What an absolutely amazing trip. I still love Boston and I am still in love with all the people I knew here. When I moved here 24 years ago, I was still a child - and that is evident in the photos of those days. I fell in with a group who made me one of their own and it was a magical time. By all rights, I shouldn't have met them at all. When I applied for the job as the executive secretary in the Computer Science Department at BU, one of the qualifications was a typing speed of at least 35 WPM on a typewriter (yes, a typewriter!). I failed that test but aced the interview, so they hired me, contingent upon my future ability to pass that test. I took that stupid test 4, 5, 6, 10, 15 times. I couldn't pass it. The WPM was calculated as number of words typed less errors. Repeatedly, I would type 40, 42, 37 WPMs but after my errors were subtracted, I always ended up with a WPM in the 20s. In retrospect it was sad beyond words.
I seriously could not type 35 freaking words per minute. Confession: I took typing in high school (that was back in the day when you had to take either typing or shorthand and I guess those who aspired to be a secretary took both.) Very progressive, no? I don't recollect much about my high school typing class, my only evidence that I sucked was my inability to pass this stupid test. I didn't know where or what the keys were and I could have cared less, to be honest. I never aspired to be a secretary - funny thing how that became my career for over 20 years.
My inability to pass the typing test became the running joke of the department. Each day, I would head over to Human Resources, take the test, wait anxiously for the inevitable news that I had failed and I would sadly walk back to work and report to the Administrator and the Chair of the department that I had once again, failed. It was so absurd, that it was the first question that anyone - all the professors, staff and grad students - walking into our office would ask. "Pam, did you pass your test?" Adding insult to injury - all these people were wiz's on the keyboard, but in my defense, I held that a keyboard and a typewriter were two different things. They still laughed at me. By now, I had become a self-fulfilling prophecy of typing failure. My angst knew no bounds.
One day, the chair of the department, Steve Homer, came in the office with a plan. I was to sit in front of the typewriter and practice all day until 4:00 pm and then head to HR and the dreaded test - the theory being that after 7 hours of sheer rote I must pass. Did I mention at this point I had memorized the 3 paragraphs that comprised the portion of the test that would indicate the proper WPM? Yes, they used the same copy for every test. That's how big of a typing loser I was!
I sat and typed and typed and typed those paragraphs over and over. All day. Took my lunch break and came back. Typed until 4:00 p.m. With great trepidation, I walked to HR. I am certain they were as sick of seeing me as I was them. I am also certain I was a joke in their office too. I sat, I typed, I handed my paper to the "grader". She started circling in red my errors. (Can you believe that anyone could possibly have errors on the copy at this point?! I typed 43 WPM with 6 mistakes - a final score of 37 WPM!! I passed, I did it! I was a success - I am sure at that moment I was the best damn executive secretary in the BU pool!
The truth was, they should have cut me loose but they didn't. As a result, I became part of an eclectic, weird, brainy, funny, ragtag group of people. After I left Boston, I kept in touch sporadically. My alcoholism had a firm hold on me and I was circling the drain for several years. I lost touch with most of the people that mattered to me. The other night at dinner, Sue and Gordon reminisced about a trip to Houston they took to visit me about a year after I left Boston. I have absolutely zero recollection of their visit. I know they were there - they remembered my piece of shit car - a Cadillac Cimarron - that was burning oil, a fact I studiously ignored. They remembered I took them to Molina's for the kick-ass margaritas, they remembered my friends and they remembered that I took them to a Renaissance Festival (ACK!) out in the boonies somewhere. I remember none of it and even with twenty years of sobriety, I am a bit embarrassed that I don't. This is further confirmation that getting sober was a very good thing...but still I am sad that people I love came to visit me from Boston and I don't remember any of it.
Through Facebook, I was able to find these old friends. I reconnected with them at a time in our lives when we are able to look back on those 3 years and - to a man - agree that it was a magical, wonderful, carefree time. Most of us have been married and have children; all of us have grown up and have responsibilities and bills; trials and tribulations. But, I have no doubt that if we could get everyone together in one room, it would be filled with laughter and stories and recollections that take us back to that time and space. Each person I have been able to see during my visit has reconfirmed what a serendipitous time it was in all our lives. We belonged together. We created memories and bonds that, despite the chaos of being young and irresponsible, carried us into adulthood. When I look at Tom, Mary, John, Sue and Gordon and the others, I still see them as they were 25 years ago. I don't see the lines in their faces, the gray hair, the aging bodies - I see them with my mind's eye and they are still young and beautiful; their essence unchanged and I know they see me that way. It is good and my heart is filled; and as I enter this new, uncertain phase of my life, these people have somehow given me the faith and courage I need to make the next jump. It's a leap of faith but I have confidence that my footing is sure. The people that love us not only do so unconditionally but help us to see ourselves as we would like to be and give us the strength to keep growing and reaching for our greater good.
What a trip.
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