Chapter Seventeen, The Mother Son College Odyssey

It's the last night of our trip. We went out for a great Tibetan meal in Marblehead and ate yak dumplings.

It took us three hours to make it to Marblehead. We alternated between NPR and right wing radio on 90 heading east. My dad introduced me to right wing radio when we went on car trips, and now I'm passing the tradition on to Eli. "You've got to know what the other side is thinking," I told him.

We arrived in Marblehead around six. Charlotte and Alan live in a large wooden house built by a ship captain; the whole house feels and looks like the inside of the ship. Charlotte's brother, Charles, a painter, is here on a visit from Florence, Italy where he runs a painting school. He's lived abroad for more than 30 years.

Alan was our cook, and a marvelous one at that--a delightful fish chowder, spectacular salad, great bread with olive oil and hot peppers, and a luscious fruit salad. Eli entertained us through dinner. At least he entertained me. There's nothing like a fresh, shiny, young brain, the innocence and vitality of youth, especially when compared to older more used up models--the rest of us at the table.

Chapter Sixteen, The Mother Son College Odyssey

Last night, Robin cooked some incredible curried chicken on the grill. She made a tandoori marinade made with a recipe from her deceased husband. The three of us sat outside at a little round table and ate sweet, spicy barbequed chicken, salad and roasted naan. Robin started regaling Eli with stories about when we met and how we met at conference and did workshops on sexual abuse and trauma together, back in the years when The Courage to Heal was in its heyday. She started telling him stories about how famous I was 20 years ago and what an incredible impact The Courage to Heal had in starting a whole social change movement. “Did you know your mom started a whole social and political movement?” “

 “No,” he replied.

“Do you know the impact her work has had all over the world?”

“No.”

“Did you know that your mom used to travel around and that she had groupies who just wanted to touch her and be around her?”

“No.”

“Do you know that she had to register in hotels under assumed names so no one would know she was there?”

“No!”

She was funny and dramatic and Eli’s jaw dropped in amazement. He kept laughing and repeated over and over, “You had groupies?” And that just egged Robin on to tell another story. She told stories about things I’d either forgotten about completely or hadn’t thought about in twenty years.

Chapter Fifteen, The Mother Son College Odyssey

I'm starting this post from the waiting room at the Admissions Office of Amherst College. Eli is sitting across the room, writing an english essay. He sat in on an advanced chemistry class while I visited the financial aid office (Amherst is the only school we visited that offered a meeting at financial aid--and I can see why--they have a generous, transparent financial aid program--what you see is what you get. It was a very educational meeting, to learn how financial aid works and to see how all the factors fit together.) Eli came in from his class. "How was it?" I asked.

"I didn't understand a word of it."

"Do you want to sit in on something else this afternoon?"

"No, I'm done sitting in on classes." He opened his laptop and started on his homework.

"Do you want some lunch?"

"No, I'm okay." He put his head back down, uncommunicatively. But he is communicating. I can hear him. He's done. He wants to go home. 

Chapter Fourteen, The Mother Son College Odyssey

Today, we went to two schools that are very different than the ones we’ve seen so far. Northeastern is located right in Boston. It’s a huge school that focuses on learning by doing. Classroom time is balanced by work in the real world.

After saying good-bye and bidding a fond thank you to Mindy and Andy, Eli and I made our way through thick Boston traffic to Northeastern, where we had definitive proof that GPS systems can fail. Gladys (that’s what we call her) guided us to the Northeastern admissions office by instructing us to turn on to one tiny alleyway after another, until I unwittingly found myself on a sidewalk parked in front of the admissions office with stanchions in from of me, students walking all around the car, pointing and gesturing at us, a clear indication that we were in the wrong place. I dropped Eli off and patiently waited until it was safe to turn around without killing anyone. I retraced my steps, driving slowly on the sidewalk until I got back to the alley, and then the street, drove up one more block and then found the real, rather than the virtual parking garage.

This little incident was not the worst or most embarrassing driving faux pas I’ve ever committed. There was another time, thirty years ago, when I drove down a flight of steps at UCSC while attending “Women’s Voices,” an annual writing conference there. I was 23 years old and so smitten with one of my fellow writers, Aurora Levins Morales, who was riding shotgun, that I drove my car down a flight of steps on campus. Today’s incident paled in comparison to that one.