Chapter Seven

The Ivory Towers Are Crumbling All Around Me

My Freshman Year At York

I drove up to the campus from London with Mom and Dad, and it was a very stressful journey. Dad was cloaked in his customary silence, and Mom's sombre demeanour indicated that she was quite upset that her little girl was leaving home. Earlier that afternoon, I'd heard her crying in her room and couldn't help feeling sorry for her. Now she'd really be alone. The two of us had overcome our animosity toward one another and had achieved some measure of peace and harmony and now I would no longer be living with her.

In all likelihood, I'd fall in love at school, get married and start a family of my own. Well, she still had Jim, and now that he'd settled down somewhat and abandoned many of his "jungle buddies", the kid was actually becoming an ally to her as her marriage to our father quickly unravelled in the fall of 1974.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I spotted the university campus. It looked as though it could have been square in the middle of Siberia and the drab, monotonous starkness made me shudder inwardly. I discovered later that York University had been designed and constructed in 1965, in grim preparation for student riots which were igniting American campuses and threatened to creep northward.

One of the buildings had been erected as an actual fortress with a high stone wall, which could be manned with heavily-armed guards, guns ostensibly aimed at disruptive students. It was slate-grey, ominous and loomed out of the flat, barren surroundings, standing like some hideous relic of the Medieval era. This was where I was to spend the next four years of my life?

I turned to look at Mom, but she was busy trying to figure out ourbearings. "You're in Founders Residence. Let's see if there's someone we can ask for directions."

I returned my gaze to the desolate campus wasteland, with one building that cast tall, ebony smoke-stacks into the overcast sky and giving it the appearance of an industrial town.

There weren't many buildings in 1974. I've heard that the university is absolutely massive now, two decades later, but I haven't seen it since 1978. They were spaced far apart and were all decidedly unattractive. Western's campus, in comparison, was paradise-on-earth, with its stately, beige-brick edifices and lush, fertile grounds. I secretly wondered if I'd made a big mistake opting for this shuddering wilderness. I ruminated with bitter irony that York was predominantly Jewish, which made the striking similarity to a concentration camp utterly obscene.

I quickly forgot about the campus' ugliness upon reaching Founders Residence. It was a rather attractive brick building with a courtyard containing trees, believe it or not, and the rooms' windows cranked open sideways to take in the pleasant view. It looked like something out of Percy Bysshe Shelley's times and I knew I could tolerate the rest of the place if my living quarters were this capable of supporting life.

After helping me to unpack, Mom and Dad left, somewhat reluctantly. I felt a sharp jab of homesickness as I hugged my Mother tightly and promised to phone collect every Sunday night. Dad mumbled, "Good luck", but I could see that he was secretly proud of me for making it this far, after so much trouble in the past several years. I took comfort in the knowledge that I'd be home for Thanksgiving, only five weeks away.

Our beds were standard institutional singles and we each had a desk, large bookshelves, a heavy wooden chair and a plastic-cushioned, lounging type seat. There were fluorescent lights above the desks and a garish overhead one, which didn't do the room any justice. In short, it was a very typical dormitory room; nice, but in drastic need of some creative decorating.

I wondered about my roommate. She'd obviously already arrived, because there were two duffel bags, a large knapsack, countless cardboard boxes of clothes and an acoustic guitar strewn about. The guitar caught my attention and I pictured a hippie type, free spirited musician, with peasant blouses, sandals and love beads, looking frail, ivory-toned, with long, wavy hair.

So much for assumptions: Just then, a rather chubby, plain-looking girl entered, with shoulder-length flaxen hair and an open, ingratiating smile. She was dressed in ordinary jeans and a decidedly unhippie-like sweater. "Hi, I'm Wanda. Nice to meet you."

"Hi, my name's Jane. I guess you're stuck with me for the semester. I like your guitar."

"Thanks. My boyfriend Ike gave it to me. I don't play that great or anything, but it helps me relax. God, I miss that guy already. He's going to Lakehead University in Thunder Bay. We've never been apart like this before."

Poor Wanda. She cried every night for weeks,and there wasn't much I could say or do to cheer her up. But I liked her. She was honest, affectionate and turned out to be a damned hard worker.

Since we were both English majors, we spent a great deal of time talking about our courses, and discussing our favourite authors, books, etc. Both of us enjoyed writing as well, and though we weren't certain what we would end up doing after graduation, we knew that some type of writing would be involved. I was thinking about doing my graduate work at Carlton University in Ottawa in journalism.

I'd kept a diary for the past three years and had brought it with me. It chronicalled my experiences with anorexia nervosa, drugs and my dismay over our family problems. I held onto this document for three more years, then got rid of it in 1977. It was just too painful a reminder of terrible times in my life, and thought that if I threw it out, I was denouncing the past and assuring myself that it would never repeat itself.

I met a fascinating assortment of kids during those first weeks at Founders, people to whom I was to grow extremely close over the next few years. Felicity was a gregarious, buxom blonde with a rabid Mickey Mouse fetish. She had a Mickey Mouse phone, comforter, pillow, sheets, stuffed animals, mouse ears, Mickey Mouse sweatshirts, notepads, pens, pencils, and everything imaginable. Walking into her room was tantamount to landing in a Disney Never-never Land of rodent adulation.

I was impressed that anyone would be so totally devoted to a cartoon character. Felicity was admittedly at York to study for her "MRS": That is, to find a prospective husband and then get the hell out. She ultimately succeeded, by the way, after meeting an affable, good-natured boy at our college pub and instantly beginning a whirlwind courtship.

Sylvia was younger, at seventeen, but had the maturity and poise of someone twenty or more. She was slightly pudgy, with large breasts, and hated the way they turned her into some plastic sex object. Sylvia was pretty, intelligent and well-bred and had a caustic wit and drop-dead sarcasm that drove the guys nuts. We got along very well from the start and I was impressed that she had spent her childhood in Kenya.

Brad looked a bit like Dustin Hoffman and had a quirky, semi-innocent quality about him. He was embodied with a great deal of common sense and had a streak of compassion a mile long. Gill and I both became instantly infatuated with his little-boy-lost sensuality.

Devon was the "resident clown", a goofy, Nutty Professor-esque kid with slightly buck teeth, geeky glasses and a haircut that belonged in some radical-cum-chic underground movie. I liked Devon for his brash humour and unconventional personality traits, but never grew particularly close to him. He was too off-the-wall and therefore somewhat intimidating.

Kenny was a kind-hearted, mild-mannered "gosh-darn-golly" guy who could have been played by Ron Howard and who many girls befriended for his honesty and intelligence. However they didn't become romantically linked to him because they thought he was too tame and milk-fed.

Sidney was dubbed "Founders' Queer" for obvious reasons. I despised the way people ridiculed this tall, sleekly svelte young man with a gorgeous mane of light brown hair and these voluptuously full lips. But Sidney was much more than just a pretty face; he was the quintessential modern scholastic tragic anti-hero, persecuted, yet bravely rising above the scorn and hatred by implementing his quiet, innate belief that "people are basically not all that bad a trip". I really liked this guy and so did Laura, and it wouldn't be long before the three of us bonded fast and hard, buffeting one another against the pain that would visit all of us.

And of course, I can't forget the famous team of Patrick and Adam. These two complete polar opposites were tossed together as roommates and the result was nothing short of comic genius. Patrick was a sheltered, virginal, desperately shy boy, who looked like Beaver Cleaver with his chubby, cherubic face and klutzy mannerisms.

Adam was the arrogant, egotistical son of a television newscaster who wanted to follow in Daddy's footsteps. He reminded me of Ted Baxter from the Mary Tyler Moore Show. He thought he was God's gift to the female population and set about trying to bed each and every girl of Founders A House. You can imagine the inane results of pairing up these tow. Pat was positively repulsed by Adam's vulgarity and blatant sexism and Adam thought Patrick to be a hopeless, hapless mama's boy.

Mark was one of the many Jewish students at Founders, and was an extremely intense, studious and self-sufficient young man who knew, at nineteen, that he was capable of dealing with a serious marital relationship. He had wed Reva when he started university so the two of them lived in the married students' residence. Alan would become very important to me later on.

I left the two most significant members of Founders, as far as my life was concerned anyway, to the end of these descriptions, because they had the most effect on me; one beneficially and the other, quite detrimentally. Courtney was a study in vast complexity, mixed with a liberal dash of unabashed charisma and I never encountered anyone like her before. She was tiny, with short-cropped, very blonde hair, gigantic blue eyes that bored right into your cerebral cortex and a substantial, animated mouth that was rarely still.

Courtney was Dutch, complete with a pretty heavy accent and she had the ability to wrap her vocal chords around English syntax, vernacular and idiosyncracies and mangle the hell out of them. The result was an endearing, truly original language, spoken with sincerity and open-faced straightforwardness. She was no slinger of bull, and if you didn't like the directness, well, that was just too damn bad.

She'd had a difficult time growing up, the product of strict, authoritarian parents with a hard set of rules and no margin for human error. Alice left home at fourteen, and was "adopted" by a loving landlady who made sure she attended school. It became necessary for her to get a job at sixteen, so she became a competent waitress at a restaurant called the Crock and Block.

This serious, single-minded survivor knew at an early age that she wanted to study psychology at university and earned every penny of the tuition herself. She depended upon no-one and was a person unto herself, shunning close, personal ties and preferring to appear strong and independent.

However, there remained within Courtney that lost little girl who'd felt essentially unloved by her parents and who had been sexually abused by her eleven-year-old cousin at age five. Loneliness and depression would overtake her at times as she grew older and she realized that if she was to achieve a measure of happiness, it would be entirely up to her.

She began her studies at York in September of 1973 and had a difficult time in residence. She was unable to develop emotional relationships with the other students and lost herself in her studies. Courtney distinguished herself by becoming a fiercely diligent student and demonstrating a substantial amount of dignity.

When I met her, she was entering her sophmore year and was twenty-one years old, at least two years older than the rest of us. Some of the residents disliked her at first as she referred to us as "kids" and they took great offense to that.

"She thinks she's so damned superior", one girl snorted after Courtney breezed out of the common room one evening. "I'm no kid, for crying out loud."

I really liked her, for she had a certain worldliness and was stamped with the vestiges of experience, unlike most of us who'd always lived at home and were fresh out of high school. Not only that, but she was kindhearted, offering to buy me a coffee that first day and asking if I wanted to listen to her Leonard Cohen records.

This girl's room was a sight to behold. It was nearly completely camouflaged with a wide variety of lush, green plants, such as split-leaf philodendrons, spider plants and some species I'd never seen before. She had strung a large, heavy fish net across the ceiling and had antique lanterns hung everywhere. Posters on the wall ran the gamut from studiously arty to inspirational poetry by Kahlil Gibran. I was utterly diminished when I set foot in this junglescape. That was Courtney: Creative ambition and very unique. What she lacked in social grace and the finer points of etiquette, she made up for with aplomb.

Courtney had been arduously pursued during her freshman year by a flamboyant male student who resided in Founders' co-ed dormitory. His name was Simon and he was something to behold. Simon had rebelled ferociously against the shaggy-headed, hippie threads of the times by cutting his dark hair very short and dressing exclusively in tailored business suits and black "pickle-stabbers".

This ultra-conservative mien was offset, however, by his manic consumption of alcohol and exceedingly extroverted personality. He was French-Canadian, and when intoxicated, would speak in a quasi-Francophone dialect, throwing expletives like "Tabarnac" around to show that he was truly bilingual.

He had a crude sense of humour and made the most aggravating sexist comments and jokes that I'd ever been privy to. My first reaction upon meeting him was "what an asshole."

Simon had evidently fallen hopelessly in love with the then long-haired Courtney, admiring her freshness and introverted shyness, but she thwarted all of his awkward advances. Still, the two of them would sit for hours, night after night in her elaborate bedroom, discussing philosophy, life's meaning, the ravages and pitfalls of life in the 1070's, and the future.

For it seemed that Simon possessed an alter ego to balance out the drunken clown with the obscene leer and penchant for dirty jokes: He was also extraordinarily compassionate, with a heart of gold, a boy who desperately needed to help people and guide them through life's battlegrounds. In his own way, Simon was every bit as complex and enigmatic as Courtney.

But the romance never blossomed. Courtney found it difficult to maintain relationships of any kind and though she genuinely liked Simon and appreciated his kindness, she recoiled at the notion of "going with" him.

So that was the Founders gang of 1974, at least the students I encountered during "frosh week", a five-day initiation program into the finer social points of being a properly decadent university student. I enjoyed the festivities, even our exposure to a strip club (upon Simon's suggestion) and by the time classes began, I knew that I was really going to like my stay in the Ivory Towers of Toronto.

* * * *

Academically speaking, my freshman year at York proved to be exciting and challenging, although I was not terribly enamoured with my Natural Sciences course (which involved the anatomy of the steam engine) I loved my English and Humanities ones. The latter was entitled "Illusion and Reality" and dealt with these properties in intricate detail.

We studied everything from R.D. Laing's "Sanity, Madness and the Family" to "The Tales of Hoffman", Offenbach's famous opera. Films were shown to us, like "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari" and we learned all about epistemology and the philosophies of Descartes and Sartre.

With Professor Schneider and tutorial leader Bob MacMillan (who looked like a young but ravaged Albert Einstein, complete with droopy mustache) we delved into the fascinating theories of Carl Jung and seriously questioned what constituted an illusion and what proved that something was indeed real.

I loved thinking in such a uniquely abstract way and excelled in this course, spurred on by the contagious enthusiasm of MacMillan and the quiet intensity of Mr. Schneider.

My sociology selection was entitled "Women and Society" and explored the past and present roles of women, placing a large emphasis on the Women's Liberation Movement, which was in high gear at the time. One of our professors was Esther Greenglass, a renowned writer and speaker for women's issues. I was excited to be among such fertile, ground-breaking minds.

I also took Canadian literature and Romantic literature, and embraced them for exposing me to the works of Leonard Cohen and William Blake. Academe was expanding my mind in ways that I'd never dreamt possible and certainly more effectively than drugs ever had.

Our residence had parties nearly every weekend, involving the copious consumption of alcohol, dancing and talking for hours about music, sex, relationships and politics. We were revelling in the heady feeling of being away from home for the first time and "cutting loose". I dated quite a lot, but didn't particularly want a serious relationship. I was too busy having fun.

When I went home at Thanksgiving, I was happily stunned to find that Jim was now treating me with affection and respect. I guess he admired the fact that I was living alone in the Big City, where nights sprang to life in a wild, splashy circus of wonderment and I was no longer the pathetic loser. I felt the tremendous strain between our parents then, as if something was about to explode in a spectacular, fiery airburst and this was the silent countdown to Armageddon. I was relieved when it was time to return to York.

I met a wholesome-looking, pleasant-natured boy named Ben before Christmas, who was a Seneca College student. We began a fairly intensive relationship. I didn't fall in love with him, for I deemed Ben to be far too boring. He fell all over me and mooned those big, brown eyes of his at me constantly. I liked a little more friction, some sense of a challenge. Ben was simply too damned easy and convenient.

Mom adored him, though. He came home with me one weekend, bringing flowers for her and candy for me. "He's wonderful!" she enthused, hoping that she'd have him for a son-in-law someday. She still speaks wistfully of him to this day, twenty-one years later.

After Christmas, things started to fray a little around the edges. Eager to excel in my studies, but desirous of a healthy, energetic social life, I began to become extremely fatigued. I allowed myself only five hours of sleep a night and this semi-deprivation began to take its toll after a few weeks.

One afternoon, as I practically nodded off in my sociology lecture, a girl I knew casually, named Amber, leaned over and smiled, saying softly, "I used to have that problem, falling asleep in class all the time."

I looked at her. She was a pleasant-looking girl with thick, long hair parted squarely in the middle and a sly, ironic grin. I sat up straighter, somewhat taken aback that my sleepiness was that obvious. "Yeah?"

Amber put her hand over her mouth and whispered, "I get these pills from my doctor. They're great. I can stay up all night and never get tired.

I looked scornfully at her. "What? You mean Speed? I don't do that shit anymore."

Amber shook her head vehemently. "No, no, not beans. It's called Ritalin. They give it to hyperactive kids to settle them down, but it has the opposite effect on a normal person. They're perfectly safe and legal. Wanna try one?" I was suspicious but desperate. She procured a bottle and took out a little blue pill. "Swallow it with your coffee. Takes about twenty minutes to work."

Foolishly, I took her advice and within twenty-five minutes or so, I felt a jolt of adrenaline as my nervous system switched on to auxiliary power. As the lecture ended, I felt suddenly confident that I could get through the next class at full capacity. "Hey, thanks", I remarked gratefully. "So do I just go to a doctor and ask for this Ritalin?"

"Yup. I can get mine to take you on if you'd like. He's really cool."

Well, that was the beginning of what was to be a horrific ordeal with a drug that should certainly have been illegal for anyone, but particularly vulnerable and weary university students. I was to discover that Ritalin is highly addictive and promotes all kinds of psychological problems, intensifies depression and contributes to anxiety and panic attacks. So my drug use did not end with my nineteenth birthday after all. For someone with a one hundred forty-eight I.Q., I was ridiculously stupid.

Ritalin was only the start of a steady downward spiral that would continue for the next two years. I had a great deal of difficulty with interpersonal relationships once the initial joy of connecting with the other students in residence wore off.

First came my utter devastation upon learning that Brad had chosen Wanda over me. He'd gone out with both of us for a period of time, and I secretly hoped that I would be the "lucky one", even though Wanda seemed somehow more settled, even-tempered and emotionally stable.

I had begun to behave a bit erratically, probably due to the Ritalin, and in an effort to calm my jangling nerves I had started drinking more frequently at our college pub, The Cock and Bull. I'd often consume at least four rye and ginger ales per night. I'd never been much of a drinker in the past, but I was beginning to enjoy the warm fuzziness that the alcohol produced. There were always students from the residence willing to spend evenings at the pub so I never lacked for company.

After Brad and Wanda began going out together, I sunk into a deep well of self-loathing and regret. I remember well the night that I discovered I had been unceremoniously dumped. Under the impression that our resident Casanova was going to take both Wanda and me to an on-campus movie, I dissolved into a puddle of misery when Brad announced that he only planned on taking Wanda.

After my initial outcry, which resembled the death scream of a mortally wounded hyena, I was totally inappropriate and immature. I followed them to the movie and sobbed loudly all through it. Poor Brad felt terrible, and in my anguish I thought that he deserved to squirm for being such a selfish, unreasonably and extremely cruel prick. Wanda chose to ignore the entire scene.

Finally, halfway through "Young Frankenstein", I felt a gentle, firm hand on my shoulder. Turning, I looked into the compassionate brown eyes of Mark. Unknown to me at the time, he was having marital problems with Reva and I suppose he felt a desperate need to reach out. Like Simon, Mark lived to help people in need, for it eased his own pain and pushed his problems into a further recess of his mind.

The two of us left the theatre and spent the next hour talking. Well, I basically cried and he murmured to me that whatever was bothering me, it would pass with time, I'd smile again and regain my previous joie de vivre.

I didn't tell him why I was so upset, for he was a close friend of Brad's and I really didn't want to put Mark in the middle of a very messy situation. He was to find out later, but thankfully didn't hold my childish behaviour against me. It would be another year before this remarkable, kind-spirited young man would leave his wife and desire a relationship with me.

I suppose I reacted so violently because, only six months previously, Charles had done exactly the same thing and it brought that sensation of self-recrimination flooding back.

Wanda had known why I was so upset and avoided much contact with me afterward. This was pretty awkward since we were roommates, so I began spending more time in the adjoining college's coffee house, which was adjacent to Founders. Word was getting around the residence that I was unusually unstable and emotionally overwrought, and I aroused some morbid curiosity as well as some revulsion.

Some of the students had seen the cross-shaped scar on my wrist, when my wide bracelet covering it slipped occasionally, and rumours circulated that I had been seriously into drugs in high school and had suffered a measure of brain damage.

The resident don, a butchy but pleasant young woman who was in charge of the girls of A House, took me aside one night and blatantly asked me if I had been selling any chemicals to any of the students. I was indignant, and replied that I had never been a dealer and would never stoop to that repulsive lifestyle. She then drilled me about my past experiences, and even wanted to look at my arms to examine them for tracks. I despised her for branding me a junkie with no morals or principles.

What was happening to me, and why was I being persecuted for doing what so many teenagers of the 1970's had done? Of course, she didn't know about the Ritalin, which was now getting completely out of hand.

I had gone from ingesting thirty milligrams per day to over a hundred twenty and still felt a desperate craving for more just to function normally. Amber had assured me that this drug was not addicting, and when I reminded her she replied casually, "Don't be a douche. I wouldn't get you into anything dangerous."

One girl I had begun hanging with was a pretty, fragile, raven-haired student named Charlotte. She was engaged to an older man named Will, and talked endlessly about him and her impending wedding.

Sylvia grew weary of this chatter very quickly, but I liked her enthusiastic nature and admired her popularity with the other kids.

She and Wanda became tight and after Wanda forgave my emotional bloodbath, the three of us would gather in Charlotte's single room, playing Olivia Newton-John albums and talking about the future.

In my characteristic, self-deprecating manner, I would tell Charlotte that she wouldn't like me so much if she knew me. She would laugh uproariously and wave her hand in a gesture of playful protest. "Don't be silly. Of course I would."

Well, this friendship would soon bite the proverbial dust, as one night my jealously of Wanda and her relationship with Brad erupted into a war of angry words. Wanda was hurt and felt crushed by the weight of my accusations, and later, feeling remorseful, I wrote her a note asking for forgiveness and explaining my hosility.

The message got misconstrued somehow, and Wanda took it as further nastiness on my part. She fled from our room, crying brokenly and told me that she didn't wish anything more to do with me.

Charlotte despised me from that moment on and wouldn't even speak to me for the rest of the year. She would only shoot furious glances in my direction.

One afternoon, I tried to explain that I hadn't meant to say anything offensive in the note, that it was supposed to speak positively of Wanda, and somehow made matters even worse. Frustrated and bewildered, I ultimately exploded at her and spat out, "Fine. You want to be a bitch about all this? Well, I don't think Brad likes you at all. He feels sorry for you because you have no backbone, no sense of dignity. You just throw yourself at him."

Suddenly, Brad stormed in and besieged me with a "conscience speech" that left me totally defeated and stinging with remorse. He said that he had tried to be fair with me, that he and a lot of the others were aware that I had "problems", but that I was basically a very nasty and vindictive human being.

Before leaving the room, Brad turned to me and said rather regretfully, "You know, Jane, you choose to be this way. You dump on people then expect them to feel sorry for you because you've had a hard life. Well, I think you need to grow up and realize that the world doesn't owe you."

I was inconsolable, crumbled on the floor, buried my head in my hands and rocked back and forth for the next hour. My universe was falling on top of me and I was drowning in despair.

Courtney stuck by me, however, sympathetic to my pitiful cause, and assured me that as my life stabilized, people would come around and forgive my transgressions. Sidney was loyal to me, as was Sylvia, and mentioned that most of those kids were "immature little brats", and therefore I wasn't missing out on anything worthwhile as far as earning their friendship was concerned.

So I began to avoid most of the Founders residents, and stayed with people who accepted me. They were somewhat different and off-centre as well: Courtney with her rather austere lifestyle and problematic past, Sylvia with her precociousness and strong sense of style, and Sidney with his homosexuality.

Courtney and I would talk into the wee hours, guzzling strong coffee and submerging ourselves in Neil Diamond's "Hot August Night" and Gallegher and Lyle. She, like myself, had no desire to become romantically entangled with anyone, as it would illicit far too much pain.

Sylvia and I worked with David as he gave out flyers for the "Gay Alliance", York's homosexual and lesbian society, and I admired the fierce loyalty that Sidney felt for his cause. There was rampant homophobia on university campuses in the mid-1970's, and Laura and I were often branded "gay" for our affiliation to the Alliance. Neither of us cared; Sylvia because she wasn't the least bit concerned with image or labels, and myself for a completely different reason.

One night, Sidney and I were sitting on the floor of his room, drinking wine and listening to music as usual, when I brought up the issue which had been weighing on my mind for a very long time. Still very much confused about my sexuality, even though I had been attracted to boys, I had begun to feel a great deal of resentment and hostility toward the male of the species. Never having developed a very satisfying relationship with my father, I wondered if that could be the reason for this.

Sidney had looked at me intently and asked what exactly I had meant by that. "Well, I used to think that maybe I was, well, um, you know, gay like you. Then I thought, no, I've just had a lot of bizarre relationships with guys, nothing that's ever been particularly satisfying or lasting. Now I have all this anger toward men. And I look at someone like Rhoda, that friend of yours, with her delicate features and her gentle personality, and I get kind of, well, turned on by her. What the hell's going on with me?"

Sidney leaned forward and put his hand on my shoulder in a gesture of comfort and reassurance. "It sounds as if you might be bisexual."

I thought for a minute and then replied slowly, "Yeah, that kind of makes some sense. How does a person know that sort of thing?

"You expose yourself to other women who feel the same way. I have a friend, Geraldine, who lives in the graduate residence. She's a lesbian, and she should probably talk to you. Are you ready?"

I was a bit hesitant, but agreed, and met Geraldine several nights later. I was surprised that she looked nothing like my preconceived notions of how a lesbian should appear. She was attractive, vibrant and very feminine.

We talked for an hour or so, and she suggested that I go to a gay bar that she knew of in the west end of the city. Geraldine had two gay friends who frequented the place and told me that she could arrange to have them escort me.

I surprised myself at how easily I accepted all of this information and was willing to follow the advice of a stranger. I suppose curiosity was a part of it and an intense desire to feel as though I belonged somewhere, and had a sense of identity.

I met Geraldine's friends downtown, where they picked me up in a red Volkswagen. I was somewhat taken aback at the driver's appearance, for she had ruggedly masculine features and wasn't the least bit attractive. Her partner was softer looking, less the stereotypical "butch".

They took me to a rather run-down building on a darkened, secluded backstreet. I was met at the front door by a woman with two Dobermans and guessed that they were there to guard the place against unwelcome intruders.

I bought a screwdriver and settled down at a table with Jill and Darlene, looking at the dimly-lit surroundings as people milled about, talking, laughing and dancing to Minnie Ripperton coming from the loudspeakers.

Jill, the tall, mannish girl, turned to Darlene and muttered discouragingly, "Well, I have my choice of a fat one, a fat one, or a fat one."

There did seem to be an inordinate disproportion of overweight women there, but I noticed some strikingly attractive ones sitting off to the side of the room. I felt a bit ill-at-ease as my eye caught sight of women looking at me and smiling coyly. This was a new experience, and it felt somewhat awkward. Was it a mistake to come here?

Just then a three-girl singing group took the dance floor and lip-synced to the Supreme's "Stop! In the Name of Love". They called themselves, "Diana Gleam and Her Impossible Dreams" and they certainly had plenty of charisma and unbridled energy. I enjoyed the performance, and after the trio left the floor and ran past the table, "Diana" pinched me on the butt.

"Lucky you", said Jill, "she thinks you're sexy." The idea didn't bother me; in fact, I felt complimented with a positive rush that even Brad hadn't ever produced. Perhaps David had been correct in his assessment of my sexuality.

Darlene taught me how to slow dance. "It's not like it is with a guy", she said smiling, There was an extra beat, not the rocking on either foot as I was accustomed.

I got picked up that night, by a sweet-faced, plump and soft-spoken girl named Bobbie. She had come to the place with a girlfriend, but left her there for me. It was a very awkward situation, because I didn't want to rebuff her attentions, but at the same time, I hated the thought of breaking a couple up. I was very much afraid of offending someone and causing trouble. I knew I was there as a kind of experiment and felt like an imposter. I wished that I hadn't gone.

It was my shyness more than any kind of reluctance to explore the possiblity of a sexual relationship with another woman. As Bobbie's car pulled up to the residence, I paused before getting out. "Um, thanks for the ride."

To my dismay, she began to cry quietly. "Hey, what's the matter?" Sitting back down, I realized that I couldn't just leave her like that.

She choked back the tears and replied brokenly, "Are you just going to leave me here like this? I thought you liked me. I left Gloria back there and everything. Did I get my signals crossed?"

I felt terrible. Something had told me that Bobbie misunderstood me when I agreed to let her drive me home. But it was late, and I had been growing uneasy being so far from the campus and surrounded by strangers.

"Bobbie, I didn't mean to give you the wrong idea. I've never been out with a girl before. I'm sort of new at this. I just need a little time to get used to it."

She seemed to brighten up a little after that. We sat and talked for an hour or so, and I ended up promising her that I'd call in a few days. But I never did. My conscience, formed from many years of a fairly religious upbringing, as well as a hefty dose of moral hypocrisy, dictated that it was wrong to love someone of the same sex. It would only bring shame and retribution upon me and my family.

Bobbie did kiss me, though, and it felt rather pleasant, not threatening or aggressive, as it often did with guys. So that was my exposure to the homosexual lifestyle as I prepared to leave my teenage years behind. I don't regret that night, although I felt terribly guilty and ashamed for years afterward.

Ironically, rumours began to circulate at Founders that Courtney and I were involved romantically. This was based on the fact that we were seen together a lot, and because neither of us had boyfriends.

The rumours intensified after Wanda and Courtney traded rooms, leaving Wanda in a single and Courtney paired with me. Both of us pretended that the tongue-wagging didn't bother us, but, in reality, it upset our peace of mind greatly.

Shortly after my night at the gay bar, Simon began to come on to me with single-minded intensity, but I rebuffed his advances. His childishness and drinking turned me off, and besides, I wasn't even remotely interested in him romantically. He was the butt of most of the residence jokes and was laughed at behind his back for his clothes, haircut and crude humour. I was thoroughly embarrassed to be seen with him.

One night, I'd had too much to drink and didn't walk away when Simon planted an energetic, wet kiss on my unsuspecting lips. He was delighted and murmured, "Where have you been all this time?"

After that, I spent a great deal of time talking with him, somewhat relieved to be semi-involved in a straight relationship. Nothing sexual happened during this period of time; not that he didn't desire it, but I was insistent that we remain celibate. Sex just didn't appeal to me at all and I wasn't particularly attracted to Simon physically, even though he was quite good-looking in a cherubic, "Peck's-bad-boy-touched-with-sweetness" kind of way; sort of a Pre-Raphaelite innocence brushed with a stroke of decadence.

I told Simon all about my past, emphasizing the fact that I'd had a difficult life and had "really suffered". He was very empathetic and hugged me close to him, assuring me that he understood why I sometimes lashed out at people and denounced the unfortunate events that had robbed me of a happy and carefree childhood.

I played on Simon's sincere desire to be an amateur psychotherapist, revelling in the attention he paid to my angst, and wallowing in self-pity in an effort to gain his sympathy. It worked, and before long he devoted all of his spare time and energy trying to "fix me" and counselled me for hours at a time. He urged me to talk about things that were bothering me and offering broad shoulders to sob on. This probably would have continued indefinitely, except for the terrible night that changed both of us forever and tore our relationship to pieces.

When I arrived at Simon's room in F House, my instinct was to leave right away, as it was obvious that he was quite intoxicated. He'd drunk one half of a bottle of Vodka and was acting extremely childish and undesirable. I was wearing a short, pale blue mini-dress and he commented upon how sexy I looked.

"Simon, you shouldn't drink so much," I said disapprovingly, sitting down beside him on the bed. That was a fatal mistake.

What happened next was that this normally kind, considerate and decent boy tried to force himself on me, his inhibitions loosened by the alcohol. As he leapt on top of me and started to pull my dress off, my memory flashed back suddenly to a year before when Wayne had done the same thing.

"God, what am I going to do?" I despaired, panic welling up in my throat. I had a brilliant idea, or so I thought. I'd pretend to go into a frozen trance, and then Simon would stop.

It was actually a very mean thing to do, for when I stiffened my body and stared straight ahead, motionless in my pretend freak-out, poor Simon was overcome with remorse, fear and regret.

He quickly got off me and sat at his desk, and I can only imagine what desolate thoughts consumed him for the next five minutes while I continued to lie there like a dazed zombie. It was the bitter and melodramatic end of our union, for after that, Simon grew to despise me. He was grimly reminded of his shameful behaviour everytime he looked at me and remembered how he'd caused me to react in such a frightening way.

He took refuge in the arms of another girl, Amanda, who lived off-campus Richmond Hill and could not even bear to meet my gaze. I wanted him back so badly, with a ferocity that knew no bounds of reason.

One night, our residence held one of its infamous "Purple Jesus" parties. It was named for an extremely potent alcoholic concoction that consisted of ninety proof alcohol and grape Kool-Aid.

Simon was the bartender, and stood behind a row of wooden tables upon which were placed bottles of beer and wine for those who couldn't stomach the Purple Jesus. Courtney and I attended, against my better judgement.

Sylvia, Sidney and Rhoda weren't going to be there and I had no other friends left at Founders. Everyone had heard about my hellish night with Simon, and dismissed me as a total flake with no redeeming qualities or graces. Wanda and Darlene still hated me, and even Adam thought it best not to pursue me arduously anymore.

I set out that night to get as plastered as I possibly could and pretty much succeeded before too long. One did not have to drink too many paper cups of that colourful substance to become intoxicated to the point of being rendered comatose, so by ten o'clock I was staggering all over the room.

I couldn't take my eyes off Simon as he poured drinks and chatted amicably with the other kids. I had become obsessed with winning back his love and affection and had even resorted at times to pleading with him to take me back. It was obvious that Cal wanted nothing more to do with me. I was crushed, my spirit pounded into the rock-hard ground of defeat.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I stumbled over to the bar and stood facing Simon, weaving back and forth in a drunken stupor and feeling very dizzy. I opened my mouth and shouted in a slurred voice, without really thinking, "So tell me, Simon, why the hell did you ever go out with me in the first place?"

It was a line right out of a tacky B-movie, not any words rooted in real conversation. He looked steadily and grimly into my bloodshot eyes and replied, "Because you've got a great body."

I exploded into rage at this ludicrous, sexist statement. Without hesitating, I picked up a magnum of white wine from the table and poured it over Simon's head, leering and snickering as I did so.

I emptied the entire bottle, then stood and waited for his reaction. There wasn't one. Simon remained motionless and said nothing, which infuriated me all the more. Bursting into tears, I shouted, "You fucking bastard!" and went running out of the suddenly quiet lounge, heading unsteadily for my room. It seemed as though my world was collapsing all around my ears.

I got safely inside my sanctuary and fell on the bed, sobs racking my body. This was a new level of misery and self-hatred, and I felt an overwhelming desire to rip up my arms with a razor blade.

Jumping off the bed, I fumbled around the darkened room, looking for something sharp. Suddenly, I heard a soft rapping, and turned to see a young man standing in the doorway.

I recognized him as eighteen-year-old Jeff, a blond, blue-eyed F House resident who usually kept to himself and was painfully shy. He sat down with me on the floor and tried to comfort me, saying that Simon wasn't worth all my grief and that he certainly didn't deserve anyone like me.

I told him that he was full of it, but secretly it felt reassuring to hear such kind words from a relative stranger. Jeff and I became fast friends. Although he was really attracted to me, I felt nothing even remotely romantic as far as he was concerned. He was to become very discouraged and despondent over my lack of enthusiasm, but pursued me for the next year or so.

Things continued to disintegrate after the fateful Purple Jesus party. Courtney told me repeatedly that I shouldn't keep going after Simon and pleading for him to take me back. She said it would only cause the chasm between us to widen even more, but I refused to take her advice and kept up the shameful behaviour.

I continued to abuse Ritalin, going for several days at a time without sleeping and becoming more and more erratic. My drinking increased even more and I went for long periods without eating. I began to lose weight and my skin took on an unhealthy, sallow appearance. My friends were very concerned. Finally Sidney suggested that I move in with him for a week or so to escape the miserable atmosphere at Founders.

He had gotten an apartment several months before and loved the solitude and peace of mind that it brought him. I took him up on his offer, and gratefully abandoned A House for seven days of lengthy, soul-searching talks. We eased each other through the pains of being out-of-step misfits in a decidedly close-minded and exceedingly judgmental society.

It was during this period that I grudgingly accepted that I was "different", after fighting the urge to cover myself in symbolic ashes and sackcloth for many years. I did not really want to become absorbed and assimilated into a world which spat out everything and everyone with which or with whom it did not comprehend or identify. Those were the things that our generation accused our parents of doing, after all. I wanted to believe that I was far more idealistic and progressive than that.

I continued attending my classes from Sidney's and made a concerted effort to study diligently. Final exams were less than six weeks away and I wanted to maintain my A average. Scholastic achievement was very important to me then. Dad was uncharacteristically proud of me for an essay I'd written for Humanities and this meant more to me than he would ever know. I was determined to show him that I wasn't stuck in that confused, emotionally distraught phase forever.

I discovered that Courtney had achieved a substantial amount of respect from the other residents at Founders. Upon returning, I talked with the brash and egomanical Adam, who paused long enough in his persistent flirting to say that I didn't have to worry anymore about everyone thinking that Courtney and I were lovers.

"They wondered at first, when you two moved in together and all, but then realized that wasn't the case, since Courtney is highly regarded around here. They still think you're pretty weird, but everyone likes her. Thought you might want to know that."

"Uh, thanks,Adam", I responded flatly, that creeping sense of inferiority assailing my nervous system again, "but if you think you're going to worm your way into my pants with that kind of talk, you can just forget it." I left him standing in his undershirt and track pants, with his mouth agape in an expression of annoyance.

It was difficult having a friend like Courtney, who was held in so much higher esteem than myself and I began to suffer even more intense bouts of depression. They left me emotionally and physically drained, and, of course, popping Ritalin constantly only aggravated my negative moods.

That crazy doctor of Amber's would write me prescriptions whenever I wanted, for over two hundred pills at a time and never questioned my vast consumption of them. He was obviously one of those notorious "Dr. Feelgoods" who make their fortunes by creating as many druggies as they can.

The drug robbed me of my appetite as well and I feared becoming anorexic again. My parents were embroiled in their own problems, so I don't think that they noticed how much I was declining during that period. I didn't go home often and talked little of my life at York. How could I let them know that I felt as though I was being sucked under a giant wave of water and was absolutely powerless to stop myself from drowning?

I followed Simon around like a little lost puppy, taking extreme delight when he stopped to talk to me or toss a bone of attention in my direction. Most of the time, however, he glowered darkly at me and snapped, "Go away, Jane. I don't want to have anything to do with you. Just leave me alone. God, I am trying to get something going with Lorna and it's so damned hard when you're on my ass constantly."

If I had any vestiges of self-esteem left at all, they quickly vanished after those bone-chilling statements from the man I loved so desperately. He became the focal point of all my waking thoughts, and I ruminated obsessively about the manner in which he had cruelly deserted me.

I should have hated what he had done, forcing himself upon me while in an alcoholic haze, but instead I blamed myself for wearing such a provocative dress that evening. I had obviously asked for it.

Jeff grew weary of my all-consuming passion for Simon, and ultimately cooled off his advances considerably. "I can't compete with a god", he told me sadly one night and walked out the door. We still remained good friends, but he must have realized that he was out of the running as far as being my boyfriend was concerned.

As for Ben, who thought the sun rose and set upon me for some unexplained reason, well, he got unceremoniously ousted from my life after wanting to spend the night. He felt that our relationship, if there indeed was one, needed to progress beyond the hand-holding stage. I wasn't sexually attracted to him and told him that I was not about to engage in sex just to please him. "I did that the first time, over a year ago and lived to regret it. I won't repeat the mistake."

Poor Ben couldn't understand why I dangled him idly on a chain and refused to commit either physically or emotionally. He figured he had always tried so hard to be the Perfect Gentleman and give me anything I wanted. I felt very sad about this entire situation and tearfully waved him farewell. It was difficult being so driven toward the wrong man while the right one stood right under my nose.

I wanted to tell him that there was no challenge with our relationship, that everything fell into place far too smoothly and that I was bored and fidgety. But I realized that my thinking was not only rather warped, but exceedingly immature, so I simply refused to see him again.

Ben would have made an excellent husband, for he was hard-working, conscientious, very kind, considerate and generous. However there seemed to be a big part of me that needed to be treated as poorly and unfairly as I treated myself and that I simply craved a man who would abuse the hell out of me. I didn't recognize any of this at the time and wouldn't piece this disquieting picture together for another eighteen years or so.

As the school year began to wind down, relationships and personal dynamics in Founders residence solidified and gelled. Matthew became a parody of himself, a dirty old man in training, who produced guffaws and snickers from all the girls he tried frantically to make his conquests. Poor innocent Patrick was totally distraught at having such a rude and promiscuous roommate that he began to suffer emotionally.

He hid from the world most of the time, terrified of interpersonal contact and isolated himself. I felt sorry for him and spent time with the poor kid in an attempt to make him feel more comfortable around girls. He continued to quake in his brown Oxfords and refused to meet my gaze most of the time.

Sylvia and Sidney grew very close and I twinged with jealousy. She had recently put herself on a strict diet to lose twenty pounds, little knowing that it would lead her into extremely treacherous waters.

Sidney, deeply respected her sense of haute couture, her cultural background, superior intellect and open frankness and I wondered if he possessed any romantic feelings for her. They just connected so well, and it wasn't unheard of for gay people to be attracted to the opposite sex.

Mark and Reva's attempts at a reconciliation failed miserably and they separated for good. Mark and I remained close, but I discouraged any kind of relationship with him, realizing he was on the rebound.

Wanda and Brad's relationship intensified tremendously, as she abandoned poor Ike up at Lakehead University and pulled out all the emotional stops with this quiet, unassuming English major who had so effectively put me in my place a couple of months before.

He later apologized profusely, stammering that he had been unnecessarily nasty and unfair. I had simply smiled and replied, "No, Brad, I had it coming. I screwed up with Wanda and Darlene, and they'll hate me forever. Don't feel bad."

Devon and Kenny became good buddies, Kenny playing straight man to Devon's inane antics. I still found Devon hard to take, but his sidekick was admirable for his sincerity and humility.

Rhoda, dreamy-eyed, wistful, idealistic and with an artistic heart of pure gold dust, gravitated toward a young seventeen-year-old student, Billy, and grew resentful as Sidney showed a definite interest in him. Rhoda was unhappy that Sidney was trying to foist his lifestyle on an inexperienced boy, and this would cause a rift between the two of them which would continue into the next year.

Courtney studied hard and seemed to be experiencing some difficulties of her own in dealing with her past. She became involved with the Cock and Bull's manager, Roland, toward the end of March, and this would become somewhat sordid over the summer.

He was kind of a rough-hewn playboy type, roguishly handsome and with a trademark leer. I never liked him very much. He thought of me as a hopelessly mixed-up kid and dismissed me as too much trouble and thus I was safe from any of his advances. Courtney was vulnerable to this kind of young man and fell helplessly into his clutches. I thought it best not to interfere, though, as Courtney would undoubtedly resent me for it. She was obviously crazy about him.

There were other students at Founders whom I knew casually. One of these was Beth, a pretty, somewhat shy girl who referred to herself as a "classic Jewish Princess" because she wanted guys to treat her like someone special. I told her that all women want that, and that it certainly wasn't anything to get down on herself for.

Thelma was a rather irksome young woman with a goofy, early- Lucille Ball flamboyance, whose favourite song was "Philadelphia Freedom" by Elton John. She belted it out at every opportunity. Other than that, she was pleasant and friendly, but I didn't get very close to her.

I met Kelli late in the academic year and liked her immediately. We wouldn't become friends until September of 1975, but I admired her caustic wit, wary intelligence and carefree attitude about the world in general and residence in particular. "Ten years from now, this whole university trip will be a rapidly fading memory, so don't make such a big deal about everything." Well said, Kelli.

There were many others, all interesting in their own way, some dedicated to their school work, others enamoured with the social scene, but all individuals with definite ideas about and plans for the future. We were all thrown together in this comparatively small building for eight months out of the year, to achieve, learn and grow. We should have been making the most of our opportunities, but not many of us did.

Final exams were challenging, but upon completion, I knew that I had done extremely well, except for Natural Sciences. I didn't care for the course, and only scored a "B", but managed to hold onto an "A" average for my freshman year at York University.

So even though I was physically and emotionally wasted by the end of April 1975, I had accomplished what I had set out to do academically. Of course, the next two years were another story.

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