III UNCONDITIONAL LOVE

My third choice happened one night in 1969, standing at the McDonalds counter in Lakewood, CO, smiling at Kenny, as his eyes adored me. He was manager that summer, having worked there every summer through college. I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

Kenny, the boy who put me on some sort of pedestal at age 14, maybe even before.

Kenny, the nicest, sweetest, smartest, funniest person I knew. My best friend. The one person who matched my passion for making the world a better place.

We went on a few dates in 9th grade, to the movies, Eliches amusement park and to his house for dinner. Each time, Kenny walked me to my front door and kissed me….a sloppy, slurpy roll around my mouth and face. As soon as he left, I went inside and washed off the slime. It was like kissing my brother’s dog.

But… did I mention he was the person my mother had selected for me from 7th grade on? Ah…My future husband, father of my children, dedicated successful businessman. Perfect, she would say as she pretended to dust me off her hands….all done. So, a slight mention of the soggy kisses was met with, “Oh you’ll get used to them.”

She directed my attention, decided my future, and completely controlled me.

And, as far as Kenny’s father was concerned, I was the sure thing for his “average” youngest son. A wonderful future wife, the perfect little mother, and a dedicated housewife who would support him in every endeavor. His father adored me, directed Kenny’s responses to me, effectively controlling him, as well.

Our families were casual friends, even though they were respectable conservative United Church of Christ and we were disrespectable liberal Episcopalian/Presbyterian/Unitarians, depending on where the wealthy went that year. They had three sons; we had three daughters. Our parents’ dreams of multiple connections were dashed when my older sister, Pam, wouldn’t entertain the idea of dating their son, Carl, actually wrinkling her nose is disgust.

So, yes, Kenny and Lyndi were the perfect pair. Both cowering in the shadow of adored older siblings, both recognizing their limitations. We were the good children, smiling, courteous, nice but couldn’t hold a candle to the older, popular, athletic, perfect children our parents adored.

Kenny and I sometime talked about our very controlled existences and our goals of becoming as adored by our parents as our older siblings one day. Our passion was making a difference for the segregated, the poor, fighting for their sense of respect and empowerment, which in turn, should bring that recognition and honor from our parents, or so we thought.

I made the decision to go to the new high school in our area to shake off the stifling shadow of both my “Perfect “sister, Pam, and as Kenny’s future spouse. Kenny stayed at Lakewood, our area high school, so we saw each other much less, which was perfect for me because I was going to become…well, I wasn’t sure, but I did feel free at last.

Kenny and I graduated and went to different colleges, me first to an in-state teachers’ college and then to Berkeley and he to a very small United Church of Christ liberal arts college.

By chance, at least I thought it was by chance at the time, Kenny and I ran into one another at a local restaurant with our families the summer before our junior year of college. I was taking a year off to make more money and we connected once again. He and I wrote long letters that fall about peace and acceptance in a world that was seriously shaken by the Vietnam “conflict”, civil rights, voter rights and women’s rights. We talked by phone a few times throughout out junior year and I went to his winter dance. My mother even made a slinky black one-shouldered number. I stayed on campus for a whole week and learned from his roommates that he had been seriously dating a girl named Diane until he met me the past summer. In fact, I stayed in her dorm room, with her, while I was there, at Kenny’s request.

Kenny and I went to 2st base while I was there which was a big deal for me, and I tried and tried to just enjoy his kissing. But it was still sloppy, full of saliva and my cheeks, lips, nose and chin were slimy wet when we stopped. I wasn’t “turned on” at all by him, he was like a brother to me, so the kissing and fondling was just gross. But his loving, caring personality, a boy I trusted unconditionally, kept me involved. That and the constant push from family and friends that we were ‘the perfect couple”. What did I know, anyway?

He was becoming more and more romantic, talking about “our future” in his letters throughout the spring. I was sure he was planning to propose that summer. My mother already had wedding dress patterns purchased and his father talked of renting a married apartment for us at his college the following fall.

Smufff, Smggle….HELP!…I was suffocating!

A month before he returned for the summer, I ran into a high school friend, Tana, who was a stewardess for United Airlines and moving to in Boston the next month. She asked if I wanted to move to Boston with her. I jumped at the chance as I was in touch with a group from Berkeley who were going to Boston to register the black population to vote for the first time and booked a one-way ticket for the following month, not telling anyone I was going. I knew my family and friends would try to talk me out of it but it was my chance to be free. I would either exist in the confined box with Kenny or find a completely new path.

Back at McDonalds that June evening. I took a deep breath, leaned over the counter as he leaned forward, in earnest.

“I’m moving to Boston tomorrow.”

I will never forget his face, his shock, disbelief. Before he could answer, I turned to leave. “Uh uh..how long will you be gone?”

“I dunno,” I shrugged and walked away.

Yes, a grievous and cruel mistake I made at age 20. I was monumentally brutal to Kenny, because I believed that leaving was the only way I could break free and felt sure I needed to break his heart all at once so he could heal by being really mad at me. At least that is how I rationalized it.

Boston was a learning experience for sure. I could feel the beginnings of my brand-new world, one of possibilities and potential. Of course, I had to find a job and we needed somewhere more permanent to live than the YWCA.

Unfortunately, Tana returned home within a month of our arrival in Boston because she was pregnant. She told me about the pregnancy and that she was going for a back-alley abortion in New York City after we arrived. After calling my mother to ask for advice and hearing the typical condemnation to forget her before I became one of the “good time girls”, just like Tana, I felt I had no choice but to call her family, knowing she would be furious but also knowing she could die. It was the most difficult decision I had ever made but one I have never regretted.

But there I was, truly on my own and ready to take on the world.

I moved into a furnished studio apartment on the seventh floor of a seventh-floor walkup with roaches the size of small dogs. Leaving a homemade lemon meringue pie on the counter to cool one night, was a feast for those dastardly creatures. My screams produced all the tenants who laughed uproariously. Not a great way to meet your neighbors.

I found a job as the receptionist at a reproductive clinic downtown, moved into Roxbury, a black, low-income suburb of Boston and begin volunteering to register black people to vote.

However, I found that the registrars at local precincts weren’t very supportive and most of us ended up incarcerated several times for our very vocal insistence that voting was legal and did not require counting beans or reciting the Constitution.

The fast pace, nasty humid weather where snow never melted and the sun never shined and being misunderstood and mistreated for my stance on peace eventually drove me across the country. I moved back to Berkeley, the hotbed of demonstrations and peaceful protests, and the opportunity to become deeply involved in voter rights while attending class sporadically. I found my calling on the streets of Oakland, in People’s Park and sit-ins in the lobbies of San Francisco’s elite hotels who would not hire black people.

Kenny, meanwhile, graduated college and moved to Boston to get his Law Degree, a place he had never discussed for graduate studies. He married Diane a couple of years later, the girl he had been dating before me, and they settled in Denver.

Fast forward 21 years.

Kenny and Diane became pillars of the United Church of Christ and formed an investment firm focused on financing low income and independent housing for disabled adults They volunteered with Habitat for Humanity, ran a large food drive, had two beautiful children, adopted a family from Ethiopia and received multiple recognitions regionally and nationally. He embodied both the dreams and the actions we plotted out so long ago.

I became deeply involved in voter rights, civil rights and women’s rights locally and nationally., pursuing my passion and purpose in fits and starts as I journeyed through a difficult marriage, the birth of two beautiful children, divorce and a move back to Lakewood.

Shortly after arriving back in town, I was asked to be part of Lakewood High School’s 25th class reunion committee. (I am pictured as a graduate in their yearbook, I have no idea how). Kenny sent a positive response to the reunion invitation, the first time he had attended since high school, and he had been class president. I was really looking forward to reconnecting.

As I came into the main ballroom the night of the reunion, Kenny and his wife were sitting at a table near the entrance. He stood, hugged me, and introduced me to Diane again. He then asked if we could talk, alone. I looked to Diane and she smiled and waved us away.

“Of course,” I said “How are you doing?” As soon as we sat down, he said, “My wife saw your name on the committee list for the reunion. She convinced me to attend as she knew I haven’t reconciled what happened that summer all those years ago.”

He took my hands, stared at me with such gentle eyes, and asked “Why did you leave me?”

“Kenny, I was not ready to settle down and I was sure you were going to propose’. He nodded slowly, still holding my hands in his.

“I was carrying the ring, trying to find the right time to ask you to marry me. I was devastated when you left, not knowing what happened but knowing I must have done something very wrong.”

His eyes shimmered with tears as he recounted how furious his father was with him.

“I wrote to the address you left with your mother every day.” his eyes deeply focused on mine. “But the letters were all returned, undeliverable.” He mustered such a sad smile.

I released my hand and wiped away a tear. I hadn’t updated my address to anyone during all my moves, on purpose. I didn’t want to be found.

“How long were you in Boston?” he asked, again taking my hands. “You know, I went to graduate school in Boston, hoping to find you.”

“Oh, about a year. I just couldn’t take the cold and humidity and really never fit in.” “Then where did you go?” He was leaning in now.

“Back to Berkeley for a while, and then to San Francisco, where I got married.”

“I knew you were married. Heard it from my father. I really believed we would get back together someday, but when I heard you married, I decided to marry Diane. You broke my heart, you know.” His eyes filled again with tears.

I could only listen and squeeze his hands; any apology was not going to be helpful. He was still the sweetest, most caring man I had ever met and my heart heaved with sadness.

But, as he talked, I began to feel that 20-year-old Lyndi, remembering my helplessness, the control of my mother, his father, feeling I would suffocate if I didn’t break free. I couldn’t voice any of that because he was internalizing everything I said.

“Kenny, I didn’t move to Boston but away from Lakewood. I had been told who I was to be my entire life, and so had you. I needed to find my own voice.”

We had a good talk, dropping quickly into the passionate liberal views of our youth, our children and our work for the past many years. His eyes sparkled, as they always had, when he spoke of making a positive difference and his magnetic laugh had me giggling uncontrollably. But I could tell he was still hurt and confused. And, no, I never told him about his kisses.

Looking back, I try to picture where I would be, WHO I would be, if I had stayed and married Kenny. He has led a stable, forward-thinking life framed by his faith, his drive, his confidence in his own worth. Neither one us were ever adored by our parents but we both found our unique way of making a difference, so I told him, “Kenny, I realize that together, we might only have seen our limitations but, growing individually, we absolutely found our own voices.”