I don’t recall exactly when my parents determined that I should go to
boarding school (although I do remember my mother giving me a couple of
articles to read on the subject, one in the old Holiday magazine
and another in Town and Country),
but I do remember trollish
relatives of mine speaking ill of the decision. From today’s time and space distance, the
episode seems like our family’s version of the movie Gentleman’s
Agreement. I remember clearly discussions concerning traditional prep school anti-Semitism, and especially ones
about “latent homosexuality,” which was said to core-infect these institutions.
I’m certain overhearing
these conversations taught me the word “rife.”
The day they dropped me off at The Gunnery in 1967 really was “the
first day of the rest of my life.” On our
way, the school requested that we pause at JFK Airport to pick up another
incoming freshman from Alabama named Martin Love, who was matriculating
on a scholarship sponsored by a group called ABC (“A Better Chance”). A cheerless kid, Martin and I never became
friends, not
even for a day.
But I’ll always be glad we were assigned to retrieve him because
while we were waiting in the Eastern terminal, the Lovin’ Spoonful arrived and in wild
style began carooming around the baggage area in wheelchairs, à la A
Hard Day’s Night. I recognized the band immediately
(even new member Jerry Yester), and although we didn’t speak, I consider our
brief encounter one of my “formative
experiences.”
I am introspective and personally
reflective only when challenged; defensively, I
usually find a way of fading to gray, tuning out.
This day, my life transition day, I
was for the most part ignored (I suppose it was my parents’ life transition day also) and the ringing changes meant absolutely nothing to me until the very end when they departed
and all that remained were I and "my own devices.” Darkness early-verged into the Connecticut
afternoon sky and slight fall chill
hit the air. The surrounding campus buildings, which all would eventually seem like home, were alien and minatory, and people, some of whom would become friends or at least familiars,
seemed the same way. For a brief moment
only, for
the very last time ever, I felt existential
confusion and a gulping onset of fear and tears. Then, suddenly, everything was pure
oxygen.
All school images, Washington D.C. and Virginia: Frances Benjamin Johnston, 1899.
Kevin Ayers: Derby Day (Link)
