JJ was born while I attended Amarillo College to study vocal performance. My professors agreed to let me bring him to class, rehearsal, and to voice lessons. The week after he was born, I packed up the blue diaper bag: full of the bottles, diapers, clothes, and supplies for the day. I packed a sandwich and Koolaide for my lunch and shoved it where I hoped it wouldn't crush. My backpack, filled with music theory texts, notebooks, piano anthologies, and texts for voice lessons filled a second bag. I think I carried the pink cassette tape recorder of my repertoire as well. The carrier could strap into the yellow Volkswagen Rabbit standard shift car that would putt erratically down Washington Street to the student parking lot outside the AC Arts Complex.
Parking was not often available in front of the building, so I parked in the distant lot in the residential area. We didn't have a stroller that would hold the carrier or the bags, so I slung the backpack on my back, the diaper bag on one shoulder, and the carrier in the crook of the elbow of the other arm to balance the load. Once we crossed both lots, I reached the stairs to the Fine Arts Building. I couldn't even see the doors to the entrance. I ducked my head to to heave us up the stairs to the entrance, then to navigate opening the door in the West Texas wind. Up and down the elevator to choir, class, juries, and lessons.
In music, the classes are all day. You really don't have time to go home. It's one thing after another - even without a newborn. Before lessons with Mila Gibson, I fed JJ his bottle. While burping him over my lap, he projectile vomited sour soy milk all over my jean skirt. Erma Hunt helped me clean the mess off of the black leather settee in the hallway...and from my clothes, shoes, and floor. I think Dr. Roller and the secretary helped too. It was a big mess. Then, I gathered the bags, the carrier, and my wet, sour self down the hall to Mila's office.
JJ sat in his carrier on the black baby grand. Lydia Gray began the chords for vocalices, vibrating the carrier. JJ's eyes opened wide in surprise, looking my way, as I began soft descending oooo's, "So, fa, mi, re, do." After the first three chord changes, JJ's tiny lips imitated mine, and he began to coo with Lydia's striking notes and my warming soprano voice. Mila's characteristic laughter joined our happy chorus.
Down the elevator and on to Music Theory with Beverly de la Bretonne. She greeted me at the door, meeting JJ for the first time, and introducing him to the rest of the class. I sat near the door, ready to exit, should he wake from his nap and disturb our study of chord progressions and tonal systems of jazz. At the time, his muted newborn noises were cacophonous interruptions. I so wanted to continue class, but knew I would not interfere with my classmates learning or my professors' ability to teach. I think I stood outside the door for most of the class, trying to soothe JJ and keeping another ear on the lesson, hands full, and unable to take notes or follow along in the text. Honestly, I think I was more distracted than anyone else.
JJ and I went to choir with Dr. Nance. Afterward, we sat outside and ate our lunch. Or we hid in the practice rooms for a quick nap. Then we went to juries. We listened to my peers and gave feedback. We sang. Then we climbed the stairs of the choir room to the hallway, the elevator, back across the brick stairs down to the parking lots, loaded the car, made the same way back down Washington, through the chain link fence next to the driveway, up the stoop, and into the living room. Time to study. Time to practice. Time to make dinner. Do laundry. Clean up. Be a submissive wife. Wash the sandwich baggies to reuse. Pack food for husband, me, and JJ for tomorrow. Prepare for night feedings and an early morning.
After a a time - can't remember how long - the morning feeding came, and I couldn't get out of the bed. The pain was worse than childbirth had been. Weeping to reach my son, I knew something terrible was wrong. I had torn a groin muscle, weakened from childbirth, the load I had been carrying afterward, and the walking and climbing around campus. I could not continue.
I dropped out.
The next semester, I returned. Stronger, supported, and with childcare. Our story could have been so different. Thank you Mila, Lydia, Beverly, and Nance. Thank you Mom and Dad.
How can we support those seeking to improve themselves while living hard lives and navigating difficult choices? Is there an educational layette for young mothers in school?
Glenda Moore knew when she visited Ukraine that she needed to help. She asked, "What can I do?" and knew she could bake cakes. I'm asking, "What can I do?" and challenge others to ask the same. I have a dollar or two. I bet others do too. Dennis Serine and Dr. Russell Lowery-Hart - how do we start a foundation to help young mothers and fathers at AC?
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