The good thing about being old are the memories. Some are good, some bad and some mixed. These memories make you laugh, cry and wonder why.
During the late sixties, I was a young, feisty, red-hair girl who was hired as secretary of the English department at a community college being built in downtown Cleveland, Ohio. It was scary because I only had a high school diploma, now, I would be working with those who had bachelor of arts degrees, master degrees and even, doctorate degrees.
People warned me about working in downtown Cleveland. They told me to be careful because it was a time of riots, war, assassinations, freedom, anything and everything because as the song said, "The times were changing."
As an employee of the community college, I received six free college credits and since I worked in the English department it was a given what my first class would be.
Classes were held throughout the downtown in office buildings, empty warehouses and factories. My English class was in a run-down factory building, next to an ancient cemetery and four blocks from where I worked. If I had taken the advice of Dr. Fredman, my boss, I would have froze to death walking those four blocks. Instead, I chose to walk through the wide-open cafeteria, past the angry young black men who stared at me and out the huge double steel doors of the old office building.
I went down the alley and through the parking lot where a young black man was always leaning against one of the parked cars. He watched me jaywalk across the street, run around the corner of the Salvation Army, passed the cemetery and breathlessly, run down the street to where the tall, thin, black skin man stood holding the door for me.
Smiling, I said, "Late again, huh, Mr. Kilgore?"
Maybe, it was ignorance, maybe it was lack of worldly wisdom or maybe it was carelessness, I don’t know but during that first semester I was constantly told that all kinds of bad things would happen to me. The warnings got worst at Christmas time after the young black radicals hung Santa Claus in effigy and in the middle of the cafeteria. I was warned about the radicals and told that if it wasn't them that got me, then, it would be the black parking lot attendant and his friends. The only one I was not warned about was Mr. Kilgore.
That first semester wasn't easy but at long last the English class came to an end. I dreaded the final test. I didn’t want to fail. My nervousness must have shown as I walked through the cafeteria because as I pushed against the back door on that final evening, I heard a unison of voices say, "Good luck."
I stepped into the alley and looked back at the smiling, young, black faces. Half-hearted I smiled back as I went down the alley.
I started through the parking lot when all of a sudden there was the attendant blocking my way. I stopped and watched his hand stretch out toward me. For a second, a shadow of doubt crossed my mind, then, I heard, "Here, I got this for you. It’s a lucky rabbit foot."
A grin spread across his face as he placed a bright green rabbit foot in my hand. I laughed out loud as he said, "It’s going to be lucky for you even if it wasn’t lucky for the rabbit."
Our laughter mixed together and hung in the air. I waved back at him as I jaywalked across the street, heading to class knowing that Mr Kilgore stood with the door opened, waiting.
