Perspective

Reading through old stories I wrote for college classes, I came across a little gem about my nineteenth birthday. It amazes me that half a dozen years have passed since then; I’m the same girl, yet very different, too. I’ve grown into a deeper version of myself, you could say.


The most interesting thing about reading non-fiction written by one’s own self is this: unlike a diary, it is typically directed at an audience instead of the author. When I read this piece, I saw a refreshing portrayal of what I was thinking back then. That’s really helpful for me, because I have a hard time knowing what the heck I really want until I can analyze The-Events-Of-My-Life later (apparently, years later!).

This story was particularly enlightening because with a weekend full of WEDDING (another post about the blessed event to come later), I had a rough wrestle with regret about my most recent relationship. (It also happened to be my longest relationship, my favorite relationship, my most meaningful and best relationship, my first Great Love.) Then, I read this story and remembered that I have been really enamored with others before My Great Love, and—hopefully—some day I will love again.

So, here’s a little excerpt from a story about my freshman year at university. Enjoy.



I never hated my age more than the moment I found myself in a deserted classroom with Clay B______ for the second time. Unlike our first private rendezvous, we remained a safe distance from one another. He sat in a chair about five giant steps in front of where I was standing. After I delivered a shaky and only just memorized monologue from a play called Rose, an embarrassed moment of silence teetered between us. Finally, he spoke, “Jessica. You need to find a character you are capable of portraying honestly.”

I slid my teeth sideways and looked down; my red and white checked socks were peeking through multiple holes in the sides of my blue keds. Honestly. Honestly? I wanted to tell him that, honestly, I thought he was a crappy TA and an even crappier object of my affection. I sighed and looked up at him, at his twisty burnt-auburn hair. “Yeah, okay.”

“Jess,” and then he leaned forward and wringed his fingers gently together. Oh, I thought he was so sexy. I hauled my attention away from his hands and back to his words. “This woman is in her sixties. And she’s black.”

I laughed once and drew my shoulders around me. The corner of his mouth lifted. “So you need a character closer to your age,” he said.

“Okay. I can do that,” I nodded. Then he asked me a straight forward, direct question.

“So, how old are you?”

I could feel his eyes waiting. What did he call them? Ah, yes. He called his eyes penetrating. I was thinking about this conversation we had about his eyes and my eyebrows earlier in the semester instead of answering him. I decided to avoid the question. “Yeah, I get it,” I said. “Someone closer to my age. Okay.”

“Jess, how old are you?”

I felt precariously unbalanced on the cement floor. I mentally stuffed my age behind my back and—

“How old are you Jessica?”

I snapped my eyes up to meet his. “I’m eighteen,” my voice rang across the mirrored walls and fell hard on the floor in front of Clay. I lifted an eyebrow and silently dared him to say something.



Clay was the teacher’s assistant for an acting class during my first semester of college. I thought he was divine.

I’d wait outside his classroom in the late afternoons, pretending to be busy with homework or just finishing up a project with someone from class. He never called my bluffs, but instead stayed with me; we spent a few hours a week talking and flirting and laughing and discussing (serious, intellectual college-discussions).

I gathered the courage to suggest he go here or there with me. I brought him a snack from the cafeteria once, I think. He started poking my ribs and brushing the hair out of my eyes while we talked.

One afternoon after class, he swiveled his arm around mine and swung me toward the stairs. We walked down several flights, deep into the basement.

Into a deserted classroom.

Stood very close to each other.

Pressed up against the closed door.

I had never been kissed like that before.

And then, then!

Forehead to forehead, he employed my sworn secrecy and fed me a trembling, “I’m such a mess, Jess,” before kicking me out of the room.

Christmas and final exams came and he hadn’t given me more than half a nervous glance in class, let alone joined me on my usual bench. Still I hankered for him. He ignored me to save his job. He overlooked me in class.

“Who needs help to prepare for the final?” he asked. Another girl raised her hand, and then I did, too.

He wrote down the other girl’s name and gave her a half-hour appointment. “Anyone else?” he asked.

I raised my hand. He didn’t say anything, but looked around the classroom, as if he was checking to make sure he didn’t miss anyone.

I cleared my throat. “I need some help,” I said.



And that was how I wound up isolated in his authority once more, this time with him sitting with hunched shoulders, looking a bit ill at the thought that I was under-age…..

Me, at the brilliant age of eighteen. I was all-in-all a very happy girl.