At first, it was with some enthusiasm I thought to make good the promise I made in a recent post, to shortly recount the personal events that transpired on the evening of Sunday, January 26th, 1975. (See the 2025-01-26 post I wrote commemorating the 50th anniversary of that long ago eve.) Then the misgivings started to take hold. The endeavor, I feared, was fraught with the potential to be greatly misunderstood.
For starters, a straight forward, play-by-play rundown, a bare bones sequence of events, without context, without couching, would likely than not, precipitate readers jumping to preconceived but erroneous conclusions. Yet, who can know, or has the time to learn my personal psychology and history. Who too, knows the whole of the public persona with respect to the other key figure involved in this tale, as experienced by me (and not to mention even some of her closest associates)? Who has witnessed this person’s myriad behaviors from day one, or dealt with the questions certain of her actions have raised? Plainly put: one would have to have been there; not only for this event, but for the entirety of my existence and witness. Hell, it’s taken up fifty years of my thinking alone, just to come to grips with all the ramifications of this particular experience, and I’m the one who was present!
If a lack of background, unavailable to the reader wasn’t enough with which to contend, then more aggravating still, in my simply trying to relay what occurred, is the pernicious linearity of language, Its word-following-word, ticker tape aspect is dauntingly slow. Nor does it help, that while the readers are doing their best to piece my thought together, the individual words themselves can have any number of different meanings and senses to them. The temptation and tendency therefore, for others to jump the gun or wrongly finish my thoughts for me is enormous. “I see where you’re headed.” Misunderstandings are bound to occur.
So, I suppose, the only reader, who can truly understand the words I will henceforth lay out, and the way I mean them, will be me. That's fair. Which is why, all things considered, I write this blog partly with an audience of one - namely myself - largely in mind. Yet that only raises the question of why then I would bother to write.
Let's face it, it's a testimony I’m about to perform here, and clearly going "on the record" to make myself at last "be heard" (by others) as no one else will or can speak for me. There's a part of my effort then, that truly wants to be acknowledged by another other than myself. Indeed, not being recognized, i.e, heard, seen, or read, will be an important, if not the most important, takeaway from my post.
Dammit! now I’m having the strongest inclination to address this post straight to the one who continues to affect me! Richard, I tell myself, you can’t! It’s way too personal about the attributes of the other, some of them intimate! Yet I will go mad if I if don’t express what’s been bottled up all these decades. For I'm going to relay the one event that proved the second biggest paradigm shift of my entire life (the first was when I initially laid eyes on you.) How can this not lead to you being the one whose heart I wanted to address?
Anyhow this latter epiphany was all triggered by the most unlikely circumstance.
However, just on the rare chance someone should accidentally stumble upon this post, bear with me as I will have to preface all that is to momentarily begin, by covering a few extra points/disclaimers.
My apologies for the already lengthy setup...
- First and foremost: No one herein is guilty - of anything. In what follows, it may seem like I am trying to assign blame as I try to understand the nature of personal responsibility, but I am not faulting anyone.
- I'm going to be giving my subjective impressions of the key individual on which this account and my whole world is centered. While my impressions are undoubtedly suffuse with whatever biases, misconceptions, and prejudices, I may be carrying, consciously or not, still, they are not solely limited to my interpretation alone. Others have noted the same patterns of behaviors, independent of me. We may be entirely wrong in our perception of this person, but this the way this individual came across.
- That there is a sexual component greatly underpinning this incident, surely muddies the waters, yet biology is purely biology, and again no one is to be faulted. However, given the sexual undercurrent at play, also means we are not any of us, acting in a void.
A diary.
The Sunday evening in question...
It is the 26th of January 1975, and my memory of the incident begins at about five minutes to seven PM. I am sitting alone in the high school classroom of my church, back when the latter was known as Bethel Temple. In the first row of folding chairs facing east and nearest that end of the renovated space (the large room used to be the church’s main kitchen) I toil, putting the finishing touches on the poster I have been tasked to create. It is a promotional for the Christian rock band of which I a member. ‘Dayspring’ was our name.
As the start of services is only mere minutes away, I will have to pause, and resume the work later. After the service is when I’ll have chance to hang the poster next to the front entry of the church, announcing Dayspring’s upcoming performance. In five days we’ll be onstage, Friday January 31st, at Bethel Temple’s weekly Youth Service.
While excited at the prospect of performing again in a few days, I am also a wee bit forlorn at the moment albeit for completely unrelated reasons. I have spent this day between the morning and evening services all by myself and another day apart from the only woman that means any and everything to me. That would be you. You even managed to turn twenty-one six days prior with no well wishes or celebratory participation as yet on my part.
To think, you’re only across the hall, in the sanctuary, at choir rehearsal. Having fun, while I sit by myself as usual. Oh, the time again! The Young Sounds are breaking up having finished their weekly, hour long practice. I can hear their individual banter spreading out throughout the church. Time for me to stop work and eventually rise. There’s a guest missionary speaker from Brazil speaking tonight. He always gets into a sweaty frenzy. That’s all I need: another service, yards apart from you, having to wait for its conclusion before I’ll a chance perhaps to approach you. And with this guest, who knows how long church will be? I hear some light laughter immediately in the foyer hallway outside. The youth choir dispersing.
Why ever did they change my suggested name “Young Sound” to “The Young Sounds” —
Then to speak of the Devil, from the far door at the other end of the room you enter. My back is to your hurried words of greeting: “Hi Richard!”
Before I have the time to turn, you swish by. I should perhaps add to my return greeting with a birthday felicitation but my words catch in my throat. You meantime barely have a moment to reflect on anything but your explanation as you retrieve an item from the closet cabinet ahead. Moving like a whirlwind you are, as I looked on stunned. I don’t think I even saw or heard what you were after.
Your dress, your skirt… it was the shortest attire you wore to date! It almost rivaled that of your younger sister or the two Elmores!
Swooping out the room, without the slightest thought or concern, you flit. I am immobile. Stuck to my folding chair, and doing all to piece myself together. Billions of years of biology are beginning to boil over and I must somehow stymie all those eons of brute nature. My mind has snapped, and not in a good way, for there is no outlet for my sudden desire. I cannot enter the service across the way, but must now remain behind, holding a tight reign on my turmoil. The emotions are everywhere, but I cannot cry out or react - good or bad!
What I feel, it’s personal, and nothing directly to do with religious settings and circumstances about me, or the religion itself , although those extra layers of social repression don’t exactly help. I cannot have you. You won’t let me—
Quiet, Richard, quiet! Calm your hurt; your stress. Yet, the eons are on a rampage. They know what they want. I do too. It’s gonna be a bumpy night…
The minutes slow to a crawl. Your indifference shatters my confidence. Your person now has total rule over me as I wait the long minutes knowing I must look on you again. There’s no fooling myself. I pay the intercom broadcasting the missionary’s fervency barely the slightest notice. My fires are much greater.
I try to distract my mind. Is that skirt a part of your having to work for Pacific Southwest Airlines (PSA) I wonder? One of their trademarks is the look of their female staff. Trond got you that job, did he not? Concentrate, concentrate.
Finally, the service is over, and believe it or not, I have managed to steel myself to whatever follows, though I also know there is an undercurrent lurking not too deep within me. However, I am functional for the moment, and therefore, to that degree, socially presentable… so I venture forth.
I exit the classroom with the poster in tow; headed for the Sunday school office where the supplies I need are kept. Holy moly, tacos and frijoles, you’re also in the office! Talk about a blessing and a curse! Heaven and Hell! We pleasantly small talk as I take a seat facing the office door. I finish up applying tape to the front side of the Dayspring poster while you busy yourself behind me with your administrative duties as the assistant Sunday school superintendent.
Oh, if I could only swivel in my seat, but I am trying to play it cool - nonchalant. You see, despite my inner repression, my diffidence, there is also the unwritten social contract long inculcated into me. I must be honorable, chivalrous, curbing my “animal” impulse in the name of your “purity”. It stinks on the face of it, but in a way I am trying to moderate myself because I really do care about you. At some level, I truly don’t want to offend you in the slightest. Yet, the lust in my heart - it’s as pure as your virtue! And I have it something terrible!
The horns of a dilemma have me skewered. And they’re about to twist.
Mrs. Lillian Klassen appears at the door. “Ruth, have you some pencils?”
Omigod, the pencils!
In an instant of time, several simultaneous alarms and thoughts go off inside of me! I know where the boxes of pencils are kept! I was just recently up there. At the highest point of the room, where you have to climb atop the desktop to reach the top of the overhead supply cabinets. I mean the boxes are above the cabinet!
What to do? Should I interject myself and volunteer to get the pencils? Yet that might call attention to your skirt and my awareness of it. Awkwardsville, for one and all. And if I don't do the gentlemanly thing, what then? So should I wait for you to ask me, thereby once again bringing notice to your attire...
But before my thoughts can fully form, and while I'm only beginning to gasp, I hear the unmistakably distinct sound of a folding chair being scooted into position! You reflexively ascend to the top of the table behind me almost without a thought.
Now, the unfairness starts. My blood begins to boil. Now all the onus is entirely on me to refuse to turn around! I fume and look toward Lillian. Suddenly, she seems just as caught off guard, but in a world weary sort of way. There's almost no expression on her face, as her eyes remain leveled on the hem of your skirt, never once veering away. I imagine the thoughts her gray, undaunted eyes reflect. (See my fragmentary poem in the earlier post.) Is it envy, insight, or pity?
You reach up, your hem hiking in the process, as you take hold of the pencil box and shortly descend with the goods. Angrily, I stand to my feet and excusing myself, make my way past Lillian. I know she cannot come to my defense, but like me, is as unable to do anything about what just transpired. I don't even she said "thank you" to you. She just nodded upon receipt of the pencil.
Here's what blew my cool:
PSA Trond got you
YS practice.
Speak of the D-
Eons old biology in which personhood is but an emergent afterthought
Before I have the second time to turn and rise, my ears hear the distinct sound
letter spirit
circumspect pk carry yourself who must never bring reproach
A master of plausible deniability
Toying baiting
Ethnicity white brown fair foul
window shopping
glass wall
out in the literal cold
I am responsible for my actions; not my reactions.
Retreating to the vestibule
Violate your personal integrity. Swarthy POC
Again my subjective POV
Withering excoriating blistering rebuttal from the other perspective.
Who do I ignore?
Victims of circumstances
Maybe you didn't care. Maybe you did and wanted to get it over with. Or maybe you subconsciously jumped at the chance. Anyway, I can't think you totally unaware.
-FIN-