I had hair; my grandfather didn't. So it was only fair to let him wear the mortarboard.
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The girls wore long gowns and white gloves, and the boys wore tuxedos. The girls also carried bouquets of long-stemmed roses in colors that were coordinated with our gowns.
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I moved to Chicago in 1978 to take a sales position with a company willing to hire me. My husband stayed in Boston and we commuted for 16 months, seeing each other every second or third weekend. The photo is me, “dressed for success” in August of 1978. I have no photos of “AL”. My new boss was helpful and proud that we shared a New England connection. He had gone to MIT and loved to talk about the “old days” with me, before Scollay Square had been bulldozed to make way for Government Center. He offered advise to the newbie, telling me where, as a single young woman, traveling alone a great deal, I should live. His wife had me over for dinner when I first moved to town. Others in the office were devoted to him. He was smart, strategic, protected his people.

But when he ordered seven double Chivases on the rocks for lunch, he would come back to the office, crank up the AC, order his secretary to bring him a tea (this was 1978 and secretaries still did that) and disappear for the rest of the day. One didn’t ask him anything. Heaven forbid you needed to get anything important done.

Maybe today we would have staged an intervention. In those days, drinking at lunch was tolerated and he was smart and good in many ways, and I was WAY too new and junior to make waves. And the notion of sexual harassment hadn’t come to the forefront yet. During an off-site sales meeting, at a hotel near the airport, AL got really drunk and followed me down the escalator as I made my way to my car, while others from out of town were still at the hotel. “Would you let me lay down beside you, please? I can’t get it up. I just want to lie down next to you. Oh you are so beautiful, why would you want to be close to me?” He was a big guy and I am tiny. He was behind me and nearly stumbled down the escalator. I managed to escape to my car. I learned he never remembered what was said in a drunken stupor.

During the great Blizzard of 1979, he tripped off a curb, breaking an ankle. We lived close to each other and I frequently drove him to our office, while he paid for my garage parking. He was most grateful and bought me a little gold chain necklace as thanks.

April, 1979 marked my one year anniversary in Chicago. My husband had given me an ultimatum: one year in Chicago, then I must come back. I visited him in Boston for a week to watch him run the Boston Marathon, my first real week of vacation. We had a great time together. I also worked hard on a proposal for the State of Illinois, due right after my return. Everyone in Chicago knew this was decision time for me: stay in Chicago or return to Boston.

I flew to Springfield to present my proposal, which went well, but they asked for a lot of concessions, which I was not senior enough to negotiate. At the airport, waiting for my flight back, I called the office and asked to speak to AL. His opening line: “I bet ya, you fucked Dan more times this week than you fucked him the whole past year”. “No, AL, that’s not true, can we talk about business?” The conversation devolved from there. AL said yes to everything the client asked for, but I had the good sense to NOT call back that day.

Per usual, I was the first one in the office the next day. I presented all the client concession requests to AL as if yesterday’s conversation had never taken place. As I surmised, he had no recollection of the prior conversation and he did not give in to any of the concessions. He negotiated some and within a day or two, the contract was signed. I was horrified by the whole episode. How could one run an office like that.

Though I felt like a traitor, I also wanted to get back to Boston. That region was run by the person who wanted to get rid of AL. I called him early Friday morning. In tears, I told him the whole story. AL was gone by the end of the day and I was back in Boston after Labor Day. I didn’t finish all my work in Chicago until the end of the fiscal year, two months later, as I had to close out my work on some large accounts. I felt like an absolute rat, but something had to be done. Before leaving Chicago, I went to AL’s home and said goodbye. He harbored no ill feelings and was gracious. I don’t think he knew I had fingered him. I am still grateful he took a risk on a rookie and I learned much from the people in that office and my time living on my own in the Windy City. But AL was dangerous to himself and to the integrity of the business. I grew up during those 16 months.

1970 was a turbulent year. Four of us graduated with perfect grade-point averages, but we were not asked to give remarks at graduation. I think the school feared what we might say. It was just a few weeks after protesting students at Kent State were shot by National Guardsmen. So I had to be content to garner my awards at the ceremony the night before. I had a clean sweep, taking a certificate for merit in French, Theater, the Royal Oak Musicale Award for Musicianship, a small scholarship for someone who planned to continue to study theater in college, Junior Phi Beta Kappa, something from the National Thespian Society. I have all the certificates in a scrapbook dating back to second grade. The scrapbook ends with my college commencement program. I remember being called to the podium repeatedly during high school commencement.

I remember little from the actual graduation ceremony. Only that it had rained while we were inside the gym. After, we all went home, changed and reassembled for our all-night party. I went with a small group of girlfriends, but before going back, we got really drunk — for the first time in my life…on sloe gin. It tasted like cough syrup. As I re-entered the gym I encountered parent chaperones from my neighborhood, temple members, pillars of the community, who congratulated me on all my success. I tried to gather myself so they wouldn’t know I was out of my mind. Did I get away with it? I quickly moved on.

Everyone assembled in the cafeteria for the “fun” awards. I received “most likely to succeed”. 46 years later, I wonder what everyone would think of me now. I stay in touch with two friends, so who knows.

We went back into the gym, tried to dance, hung around, sat in a circle on the floor. My sandal-clad feet were wet, I thought from walking in the rain-soaked grass. I looked down and realized my prom date had thrown up on me! “GROSS”, was all I could yell. A friend took me into the bathroom to clean up. Initiation into drunken behavior for all parties concerned.

I slipped under the bleachers and took off my bra, shoved in into my Greek bag (a staple of the period). It was a novel feeling, a moment of liberation that carried throughout my college years. I sidled up to someone I had a crush on…he didn’t respond. The evening wore down. I realized I didn’t have a house key so I really did stay out all night.

I came home to a concerned mother around 7am. “Why did you stay out so late?” “I didn’t have my house key.” “I knew that and left the back door unlocked for you.” It had never occurred to me to check. I crawled into bed, exhausted, the effects of the long night beginning to wear off; some just taking hold.