and the price she had to pay for doing so. It was comforting and encouraging to me that I could now continue this alternate path knowing she was supportive and shared my ambitions, one she once had as well.

I thought I knew the cost of my mother’s choices and those of my father’s, but it was not until I decided to attend a different high school that she opened herself up to me. She told me how much she enjoyed her life as a working woman, buying fashionable clothes, going to dances, and meeting men from different walks of life. Her education was whatever life in the real world would teach her, and it taught her a great deal. As Nettie continued to reflect and share more about herself, I began to see how her dreams could be influenced and abruptly changed when the events of a world she had little control of thrusted itself upon her. As she reminisced, her face showed a dreamlike quality, a softness that I had never seen before. She told me how she admired women who had a sense of fashion and style; how she would buy fashion magazines, and comment on what she thought looked good on the model or what she would have done differently to make the look more striking, more eye-catching. She became a little more assertive as she talked about how she learned about good business practices and the importance in her profession of pleasing customers whether she agreed with their opinions or style. She told me how she would have to be respectful and polite almost to the point of being patronizing. She was a bit smitten when she said she earned a decent salary but made more money from the tips she earned from a clientele that would only have her work on their hair. I was also surprised to learn that the hair styling business was populated by mostly gay men and what they inadvertently taught her about the homosexual community. She was glowing when she told me how much They appreciated my sense of fashion, my straightforwardness, and my love for the glamorous. She laughed when she said, Alex, they just loved me! I was able to understand how Nettie was in her element when she was working and how robbed she felt when WWII broke out and the life she loved was abruptly and unforgivingly altered.

My mother’s mood became somber when she spoke of the war and the events that surrounded her and the world in which she and other women were forced to live. The men, except for her employer, were being drafted or willingly enlisting believing they had a duty to save their country from a German invasion. My father, who was barely out of high school, and his two younger brothers, along with many of the men from our community were drafted or enlisted in one of the armed services and sent to Europe or the Pacific, leaving behind family, friends and loved ones. While the men were at war, the women became the bread winners, finding jobs in factories or grocery stores, or wherever they could get work that would keep them and their families safe and secure. My mother was fortunate to have a skill and talent that allowed her to continue her profession. Growing up, I would listen to their stories, those of the men, and the women, imagining how life would have been had their lives not been disrupted by the ravages of war. When I was older, I began to understand how that disruption placed a heavy burden and toll on my parents and their relationship.

When I listened to my mother talk about her life before the war and compared it to the many times my parents argued, making nasty accusations to one another, I realized that their paths crossed by acts of misfortune, rather than by love. One of the casualties of war were the relationships that followed when the soldiers returned home. I learned from the various stories that were told by family members that not everyone who came home had a sweetheart waiting for them. Some men came home to find a girlfriend they thought they would someday marry, be betrothed to, or married to someone else; some came home heart broken and depressed, having received the regretted Dear John letter while at war. Some men never came home, leaving a sweetheart or widow broken- hearted. And then there were those relationships that resumed just where they left off. My parents’ story had a little bit of each one. Dad received a Dear John letter from a girlfriend he had back home. Mom received the killed in action letter from the mother of the man she hoped she would marry. When my father returned home, Mom and Dad resumed their dating relationship, a relationship they had while Dad was in high school and she in the working world.

They dated for some time, until he finally got the courage to propose, and she accepted, hoping, I assumed, they would live happily ever after. I recall seeing pictures of sailors, army men and marines coming off boats and planes, running down main streets, grabbing women to hold, to kiss, thrilled to be alive. I supposed that was the case for my parents, but I eventually learned, it was the opposite. When looking at their wedding pictures, it showed a couple who seemed happy, well-suited for one another, he, tall and handsome, she, a striking brunette with red highlights, wearing a wedding dress that looked like it came out of a fashion magazine. But, in their conversations and arguments, my father said he always liked my mother, but he felt she had too many boyfriends and he could not compete. She thought my father a showoff, more of a ladies’ man, not sincere with his feelings or truthful in his promises. Hearing my parents argue and make acrimonious statements to one another, I believed their story was one of tragedy, regret and disappointment. Their marriage, I believed, was one of default rather than of passion and love. More than once I witnessed their unhappiness with one another; my father accused my mother of never really loving him, and she was all too willing to agree. When the arguments became nasty, she would tell him, I never wanted to marry you! and he would respond, I know, you loved him, not me. Their disappointments and disagreements with one another were many: they argued over money, lifestyle, extended family and us, their two children. We sometimes became fodder for their expressed unhappiness. On more than one occasion, our mother would yell at us, telling us how we were mistakes. Grant and I never really understood what she meant but soon she would make it clear that she really didn’t want us; it was not in her life plan for children. But here we were, all four of us, stuck in a place none of us wanted.

I do not know if my desire to attend school somewhere else was driven by a need to make something of myself, someone she would be proud to have as a daughter or if it was driven by a desire to get out of the house, a form of running away. My applications to both the catholic school and the exam school in Boston were favorably received and I was invited for an interview and a visit. My mother accompanied me to both interviews and was asked to tour one of the two schools. Our first visit was to the Catholic school. My mother waited in the lobby while I attended a brief seminar on the school and its expectations then I, with several other applicants, was taken on a tour through the school. I learned I would have to buy and wear a uniform, participate in religious education classes and be trained to be a responsible and morally upstanding young woman of the Catholic faith. If their lofty expectations weren’t enough to discourage me, the formality of the school tour convinced me that this school would not be a good fit for me.

The tour had all these young women lined up against a wall, like a military line-up, our hands clasped together as if in prayer while we walked in a single line, not talking and eyes forward. By the time I joined my mother in the lobby, she could tell by my expression that this school would not be my first, second or ever choice. Our next visit, on a different day, was the exam school, Girls’ Academy of the Liberal Arts. We drove to the school instead of taking public transportation though, as an afterthought, taking public transportation would have been a better plan because it would have informed me of what was involved in taking the T. The school building was a large, imposing structure in the Ashmont section of Dorchester. It was three stories high, and its interior had long, wide corridors with lines of lockers flanking each wall. Throughout the building there were life size sculptures of historical and biblical figures some from classical literature with inscriptions etched in marble. Formidable and intimidating were my initial impressions.

The informational seminar was a more welcoming experience than that of the Catholic School. Upon entering the large foyer, we were greeted by several older students who introduced themselves as juniors and seniors. Two of the girls escorted my mother and I to one of the classrooms where other girls and their parents were seated. At the front of the room was an older woman, an imposing figure who introduced herself as the Dean of Women. She was dressed in a gray suit, waist high jacket and below the knee skirt, a white tailored blouse with a cameo clasp at the neckline. She stood about five feet, nine inches tall, a military type of posture, straight back and hair pinned back and tucked neatly into a French twist. Welcome to Girls’ Academy of the Liberal Arts, one of the premier schools for women in Boston and across the state, were her opening remarks. I am Dr. Hamilton, Dean of Women and former graduate.

She referred to us as young ladies and had prepared a formal presentation of the school. She barely smiled as she handed out rule booklets and samples of class schedules. She congratulated us for choosing the school and told of its history and several well-known local women including her who attended and graduated from there. She spoke with pride and conviction that if any young lady was fortunate enough to attend this school, her life would be filled with much success and possible fame. She talked extensively about the classical education we would receive, noting that no other school in the city or state was comparable in depth or in rigor. At the end of her hour’s presentation, she welcomed questions though few were asked. She then led us on a tour of the building, pointing out her office, boldly inscribed with Dean of Women above her office door, several classrooms, science labs, the cafeteria, gym, and assembly hall. The classrooms and science labs were large, but the cafeteria, assembly hall and gym were huge. I don’t recall the number of enrolled students or student to faculty ratios but just by looking at the size of the rooms, assembly hall, and cafeteria, I knew it would be much larger than Reddington or even the Catholic school I visited. I was beginning to question my intention and suitability to attend, wondering if I would be lost in the crowd of students. While touring the school, I was thinking that maybe I wouldn’t be able to compete, or be successful, and began doubting my decision to attend school elsewhere, or at least, here.

After the tour, while we learned of the academic curricula, the sports programs and required summer reading, our parents were brought to a different room where they were informed of the school’s academic performance expectations and extra-curricular programs, tuition costs, financial assistance plans, and classroom supplies that were required along with the hours of the school day and year. The entire morning was devoted to understanding the requirements and expectations of Girls’ Academy of the Liberal Arts. It was noon when we left the school and began our return trip home. My mother said little at first. I was also quiet, while questions, doubts and excitement were running through my brain. As we passed through the Sumner Tunnel, leaving Boston behind us, my mother began the conversation, telling me how impressed she was with the school, the expectations they held for the students and her support financially and emotionally if I chose to attend. After she spoke of her impressions, she asked me if I was certain I wanted to attend or had the school, its curriculum and its size scared me away? I knew I was impressed; I knew I was feeling a bit intimidated, but I had to ask myself if I was capable of meeting the school’s expectations. I still had the entrance exam to pass and decided to wait until I took the exam before I committed. Even if accepted, I was also concerned that my parents would be paying $450 for a year’s tuition, and I didn’t want them to lose that money should I fail.

I was beginning to analyze the full impact of my application and possible acceptance. I was examining my motives, the benefits, and the consequences of this alternate path I was pursuing. I knew I was taking a risk, leaving my hometown, traveling a long distance to attend school, being with girls I may have little in common with or could relate to, and ultimately, meeting the academic performance expectations. There was a great deal to question, more than I initially thought when applying; however, when I received the letter of acceptance, noting my better than average exam score, I had to decide. Was the risk worth it? I wasn’t sure, but I knew I had to accept the challenge. Later in life, when I read Michael Dye’s book, The Genesis Process, he quoted Pastor Rick Warren’s The Purpose Driven Life and cogently described where the real risk life of life could be found:

Change comes from taking risks and the greatest risk is to be honest with yourself and others. Michael Dye, The Genesis Process, p.9.

The schedule of my days was arduous. Leaving my house by 6:30 AM, taking a bus and three train transfers from Reddington to Ashmont Station in Dorchester, walking a half a mile up to the school from the train station, to arrive at school by 8:45. The school day ended at 3:15, three days a week and at 5:15 on basketball practice days. My trip home took about two hours. The curricula were grueling, the teachers demanding, and the homework insurmountable. Some nights I would study long into the evening, going to bed close to midnight or at the very earliest, 10:30. I immersed myself in my studies, realizing I was ill prepared for the curricula, its pace and comprehensiveness. I was intimidated by the discipline and forcefulness of instruction, and in many ways, I felt the intellectual challenge was beyond my ability to meet. But I had stamina, determination, and grit; I was going to be successful if it took every ounce of my blood, sweat and tears. And it did!

I completed my freshman year with a decent grade point average that pleased me and encouraged my parents to pay another year’s tuition. Toward the end of my sophomore year, however, I was feeling fatigued with a serious loss of energy. Our family doctor conducted several blood tests, diagnosing the reason for my fatigue with mononucleosis often referred to as the kissing disease. An unfortunate label that had no basis in fact or truth, not with my schedule. His warning to my parents was that I was extremely run down and needed complete bed rest. He cautioned my parents telling them that Mono was highly contagious and necessitated no visitors except for my mother who would drop off my meals on the end table, then pick them up when I called to her. I was guaranteed in my bedroom for three months having no friends or family visitors.

The emotional impact of Mono was worse than the toll it took on my body. My sophomore year was prematurely interrupted, leaving two months before the year ended. I was worried that I might not be promoted, repeat the year, or worse, asked not to return. My mother was unable to appease my concerns. She did what the doctor advised, and showed her resentment of my care, by her daily lamentations. You know Alex, I have other things I need to do instead of caring for you. I told you, you weren’t taking care of yourself, spending so much time at school, or in your room, not doing anything other than studying. Nettie seldom showed any compassion for illness or weakness, both of which I was exhibiting. She had a knack for making me feel guilty, believing I was purposefully making her life miserable.

By the middle of August, Dr. Cassidy made a home visit and found me to be improving but not enough to support my return to school, especially the Girls’ Academy of Liberal Arts. He was concerned that I would relapse if I resumed the schedule that he believed contributed to my illness. My improvement, he felt, was promising but not enough for me to pick up where I left off. I had lost thirty pounds; my muscles were weak and my mobility unstable. He suggested I get some physical therapy and consider transferring to the local high school. I was devastated by his recommendations, and pleaded with my parents to go to physical therapy where I could get stronger and return to school. My parents did the opposite; they refused the physical therapy and squashed any hopes or thoughts I had to return to Girls Academy.

My disappointment and devastation took its toll on my emotional wellbeing which was already fragile from my illness. I felt like a failure. I was angry with myself but angrier with my parents for refusing to fight for me, knowing how important the Academy was to me. I pleaded, begged, and even cried, an emotion I seldom expressed, but it was to no avail. They had made up their minds. My mother was adamant that she was not about to give up anymore of her precious time caring for me should I relapse. My father followed his wife’s reasoning, knowing he did little if anything for my care. Though I was getting physically healthier, I was emotionally depressed. I voluntarily isolated myself from my girlfriends and extended family members. I believed my entry into Reddington High School was a bold and public admission of my failure. I was embarrassed and refused to accept my downfall was the result of getting Mono.

I became lifeless and mechanical in following through with registering at the high school, meeting with the guidance staff, and selecting a course of study. I cared less about their impressions of my academic achievement and their unsympathetic attitude towards a new student entering their high school. As I sat in Mr. Simons’ office, listening to him cajole the other guidance counselor to put me on his case list, I showed them little regard or respect for their inappropriate behavior. Apparently, Mr. Simons had too big a case load which I later learned was not the case. As Director of the High School Guidance Office, he was more inclined to ingratiate himself with administration, school committee members and others in the community who could feed his ego and advance his reputation rather than take care of students looking for guidance, helping them navigate through required coursework and future life plans. The introduction to Reddington High School was underwhelming, causing me even greater despair.

My attitude toward life was self-defeating and, though I tried to acquire a different perspective, I was being held down by an interior force, unfamiliar yet powerful. Several of my neighborhood girlfriends persisted in getting me out of this depression, inviting me to the movies, or roller skating, or walks to the beach. They tried everything they could to get me out of the house and back to the girl they knew before I left for what I thought would be greater heights. In my more manic state, I would find myself questioning my motives for wanting more, wanting different, wanting other than but I could not find the answers. My mother was intolerant of my moods, and her constant badgering did nothing but sink me further into depression and self-pity. I tried avoiding her by secluding myself in my room, tired of listening to her rants. I started to believe that her rants were fueled more by her own disappointment of my failure than her concern for my emotional well-being. Finally, Sarah, one of my more outspoken girlfriends broke through my self-imposed maze of grief, forcing me to consider that the road I was forced to leave was merely a detour, not a dead end.

Alex, she said, You can still achieve your life’s goals, it’s just a different route, one you can adjust to, and still be the success you so desire to be. She did make some sense and I liked her metaphor comparing my journey to a road atlas that showed the many different paths to a destination. She also emphasized my illness, You got sick, damn you, can’t you see it was not your fault that you had to leave Girls’ Academy? You always push yourself beyond human limits; you have for as long as I’ve known you. You’re never satisfied with the ordinary, the simple, the happy!

Sarah knew me, maybe better than I knew myself. We became friends in first grade when Sarah was forced to repeat the grade. She was familiar with disappointment, but she had a more positive attitude toward life. I admired her and loved her carefree attitude, and yet, her life had its share of disappointments which she would shrug off, and plow ahead keeping life simple and happy. I envied her without her knowing it. Her persistence was finally able to break through my thick, outer shell and get me to rejoin the life of the living. My friends welcomed me back to the group; every single one of them was happy to see me, happy I was with them, happy I was here. I appreciated their support and soon with their help, I was able to put the loss of Girls’ Academy of the Liberal Arts behind me. I began to turn my attention to Reddington High School, its social milieu, its academic offerings that at times entertained me and other times challenged my intellect.

I soon broadened my circle of friends to include three girls who were different from my neighborhood girlfriends, and more interested in musical pursuits. They were involved in a local marching band, liked to attend jamborees and concerts, and listened to folk music. I was expanding my interests and activities and enjoying both sets of friends, having fun, and doing well in school. More importantly, I was recapturing a feeling of confidence and self-determination; both emotions that sustained and returned me to a goal-oriented life. Sarah was right, my failure to complete Girls’ Academy was only a detour from my life goals, not a dead end.

The desire to be more and do more returned when several Reddington High School teachers took an interest in me and challenged my intellect. They had a sense of pride for what they were doing, and in the achievement of their students. I recognized that pride and felt a sense of hope that I could continue with my education goals, attend a good college, and get back on the track I had started in seventh grade with Mr. Hyde. My self-esteem was embedded in my academic performance. How well or poorly I did in school reflected my self-worth. I was unable to value myself for the person I was. It was all tied to what I did and how well I did it. This self-perception infiltrated all areas of my life. That first year at Reddington High School, proved to be not only rewarding, but encouraged me to enroll in advanced classes in literature and math. I was persuaded by my English teacher to join the creative writing club where I improved my skills and deepened my passion and love for writing.

My guidance counselor, Mr. DeLeo, recognized my drive to achieve and my interest in higher education. He made certain I was on the college track by having my college applications filed on time, and I was scheduled to attend a variety of college orientation programs the Guidance office sponsored. Several state colleges and a couple of Ivy League schools came to the high school to inform us of their programs, tuition costs, financial aid packages, entrance requirements and acceptance time frames. I attended several of these sessions and was specifically interested in a college that had a literature and writing program where my skills, and passion for writing would be enhanced.

My love for the written word and the power it held was a seed that was planted and nourished throughout my childhood when I would listen to the stories my aunt Addie would read to us. Maybe it was her animation, how she assumed each character’s role and read with such feeling, that you felt you were a part of the story. I loved to hear her read to us and I would pretend I could write stories just like the ones Aunt Addie would read. Soon my pretending metamorphosed into writing real stories about people, places, and things that interested me. My first writing journal was a black and white notebook where I would write about my feelings and thoughts. I kept the book hidden in my room, protecting myself from any intrusion or judgement anyone who read it may have. The very first time my family became aware of my writing skills was in the aftermath of John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s Assassination.

I was so emotionally engaged and affected by his death, I wrote a poem that detailed all the events that led to his assassination, the funeral, and burial of our forty-first president. I shared the poem with my parents and my father was so proud, he sent it to the Boston Globe which later published it. The poem consumed a full page of the paper. Friends, family and people I didn’t know sent me appreciation and acknowledgement cards and letters which my parents read with pride. The Globe must have sent the poem to Mrs. Kennedy’s social secretary who sent me a thank you card, noting that the poem would be kept in his public library. Much later in my life, I wrote a children’s book the draft of which was stolen from me and later published under a pseudonym.

I knew the career path I wanted to follow and the college I wanted to attend. I had researched programs in creative writing and journalism and found a four-year college in a nearby state that was well known for its Bachelor of Arts program in Literature and Creative Writing. I was once again excited about having a career goal and college in mind, a direction to pursue, a purpose driven life that Pastor Warren described. Mr. DeLeo helped me with the application process, filling out much of what I could for financial aid, but requiring more specific information from my parents. I brought the application package home and told my parents of my plans and the need for them to complete the financial aid form. Their reaction was not too surprising, somewhat predictable but nevertheless, extreme in their opposition and refusal. Nettie orchestrated the objections, my father following her lead. First, she laughed, then scoffed, then threw the application packet on the floor and refused to say anything further until my father spoke up. You have three choices for a career, he said, You can go to secretarial school, nursing school or a teacher’s college. He became more graphic and cruder when he told me he would not pay for nursing school, adding, No daughter of mine will wipe men’s asses for the rest of her life, so if you want me to pay, pick either one of the other two! I never heard my father use such strong language towards me, he never spanked or yelled at me, so this attitude and response were surprising. My mother’s reaction was similar to her reaction when I was a child and would tell her of a story I wanted to write. She’d look at me with those eyes that seemed to bore a whole in my heart and yell, Take your head out of the clouds Alex and for Christ’s sake do something practical. I wasn’t sure what she meant about doing something practical but soon she would give me a dish towel to wipe the dishes or a dust cloth to clean my bureau. From those tasks, I understood what practical meant.

Apparently, my career choice was a head in the clouds pursuit and the pride and support I received when I applied to Girls’ Academy of the Liberal Arts had eroded and I was left with an empty basket of dreams. I thought the pride they showed when my poem was published in the Boston Globe and the many letters and cards I received from family and strangers would prove to them my talent was formidable, and that I was serious and motivated to further explore and improve my skills. How mistaken I was. They bolstered their objections by saying the tuition costs were too high, beyond what they could afford. I argued that financial aid was possible, and I could get a part-time job to help defray many of the expenses for books and supplies. My argument fell on deaf ears; there was no reconsideration or support I could garner. In retrospect, I believe their objections were also fueled by the fact I would be living away from home, away from their influences and her control. Leaving home to attend college at the age of 18, according to my family, both immediate and extended was unheard of in 1965.

I was angry enough to want to disregard their objections, file the financial aid form with whatever information I had, and go ahead with the application. I wanted to defy them anyway I could, but my defiance had serious consequences when Nettie told me that if I went ahead to enroll in that university, I was no longer welcome in her house. When I questioned her on what she meant, she made it perfectly clear that I was not welcome to come home, she wanted nothing to do with me, and emphasized that The bed I was making for myself, I had to sleep in. I thought their whole reaction to my wanting to attend college out of state was extreme and punitive. Abandonment over a college education? How absurd and controlling could they be? It was a question that was answered many times over when I looked back at all the decisions she made for my life. My clothes, my hairstyle, my friendships, all decided and controlled by her. I was angry enough to accept her conditions and move ahead with my decision to apply, and if accepted, I would attend. My brother, Grant, however, talked me out of it. Revenge, he said, has its own set of consequences, ones neither one of us wants to explore or undertake. He was pleading with me, Please Alex, don’t do it; it would be a mistake of lifetime proportions.

I really had no experience with rebellion, going against their wishes or demands. I was a compliant child, an obedient adolescent with little courage to go my own way. I listened to Grant and swallowed my anger, once again becoming obedient. Grant convinced me that the price I would pay was too steep, the loss of my family too extreme. I had to abandon my convictions and rethink my plans. I had to question the importance of my dream and my ambition. Did I really want to forfeit my family so I could write? It did give me pause, however, to think what a good story it would make.

As time went by, I learned that the reason that precipitated such an extreme reaction from my mother was our relatives and her friends telling her that my wanting to leave home reflected her parenting. According to my mother, her friends told her that something must not be good between us if I wanted to leave home. My mother told me how embarrassed she was and how she could not answer her friends. She was beginning to believe them and wanted to know why I really wanted to leave home. Did I really want to get away from her, from my father, my brother, my grandmother, my aunts, and my uncles. She was dramatic in her quest to know the truth, shedding tears as she bemoaned my intent to leave home. She refused to understand my reasoning. When my answers didn’t satisfy her, she resorted to guilt. She was telling me of all the sacrifices she made, and things she did for me; how ungrateful and selfish I was being. Although I wasn’t the oldest member of the extended family, none of my cousins or friends went to college, especially one out of state. I was beginning to believe my mother’s accusations: I was a rebel, inconsiderate and selfish in all respects, especially when it came to my family. Guilt was a powerful motivator and Nettie was masterful at adding it to the mix.

I finally gave in, squashing my dreams to experience college life away from home, and pursue a career that I believed I was meant to follow. By the time it was settled that I would attend a nearby college, I had missed the filing deadlines for the state college system. I didn’t have a back-up plan or as the counselors said, a default position. As a result, I was wait-listed, meaning I would have to try again next year. My options were now reduced to the Community College network. With some minimal help from the high school guidance department, I was directed to a startup community college on the North Shore. It had not yet opened its doors but would be accepting applications for the fall semester of September 1965. I filed my application and tried to make the best of the situation. Resiliency was becoming a specialty I was learning how to nurture. When the acceptance letter arrived, I began preparing myself for this new experience. And what an experience it was!

Although North Shore Community College (NSCC) became my default school, it offered many opportunities for personal growth, intellectual stimulation, and leadership skills that served me well in future college and employment experiences. The college was in an old Victorian building that once served as the town’s high school. In its inaugural year, it opened its doors to a diverse population of students: high school graduates who may have had second thoughts about attending college, Vietnam veterans returning from war, blue collar workers who saw their careers limited by a lack of an associate degree, and students who had missed application deadlines of four-year colleges. I fit the last category. Although the college offered three associate degrees in liberal arts, general studies, and engineering and science, the scope and depth of the content in each program was surprisingly broad and challenging. The faculty were as diverse as the student body, coming from Ivy League colleges, colleges from the mid-west, the West coast as well as transfers from local state colleges and universities.

Although the school was referred to as a start-up college. it had a well-developed curriculum, but there was nothing beyond that. There were no clubs, sports, student council, or committees that would involve students beyond their academic studies. Within the first week of school, Dr. Shipley, the college’s president, and Dr. Carroll, his Vice President, brought the student body and faculty together in its first assembly to outline the needs of the college and how students and faculty could get involved in meeting those needs. They invited students and faculty to become involved in establishing a mission and vision of the college; to create a student council, an intramural sports programs, clubs that would engage students and faculty in social and extra-curricular activities. Their invitation also included the need to design a college insignia. motto, and logo. Both men had visions of making NSCC a community college where there were no barriers between faculty and students, but a collaborative effort that would make NSCC a beacon of excellence for years to come.

Those first two years created an excitement and energy that inspired and encouraged me to become part of something bigger than myself. I wanted to be part of its growth and development, part of its constitution and vision in making it become that beacon. I became involved in its newly formed student council, its yearbook committee, the development of the college’s insignia and motto, and the creation of several clubs that ranged from Future Teachers of America to hunting and fishing clubs. Several groups of faculty and students started an intramural sports program, which included tennis, basketball, softball, and baseball. A partnership with the local YMCA which was within walking distance of the school offered a swimming program that helped create a competitive swim team. It was an exciting time of life for me, and I have many fond memories of my years at NSCC. Several of my professors became friends, and confidantes. Our relationship helped influence my future and the career I eventually chose and entered. It seemed then as it does today, that I was being pulled by an unknown force to accept disappointment as an opportunity for change and improvement. My dreams and ideas were being altered, forcing me to consider other alternatives, by taking my head out of the clouds without losing my sense of self.

Not only was my self-esteem being bolstered, but I was also advancing my knowledge in many other academic and social areas of life. I became more informed about world events, my writing skills became more creative and insightful, my literature choices became broader, and the diversity of the student body enriched my appreciation and understanding of different cultures and customs. It was a time of extraordinary personal growth and development. Historically, it was also a time when Gloria Steinem, Bella Abzug, and Lupe Anguiano founded the Women’s Political Caucus, creating a Feminist revolution which raised women’s consciousness to heights previously hidden and often undermined. The cultural norm of believing it was a man’s world was being dismantled and replaced with new norms for women. Greater opportunities for women were being opened, and the stereotypical roles of women were being expanded to include a wider diversity of industries: law, medicine, finance, business, and politics. Steinem and others of her ilk weren’t demeaning the stereotypical roles of women, they were clamoring for broader and more challenging roles that women could fulfill in society and the world.

The Women’s Political Caucus was a driving force that transformed our culture and its movement. It was no secret to anyone who knew me that I welcomed such thinking and such opportunities. Although I could identify with the intellectual framework of the movement and its mission, I did not engage in some of the activities the media portrayed: I did not engage in bra burning or wear floral bands around my head or go barefoot in the park. Instead, I preferred to read their literature, publications, and listen to interviews. While I understood its purpose to change the trajectory of women’s lives and break down the walls inhibiting women’s advancement beyond the existing culture’s norms, there were moments I found it to be more militant than I liked.

I secretly kept my enthusiasm for the Women’s Political Caucus and its movement hidden from my family, only expressing some interest and agreement with a few of my closest friends. Feeling inspired and believing, by continuing my college education, I could expand my own horizons, I applied to Boston State College. My plan was to transfer the credits I earned in my associate degree to BSC and pursue a Bachelor of Science degree in Elementary Education. Boston State College was known for its teacher training program. The idea of being a teacher was always an acceptable career choice for a young, unmarried woman, and my revised career goal met with little resistance or objection from my family. In retrospect, though teaching was not my first choice, it became the right choice for me. I would soon realize that my love of literature and children, and my desire to inspire others were all well-suited for teaching. The force that I experienced at other times was once again directing me to a path where teaching was to be my focus and goal.

I graduated with honors from Boston State College and was now prepared to enter the teaching profession. My family and friends were thrilled with my accomplishment and believed I would be teaching in our hometown. Their expectations had me nestled nicely into the community, and eventually follow the traditional path of marriage, and a family, with a bonus of having a career. It was most notably articulated by my grandmother, her marriage sermon unchanged when she told me, Alex, find a nice boy, settle down, and make lots of babies. She ignored the completion of my degree, diminished my choice of career, and had only one focus and expectation, to be married and have lots of babies. While I had different thoughts of living on my own, searching for a way out of this claustrophobic culture and family, I patronized my grandmother. My mother was less concerned with my grandmother’s expectations and admonished her for harping on the same theme. I had thoughts of living on my own, away from my family, independent with a teaching job somewhere other than Reddington. These thoughts I hid from my family while I discussed alternatives with two women I had met in my courses at BSC.

Both women had majored in Elementary Education and were thinking about teaching out of state. Our conversations of which there were several explored different nearby states. We wanted to be far enough away but close enough for us to visit our families on weekends or make it possible for them to visit us. We thought a two-to-three-hour drive would make living away possible while close enough for visits either way. We decided on the state of Connecticut, with no apparent reason for choosing it other than we all agreed it met our initial criteria. We began to explore different areas of the state and decided on the southern coast, not too far from New York City where we could enjoy all its entertainment possibilities without living there. Our excitement grew as we explored different cities and towns along the southern coast and near the commuter train to the city.

We had similar interests and backgrounds. The three of us lived close to the city of Boston, a car or train ride away, where we enjoyed both city and suburban life. Both women lived