When my mom went to college (St. Olaf College, Class of 1970, UM YAH YAH), female students (girls, ahem) wore skirts to every class, including Saturdays. They were advised to pack a pair of short white gloves. They certainly did not live off campus. Well, not until my mom and her friends came along.
My mom isn’t counterculture. She has never been much of a rebel, not generally a rabble-rouser. She is an athlete, however, and it is really hard to kick the football around in a skirt. She told me about one early Saturday morning biology class when she dared to wear a pair of jeans — a man (because back then there were “men” and “girls”) leaned over and told my mom that he was going to report her to the Honor Committee. As far as she knew he never did, but WHOA.
Mom had to lie to her housemother twice. A housemother (for those of you, like me, who had not heard of such a thing) lived in the dorm and made sure the girls followed curfew rules. My mom remembers having to be in her room, lights out, at 10:30. On weekends it was 11:00, and there were a few times that the weekend curfew could be extended to 11:30. My dad, on the other hand, never had a curfew. He could go have a date at Carleton (the college across town) or up to the Twin Cities for a movie or a concert and not worry about what time he got back to the dorm.
Men also had the freedom to live off-campus. Until my mother’s senior year, that option was not available to women (sorry, girls). However, as the college realized it would not have enough housing for my mom’s senior year, a group of her classmates were approved to live in a house off-campus — the first in the history of St. Olaf College that we know of. The group were admonished (in person, and later in a letter to their parents) by the Dean of Women that the house would be considered an Honor House, and an extension of college housing. All college policies and regulations would apply. My mom said the Dean of Women visited them once early on, but never again.
They were and are an incredible group of women. How do I know? Because that core group of eleven have stayed in close contact over the years. I saw their names on Christmas cards. My mom disappeared for a reunion every couple of years — though these gatherings are now annual (at least) since the gang has retired. As I became an adult, I occasionally started hearing from them directly.
We stayed at Teri’s house when I was looking at colleges. Sonja, Sally, and Nita came to my wedding. Meredith sent me a book when I was hired for my first teaching job. Linda sent me a lovely note of encouragement when The House (as they are collectively known) found out about our daughter’s struggle with mental illness. I felt no reticence when my parents were in Europe and my family was in crisis — I emailed Meredith (who happens to be married to a child psychiatrist) and asked for advice. Each note, each email from these women, begins with, “You might not know me, Susie, but I’m an old friend of your mom’s.” And I laugh. Because of COURSE I know them. They are figures who loom large in the story of my mom’s life, and therefore mine. I know the names Marybeth, Sue (there are two), and Marsha like they are characters in a well-read book.
I so admire these women. They are strong and smart and forces of nature. They knocked down barriers and forged a trail that my college pals and I took for granted.
(Also, my mom doesn’t remember ever wearing those white gloves she was supposed to pack. Weird.)
Thanks for reading.
Love, Susie
That’s such a special gift for you to know your Mom’s lifelong friends!