College

The mailman has just delivered a copy of the Washington University Alumni Magazine. I'm always pleased to receive news of my alma mater, although it has been many years since I strolled down its tree shaded walks, hurrying to class from one ivy covered building to another. Crossing the Quadrangle to Ridgely Library, Eads Hall, Rebstock Hall; Graham Chapel with its Gothic spires reaching for the sky, reminders of collegiate Gothic architecture. Happy, pleasant memories of long ago.

But, I think of a scene that took place before I compromised my original desire of the college of my choice.

"No, it cannot be done. You cannot go out of town to college," my mother said to me as we sat across from each other at the kitchen table. We were discussing a college for me to attend. My father was not present since he and my mother had already discussed the matter between them, reached an agreement. It was up to my mother now to do the negotiating.

"But Mom, I want to be a journalist," I said looking into my mother's striking hazel green eyes. "Missouri University has one of the best Schools of Journalism in the country. Columbia is only one hundred miles away. My friends Edagrace and Romana are going. I really want to go there." I earnestly pleaded.

"No, Jennie, you will go to college in St. Louis," she answered in her kind but firm manner. "We have good schools here. You will also be helping at the cleaners. This way, you will help yourself, and the family. We are family, and that is first and foremost."

"I don't want to stay in St. Louis," I protested. I felt like slamming my hands on the table, for emphasis, but I knew it was useless. Theatrics, or temper tantrums would be of no avail. They would be completely ignored. "Missouri University is the best. I want to be a journalist. That's where I should study," I petulantly responded.

"Jennie, in a family everyone must work together, "my mother answered patiently, "each person does not pull in his own direction. We must work together, for the good of all members of the family. We each cannot go our separate ways, we are one. For your good, and the good of the family. You will go to school in St. Louis, and help at the cleaners. That is all." With that final declaration, my mother rose from the table and left the room. The discussion was closed. No yelling, no loud voices, the discussion was over.

I went to the bedroom I shared with my sister. From the knotty pine desk drawer I pulled out all my old copies of my highschool newspaper, the "Griffin". I had not been an editor, just a reporter. I looked at the articles I had written. They really weren't much, basically two to three paragraph articles, for it was only a four page paper. But to me, as I reread what I had written, they were great.

I reached into the desk drawer again and took out the copy of the school yearbook, the "Brochure." I was fortunate, to my way of thinking, to get my story, "Was It To Be?", accepted for publication. In my enthusiasm, I thought the title was provocative, and in keeping with current events, for the story dealt with the Nazi air bombing over England during World War II. I felt I had a certain knack for writing, and with the publication of my story, I felt I had arrived as a writer. The political events in Europe had fired up my imagination. I avidly read the St. Louis Post Dispatch, for news of the war, with dispatches from the front by Ernie Pyle, who traveled with the American troops, and Dorothy Thompson who was stationed in England. Edward R. Morrow, Eric Sevareid, H. V. Kaltenborn, unforgettable names in broadcast journalism. Theirs was adventure, theirs was life.

I had set my sights on "Mizzou." The only problem with that desire was that, in those years, very rarely was a Greek American girl allowed to go to an out-of-town university. A boy would be allowed to do so, but a girl was considered sheltered and inexperienced with the world. She needed protection, for she could be vulnerable to the temptations of life.

There was also another problem. I had to work at the family business, the cleaners. The cleaners was doing a brisk business, due in part to the fact that besides my parents working there, as each child reached the age of twelve, he/she worked part time as called upon. My parents already had educated one child, my sister Olympia, and besides me, there would be two younger brothers to follow.

And so it was that I stayed in St. Louis and attended Washington University. After my first semester there, my regret that I wasn't allowed to attend my first choice began to dim. During my years at Washington University, because of the war and so many of the young men in service, it was like a girls school. The faculty was good, the classes small, and the campus beautiful, spread over one hundred sixty-nine acres. Some of the buildings had originally been a part of the l904 World's Fair. To me, it was almost a fantasy world, removed from reality.

As the beginning of a new semester approached, I vividly recall my father, many times over the four years, on a Saturday night standing at the elaborate scroll-patterned National Cash Register with his gray head bent, counting the day's receipts. We had closed the store, I was getting my things together for us to go home, my mother was still at the sewing machine, putting her work items away. With pencil in hand, studying the figures he had written he would ask the same question of my mother, "How much money does Jennie need for the tuition on Monday for Washington University?"

My mother's answer would invariably be, "Well, the tuition this semester is $125.00. She'll need about $25 for the different fees, and her books. Give her $150."

He would answer, in his gentle manner, for he very much believed in education for his children, "All right, in that case, we'll leave several bills unpaid, so she can have the money for this semester." Then he would enumerate which bills he would pay and which bills he would temporarily let go.

On Monday morning, I would board the Kingshighway bus going south, transfer to the Maryland Avenue street car going west, clutching my purse that contained the cash my father had given me. I would get off at the Washington University stop. I would walk into the Registrar's Office in Brookings Hall and pay my tuition for the semester.

I was an average student. Never once did my parents question my grades, good or bad; to them I always did well. Actually I attended college because of my parent's unselfish love for me and belief in my ability. Perhaps if I could have devoted more time to studying I could have gotten better grades; but as soon as my classes at the university were over for the day, I had to leave the school and go to the cleaners; work until closing time at nine o=clock, and then home to study. That arrangement, work and school, was difficult for me. However, my parents never questioned my grades, never chastised me for them, never said an unkind word to me about them, they always encouraged me.

On several occasions my mother would reinforce my scholastic endeavors by saying, "Education is a bracelet no one can take away from you." I bless my wonderful parents for their love and faith in me and for encouraging me to continue my education.

I still remember my parent's joy the day I graduated, the pride in my father's eyes, the beaming smile on his face; the tears in my mother's eyes, the embrace of happiness she gave me.

Compromises must invariably be made in life. I loved Washington University, even though over the years on occasion there was some regret I didn't realize my dream of being a journalist. Other interests developed in my life: marriage, raising a family, being of service to others through teaching, those are values I believe one can be proud of, and evidence of a fulfilling life.

As my daughter and son were growing up, we had many occasions to drive by Washington University, and invariably I would remark to them, "Now, when you.....," and literally a Greek chorus would respond from the back of the car,"...are ready for college, you will come to Washington University like your mother!"

And without any question, they did!

© 2003 by Jennie Constantinides Vlanton

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