Purple Golf Cart: The Misadventures of a Lesbian Grandma (29 page)

“Hi, Dr. Ronni,” he said in a small quiet voice. “I’m Robert. I’m a sophomore and president of my fraternity, or I was until I tried to kill myself.” He took a deep breath. “I read about you in the paper. I know you just got to Michigan but I need to talk to someone who will understand.”

“What would you like me to understand, Robert?” I asked.

Another deep breath, tears welling up in his sky-blue eyes, Robert said, “I’m gay. God, I’ve never said that out loud before. I’m gay. I’ve been living in a horrible hell of secrets and silence for so long and I feel so alone. It just hurts my heart. I tried to stop the pain by stopping me.” He was in the hospital because his suicide attempt had failed.

His parents were on their way to Ann Arbor. Although Robert was frightened, he had asked them to come. Robert’s father was a retired military officer and former football player, his mother an elected official in the conservative state in which they lived. They were Republican and Catholic. Robert sobbed. “They’ll hate me. I know it. I’m such a disappointment to them and I can’t bear that.” He cried, he talked for a while, and I listened, bearing witness to his pain along with the tiniest bit of courage he was beginning to muster.

Robert’s parents arrived, both tall, well dressed, obviously powerful people. Robert’s mother ran to him, held him, but said little through her tears. She made way for his father, a large man who appeared to be in nearly as much emotional pain as his son. With a gentle voice unexpected of a man his size, he asked, “What’s going on, son?” Through his tears and with a deep breath, the young man said, “Dad, I’m gay and I don’t want to embarrass or shame you and Mom.” The big man scooped his son in his arms and held him close. Incredibly, and unexpectedly, he said, “Son, if you’re gay, you get out of this bed and be the best damn gay man you can be.”

I wrapped my arms around Robert’s mother as we cried together. I suspect she was crying because the moment was both frightening and tender. I cried because I missed my own children so much, and marveled at how blessed this family was to have one another. I felt so privileged to be sharing this time with them.

Robert graduated from Michigan two years later. He went on to Harvard Law School and is a successful attorney today. When he graduated with his bachelor’s degree, he dedicated his honors thesis to me. That cherished manuscript which Robert signed is in my office to this day as a reminder of one young man’s courage to survive.

November 2004

I first met Tracy when I was the faculty guinea pig, I mean, chaperone, on a camping trip hosted by the UCLA Recreation Department’s Outdoor Adventures program for new students. Twelve first-year students, three Outdoor Adventure staff, and this old Jewish dyke who detests tents, set out on a three day camping/kayaking trip to Santa Cruz Island off the coast of Ventura. I noticed Tracy right away. She reminded me of a hundred young lesbians with whom I’ve worked over the years. Tracy wasn’t out to anyone yet, so she avoided me like the plague throughout the trip, until I was elected to take her to the airport when the adventure concluded. In my car for the ninety minute ride from Ventura Harbor to Los Angeles International airport, she chatted incessantly about my ineptness as a camper. Hey! I’m Jewish, and I’m old. Gimme the Sheraton! Tracy laughed at me, then hopped out of the car at the United terminal. Gone in an instant. Just like that. School wouldn’t start for another month so she went back home to Napa.

During move-in several weeks later, as the new school year was about to begin, there was a knock on my apartment door. “Hi, Dr. Ronni. Remember me?” From that night on, Tracy was a frequent visitor. She would come to my office or my apartment, most often when she was either depressed or terribly excited about something. It didn’t occur to me yet that Tracy was cycling up and down. I knew Tracy was on anti-depressants—when she remembered to take them. I’m not a therapist so I couldn’t know that Tracy was probably suffering from bipolar disorder. I was a Faculty-in-Residence in the hall where Tracy lived. She often came to my apartment to study in the quiet of my space or to talk about the issues that affected her on any given day, including her depression.

During the times she felt down, Tracy’s face would become pale, all color gone from her cheeks and even her lips, and she would say she was afraid of herself. During her upswings, she would sometimes seek quiet places that didn’t feel like sensory overload. I realized that’s when I saw her most often, when she was on an up-cycle. I connected her with a counselor in our Student Counseling and Psychological Services who provided excellent therapy for her, but it wasn’t enough. She probably needed additional medication that only her psychiatrist at home could provide.

Tracy was an outstanding student despite having a reputation in the residence hall as a party girl. Strangely, and for as well as I knew her, I had no idea that she played—and drank—with gusto. Regardless, Tracy was adored by everyone with whom she came into contact. By the start of her sophomore year, she had come out to her parents and friends as a lesbian and had a crush on a new girlfriend who she planned to visit over the winter break. She had been accepted into the Study Abroad program for the following year, and in January she would begin the LGBT Studies minor. She was very excited about both. It was almost Thanksgiving and she told me she was looking forward to going home for the holiday and her father’s birthday.

I was training for the December 2004 Honolulu marathon with the National AIDS Marathon Training Program. The final 22-mile training run was on Sunday, November 14th. I recruited students from the residence hall to staff water stops for us that day. Tracy volunteered. She showed up at 5:30 AM for the first shift and stayed the entire day. She said it was one of the most meaningful things she’d ever done because it was helping people with AIDS, and she cheered me on mightily as I ran by her station, making sure the water cup made it into my hand.

The following Thursday evening, November 18th, Tracy and I met at an on-campus theater for a film screening and to meet the director and actors. We walked back to the residence hall together around 10 PM. Tracy seemed to be in good spirits.

“What are you going to do now?” I inquired.

“I have an outline due in the morning. It’s almost done. It won’t take too long. Thanks for taking me tonight.” I hugged her goodnight and went to my apartment to work on an article.

I sat at my desk near my living room window. About an hour later I noticed vehicles with flashing red lights pull into the driveway. There were too many emergency vehicles for the occasional drunk student lying in the grass so I went into the hallway to see what was going on. Quiet on my floor, so I went up to the next. I could see the Resident Assistant, my young friend Craig, down the hall, running towards me. He stopped in front of me, tears streaming down his face. He put his arms around me, sobbing.

“Dr. Ronni...It’s Tracy.” Stunned, I grabbed Craig. Holding each other, we slid to the floor. The remainder of that night—what I remember of it—was a living hell. Another fucking loss. How on earth am I supposed to handle this???

Tracy was one of those special students for me—the one who inadvertently makes their way onto your tidy stage before you even know they’re there, and then you just want to adopt them. While I have felt very connected to many of my students time after time, there was always that one special child every now and then, who shows up and reminds me why I do this Student Affairs work. Tracy was such a student for me.

I miss Tracy. I was angry with her for a long time—for leaving me and her friends and her parents who will grieve for their only child for the rest of their lives. Why did she do it? For months I beat myself up, wondering what I missed. What could I have done differently? What should I have done to save her? For several years I would see her face in the nooks and crannies of the residence hall and campus. I still miss her. Surprisingly, I’ve received many gifts as a result of this unspeakable tragedy, and I’m deeply grateful. Because of Tracy, I allowed myself to open my heart to other students whom I never would have met. I keep Tracy’s memory close to me like a cherished old friend, and her beloved Frisbee hangs in my office next to the beautiful Carol Peterson photograph of the candle-lit memorial that honored Tracy’s presence at UCLA.

May 2006

Since the fall of 2001, I’ve taught a course at UCLA called LGBT is Not a Sandwich: Straight Talk on Gay Issues in America. For the past several years I’ve team-taught the course with my dear friend, Dr. Suzanne Seplow, director of the UCLA Office of Residential Life. The class is one of about 50 one-hour honors seminars, called Fiat Lux classes, taught in the living/learning environment of the residence halls. The purpose of this particular course is to provide a very general overview about LGBT people and issues. Topics include terminology, coming out, history, legal, political, and religious issues, and how to be an ally. Guest speakers share their experiences with the class in lively, frank discussions.

Only twenty students, mostly first years, are allowed to enroll for the course each quarter. In these small classes we are able to create a safe environment and build a trusting community where students get to know one another and the faculty. When we asked students why they registered for this particular course, they typically would say they wanted to learn more about the issues. Some say they’ve heard only negative things about LGBT people and want to hear different perspectives. Others say they have LGBT friends or family members and want to know how to support them. Yet others say they’re coming out themselves or exploring their own identities and are in search of self. Occasionally someone, usually a male athlete who is slumped down in his chair with his cap over his eyes, says he just needs a one-unit course.

As Student Affairs professionals, Suzanne and I know a great deal about campus environments and the experiences of LGBT students in the residence halls. In weekly journal assignments, students are required to respond to two questions for each session: (1) What was this class like for you today?; and (2) share when, where, and what (not from who) you heard this week regarding anti- and pro-LGBT words. It’s not unusual for students to say they heard words like fag or faggot, typically used by male students in groups, and the phrase that’s so gay is common daily language by everyone. As our students become more aware, they admit to using such words themselves as well as language that might be offensive to other populations. During the last class session, students are asked how they think they might be allies for LGBT people and others who are different from themselves. Their responses are always heartfelt and genuine.

We’ve read many touching journal entries from our students, some sharing very personal experiences, some admitting for the first time that they’re lesbian or gay or bisexual or transgender. The most unusual response we ever received in a journal, however, was from a Chinese male student. He wrote, “I never met any lesbians before, and now I know two. I didn’t know what lesbians are supposed to look like, but you guys just look like women.” Guys? Us? We’ll save that for a different class!

December 2008

“Hi, Dr. Ronni!” He looked so grown up. Well, he was! Twenty-four years old now, in a suit and tie and a heavy overcoat because it was 34 degrees in Washington, D.C. Each time I go to Washington for a meeting or conference, I take a UCLA alumnus to dinner because there is always at least one there who stayed in touch with me. Last year and this, my dinner guest was Craig, the young man who had been the Resident Assistant in my hall at UCLA four years earlier when Tracy died.

“Hi, Craig,” I hollered across the intersection of M Street and 19
^th
as he walked towards me. We hugged tightly though I could barely feel his arms around me for my big fat down winter coat that Eddie Bauer said would keep me warm to thirty below. If I were knocked down, I would simply roll back up like a child’s Weeble toy.

Craig and I had a deep bond because of the tragedy of Tracy’s suicide. We were the ones who took care of our students through that long awful night as we ourselves struggled with our own shock and immense pain. Our bond, though, was established before that night. As a first year college student, 18-year-old Craig was just coming out as a gay man, and we often talked about it in the safety and confidentiality of my faculty apartment. Craig was a diver, a cheer-leader, an effective student leader, a good student, and a fine young man. I enjoyed spending time with him.

Craig was a junior when Tracy died. A year later almost to the day, Craig’s beloved grandmother died in the same tragic way. Craig took an emotional nosedive but he managed to complete his senior year at UCLA, then headed to Chile where he lived with a local family and worked there with impoverished people. As he began to heal from his pain and sadness, he fell in love with the country. Craig decided to go to graduate school at George Washington University in Washington D.C., intending to go into the Foreign Service. He returned to Chile after an internship with the Obama administration.

We sat at dinner that evening as we had the year before, reminiscing about UCLA, about Tracy, about people we know. As we toasted one another with our wine, Craig said, “I’ve never told you this, Dr. Ronni. You were always there for me and for so many. You were like my life-line at UCLA.”

Dinner was over and we would go our opposite directions. As we hugged goodbye, Craig said, “I love you, Dr. Ronni” and ran off into the evening cold before I could respond. The snow began to fall as I watched Craig disappear into the December night. I’m grateful that I played a small role on his road to becoming such a beautiful young man.