And now, I fancy myself a fiddlehead, unfurling to soak up the dewy morning sunshine, to reveal my full bodied self, raise spirit to sky, and salute my soul...
Twenty-five years is a long time. A looooong time. Long enough for fashions to have re-cycled their way through the 70's and 80's at least two or three times already, for music to have reinvented itself, only to sound like the old stuff again, and for my life to have revisited my adolescent uncertainties, angst and self-doubt in a new midlife mode of what the hell am I going to do with the rest of my life? It's seems it really is all about the three R's.
My kids listen to music from the early 80's and wonder when "shawty" replaced "baby" in all the songs. I listen to the music my kids like and wonder when that guy, that wonderfully obsessive guy who tours the country in search of typos and grammatical blunders, tool box of fat sharpies, white out, and amicable smile at the ready, is going to stumble upon all the heinous violations in such songs and lyrics as "The Way I Are," and "drinks is on the house!" The guy would have a hey-day! I admire him for the tactful way he goes about engaging everyman in an exchange of mindfulness training about the English language (we could use him around here: our bike path meanderings lead us by several graffiti-stained bridges, where WANA TOKE? bellows from the steel like a bad omen). Hey there! You've spelled "spaghetti" wrong on your sign. Mind if I fix it? No need to feel like a total idiot. Your neighbor forgot the apostrophe in "you're!" So, hey, you're not so dumb!
And how could it? After battling through the harsh landscape of an Exeter adolescence together, before a wiser, more female (a nod to Kendra O'Donnell, the first woman principal, and all the women faculty and administrators who blazed the trail before her--see Friday night speech at end of post; picture to the right) sensibility warmed up the place, and trying to gut it out alone was about all we could do, we return together, 25 years later, a collective class of '83 soul resonating with the realization that after all these years, we were not alone, that we had each other, that we still have each other. We are close. These are the ties that bind: you leave for twenty-five years, return on a whim, and pick up where you left off. No matter. Good friends are like that. There's nothing better.
It's Friday now, my week has zipped on by, and I am still thoroughly and wonderfully exhausted by an intense four days spent getting to know Exeter again: the place, the people, the memories, the whole experience. My head still buzzes with remnants of the non stop talk, my heart with the improbability that the weekend is over. I am sad. I am missing my friends. The let down is brutal.
(On the Friday night of Reunion weekend, I had the opportunity to honor Susan Herney, who, as my dorm head for all three years, a dean of the school, and collective mom to all of us, figured enormously into my Exeter experience. Here are my remarks from my presentation.)
It wasn’t until I had endured my first year as the head of a girl’s dorm at the Middlesex School that I realized that after many years I had been wrong about Susan Herney.
By the time I had arrived at Langdell as a lower, the older girls in the dorm—particularly the ones we looked up to, with their intimidating 70’s-stylized brand of aloof cool, butt-room privileges, and endless tales of mischief—had mythologized Susan Herney into some fantastical creature with supernatural powers, able to see all, be in more than two places at once, see through closed doors, sniff out illicit substances of all kinds, and—here’s the clincher—work triple duty as Dean, Dorm Head, Advisor, AND still have the time, energy and gumption to follow all the so-called blacklisted students on every Swazey Parkway hike, unseen, running tree to tree ala Benny Hill, as she and the other deans made their way down Crater trails, looking for the big weekend bust.
As if she didn’t have anything better to do…
But I bought it, hook, line and sinker. Those older girls were convincing. Watch out for Susie Q, they told us. Heck, one even wrote it in my yearbook.
But here’s the thing: she never seemed very menacing to me; to the contrary, she was always kind, warm, and respectful. She was there when we needed her, but she didn’t hover. She set clear limits, and we knew exactly what was expected of us. And when we screwed up, she doled out discipline and consequences with a consistent follow-through and a level-headed calm that would have made Super Nanny proud. She entrusted the proctors with a huge amount of responsibility. She even did Jane Fonda workout videos with us in the Langdell common room. This is the stuff that good parenting is all about, particularly when it comes time to teenagers. Trust me, I have one at home and I struggle with it constantly. Despite my doing my best to be scared of her anyway, it was difficult, because I knew, back then, it was just what I needed. Wasn’t it what we all needed?
Once at Exeter, I needed that 8-10 study hall—in my room, by myself. I needed the 10:30 bed time, enforced by proctors, who drifted in and out like shadows of the mothers we had left at home. And from the Dean’s Office, I needed those slips telling me that I couldn’t miss any more classes. (I know this because I really could have used this kind of help in college). By the time I was a senior, things had changed, of course. By then, we had been allowed to grow into the responsibilities that we had now been given as proctors, and Mrs. Herney ably allowed us the space and support to do our job: to assume responsibility for the whereabouts of 45 girls on, say, a Friday night, to make sure they were doing okay: getting their homework done, getting enough sleep, getting along with each other, and getting through the weekends, it seems, without drinking too much. I remember one fac-proc meeting in her apartment, when she asked me very point blank, “Liz, do you think Rachel is drinking too much?” Not, “Liz, do you think Rachel is drinking?” But is she drinking too much. There’s a big difference there. “No,” I said, trying not to miss a beat, “I think she’s just fine.” What would I have said? “No, I think she’s drinking just the right amount?”
Throughout my time at Exeter, and despite my grumbling, I counted on knowing that Mrs. Herney would be checking me in on many Saturday nights, when temptations drifted my way, and it was infinitely helpful to have a clear limit on what would work and what would absolutely not, and I respected her for that. I remember one such Saturday night, when, after a night of dancing, sweating, and jumping into the Exeter River, Rachel and I returned to the dorm for check in dripping wet. Mrs. Herney could have been furious with us, and maybe she was, but she didn’t show it. She very calmly told us that it simply wasn’t a good idea to jump into the river, especially in the dark. It was dangerous. And you know what--? She was right!
Ten years later, when I was running a girl’s dorm, it was torturous thinking about all the foolish things those girls were doing, especially the ninth and tenth graders, and I didn’t get much sleep. Thinking back to the way Mrs. Herney had trusted me as a senior proctor, I enlisted the help of my senior proctors to help me try to keep them out of trouble, and somehow made it through the year without any major catastrophes, or completely losing my head, but you know—the year gave me a much deeper appreciation for how capably, nimbly, and expertly Susan Herney did her many different jobs at Exeter.
And let’s be clear, here. Exeter hasn’t always been an easy place to be female. Imagine what it must have been like in 1972, just two years into the tenuous beginnings of co-education at Exeter, and a full five years before girls would be admitted as boarders. This is when Susan Jorgenson arrived at Exeter. Six years later, she had married Jack Herney, and moved into Langdell. In our day, as the school was celebrating 10 years of co-education, its Bicentennial, and the dedication of the Love Gymnasium, and as Sue Herney was serving as Dorm Head, a dean of the school, and advisor, there were only 24 women on the faculty—Suzanne Graver, Christine Robinson, Eve Plumb, Senorita Piana, to name but four—and few women held department heads or top administrative positions. In 1981, the first four-year boarding girls would graduate. Did you remember that?
And yet, many would argue that it was by and large the females on campus—in all sorts of different roles—who created community at Exeter—a community that would benefit all students, and one that would benefit from changes made to warm up and strengthen residential and day student life, diversify the faculty, staff and student body, rebalance the male-female student ratio, establish new programs to better support healthy, responsible choices, and infuse the curriculum with such offerings as “Women and the Family” and “Great Women Writers.” As we know, it takes a while for such changes to take hold at a place where tradition has sunk its teeth, deeply, into its customs, curriculum, and ways of life.
Susan Herney has been a huge part of the ongoing efforts to create a healthier, warmer, more balanced community at Exeter. In 1985, just two years after Exeter hosted the National Conference on “Women Educators in Independent Schools,” she became the first woman to be appointed Dean of Students and set about continuing to do what she’d be doing for the past 13 years—listening and responding to the needs of the community, and working to better it. She has worked in development and currently works as the Senior Associate Admissions Director. Throughout it all, her husband Jack Herney has diligently and tirelessly worked for the betterment of the school as well. A New York Times article from 1987, heralding the arrival of Kendra O’Donnell as the school’s first woman Principal, wrote about the “perfect Exeter girl: confident, intelligent, athletic, and well-connected in the boarding school world.”
Thank you, Susan, for blazing the trail for Kendra, and so many others.
I was never not going to go to my reunion. Not going was never an option. As I sat in Dr. Fox's office back in February, trying to absorb the news of my diagnosis, and the prospect of a year-long dance with endless doctor appointments, bizarre procedures, exhausting treatments, surgeries, and reconstructions, and the waiting, the Purgatory-like waiting, for results, for news, for word that Life would, indeed, go on, what came to mind first was must get to my Exeter reunion. You need to know, Dr. Fox, I said, that my 25th high school reunion is at the end of April, and I'm going to be there. As I was weighing mastectomy vs. lumpectomy options, I took myself to the edge of possibility--that I would have a mastectomy, reconstruction, that I may even start chemo, and be a bit undermined by the end of April. Still no matter. I would be there. I told all my docs that they would have to arrange everything—surgeries, treatment, appointments—so that I could be there. This is important to me, and my eyes would brim with tears, I simply cannot miss seeing my all those amazing people. Plus, my name was scattered across the program--giving a Friday night speech, serving on a Saturday morning panel, and providing iPod music both nights. Obligations aside, I simply had to be there!
On the Thursday before reunion, Jim, the boys, and I had driven up to The Governor's Academy in Byfield, MA, where Jim has been entertaining a job change, in two separate cars. After a pleasant afternoon touring campus and meeting with the head of the school, I headed north, while Jim and the boys returned home. Governor's is a great opportunity, but we're not in any position to make such a major decision right now. The timing is tricky, to say the least. And it weighed heavily on my mind over the weekend. If we moved there, what would I do? Is there a homeschooling community there? Would the boys be okay? Would Luke want to go to school there? When would I have the energy to move? Could I leave behind the community of people who were so important to me, start fresh, lay down new tracks, new roots? It was overwhelming. And with everything going on in my life, I was a bit distracted throughout the weekend, but completely taken in by the intense energy of the gathering nevertheless. It was so good for me to get away. I really haven't spent much time--or enough time, anyway--by myself since my diagnosis. I was looking forward to being on my own, untethered, unfettered, solo. I needed the time for reflection, for choosing my own schedule, for doing what felt right to me, and for not having to answer to any one else’s needs. I needed to enjoy myself, let the weekend spin around me and flow over me, soak up the energy, store up on hugs.
On the Thursday before reunion, Jim, the boys, and I had driven up to The Governor's Academy in Byfield, MA, where Jim has been entertaining a job change, in two separate cars. After a pleasant afternoon touring campus and meeting with the head of the school, I headed north, while Jim and the boys returned home. Governor's is a great opportunity, but we're not in any position to make such a major decision right now. The timing is tricky, to say the least. And it weighed heavily on my mind over the weekend. If we moved there, what would I do? Is there a homeschooling community there? Would the boys be okay? Would Luke want to go to school there? When would I have the energy to move? Could I leave behind the community of people who were so important to me, start fresh, lay down new tracks, new roots? It was overwhelming. And with everything going on in my life, I was a bit distracted throughout the weekend, but completely taken in by the intense energy of the gathering nevertheless. It was so good for me to get away. I really haven't spent much time--or enough time, anyway--by myself since my diagnosis. I was looking forward to being on my own, untethered, unfettered, solo. I needed the time for reflection, for choosing my own schedule, for doing what felt right to me, and for not having to answer to any one else’s needs. I needed to enjoy myself, let the weekend spin around me and flow over me, soak up the energy, store up on hugs.
And I did. I was enormously grateful f
or the time with friends, to be on a campus that has always felt like home, to check in with favorite old teachers and dorm heads, the very people who watched over me, kept me safe, and taught me so well all those years ago. I was reminded of who I was, who I am, who I'd like to be, and how I am still learning from this. I was amazed at how easily talk flowed from breast cancer to homeschooling to other things, without my feeling self-conscious or uncomfortable in the least. I was grateful for the giant two-sided take-no-prisoners hugs that many people gave me. Don't worry, I had to tell some people, I won't pop. And you know, I didn't feel impaired, or sick, or burdened with breast cancer in the least; to the contrary, I felt strong, healthy, vibrant--until ten o'clock hit and I had to fight through my usual bedtime hour fatigue to last a few more hours. And I was amazed, as ever, by the fighting Party Commando spirit that still resides in so many of my friends and classmates, who proved that, as my friend Clinton put it, the world had gone mad, and they were still lovable maniacs, all. However proud I was of them, I was awfully glad I didn't have to do it anymore, and I was just relieved to see that they all made it out of there on Sunday morning, which impressed me ever more.
or the time with friends, to be on a campus that has always felt like home, to check in with favorite old teachers and dorm heads, the very people who watched over me, kept me safe, and taught me so well all those years ago. I was reminded of who I was, who I am, who I'd like to be, and how I am still learning from this. I was amazed at how easily talk flowed from breast cancer to homeschooling to other things, without my feeling self-conscious or uncomfortable in the least. I was grateful for the giant two-sided take-no-prisoners hugs that many people gave me. Don't worry, I had to tell some people, I won't pop. And you know, I didn't feel impaired, or sick, or burdened with breast cancer in the least; to the contrary, I felt strong, healthy, vibrant--until ten o'clock hit and I had to fight through my usual bedtime hour fatigue to last a few more hours. And I was amazed, as ever, by the fighting Party Commando spirit that still resides in so many of my friends and classmates, who proved that, as my friend Clinton put it, the world had gone mad, and they were still lovable maniacs, all. However proud I was of them, I was awfully glad I didn't have to do it anymore, and I was just relieved to see that they all made it out of there on Sunday morning, which impressed me ever more.
I had a few momentary lapses of confidence throughout the weekend, times when I suddenly filled with anxiety, or self-doubt, or worry about things going on at home. When I arrived at the Exeter Inn on Thursday to check in, it was clear that their renovations, which were supposed to be finished with the exception for their dining room and downstairs bar, were still in full swing, and the lobby was cluttered with plaster dust, plastic walls, and other construction debris. When I walked the stairs to my room, I could feel my lungs contracting amidst all the bad air, laden with formaldehyde and dust and enough stuff to thoroughly gunk up my system. The scent that emanated from the long, narrow hallway actually took me back to my sister's Lower East Side apartment building--not good. I hadn't smelled that particular brew in a long time. My room--small, but nicely executed in its attention to finishes--was truly baking in its own gases in the unventilated heat of the day. And since there was no screen on the window, the manager switched me to another room down the hall, which housed one window, with a screen, hallelujah, that I could open and so air out the room. I left to meet a small gathering of early bird classmates at a restaurant in town, a lovely way to start things off, with people having flown in from Hong Kong, Sweden, Colorado, Florida, L.A., and San Francisco, and when I returned to the room later that night, the air was better, but still thick, and I couldn't sleep, my anxiety about breathing in all that toxicity putting a stranglehold on the deep breathing necessary for genuine slumber. The air improved throughout the weekend, but my anxiety would tap me on the shoulder a few more times, on Friday night, right before I had to give a speech inducting my dorm head, Susan Herney, as an honorary member of our class, and my stomach seized up and refused to take in any food. But friends saw me through, the speech somehow rolled off my tongue without my usual red-faced stammering (oh, I suppose that was high school, and I have quite gotten over that, but I did forget), and when it was over, it felt great to receive such positive feedback from so many. And on Saturday morning, I was far too fatigued to be a part of the Harkness panel I was slated for, and bowed out as gracefully as I could.
By Saturday night, I finally felt relaxed and ready to eat, and dance--though I was sure not to dance too "vigorously," in case all that hopping up and down to Rock Lobster might have messed with the expander and sent the saline splashing over the dance floor, or worse yet, reconfigured the expansion into something more resembling a truly messed up experiment in body sculpture. I was grateful to my friend Betsy for helping me rally the troops onto the dance floor, move the tables out of the way, and play secret DJ behind the Oz curtain. I could have kept on dancing, but we were shut down at about 11, and escorted to the dark corners of the Inn's basement, where some sweet souls had lined a table with glassware, liquor, and buckets of ice, to lure and tempt the maniacal youth to once again spring out of hiding and steal the night from the weary mid life travelers. Though the high jinks continued most of the night, it was nice to notice that I was no longer tempted, though there was a part of me that felt wistful about it all, but I was happy to climb into my bed by about 2 that morning. I am reminded of that Shawn Colvin song, I used to get drunk to get my spark, And it used to work just fine, It made me wretched but it gave me heart...
I spent Sunday morning with some of my closest girlfriends and wished I could have scooped them all up, put them in my pocket, and taken them home with me. Alas, that's not the way the world works. But I wish it could. We rehashed old, lost stories, laughing about double-wall penis ball and Natalie's "Girls Don't Faht!" tale of Kristin proving them wrong, shared photos of our families, relished the presence of Rachel's Addie and Dave, and Michelle's Juna, and towards the end, previewed my new girl, which seemed to invoke good reviews. (After much lifting of my shirt, I just may end up posting a photo on my blog--the ultimate flash.) I bawled like a baby when it was time to say good bye; the depth of my adoration, gratitude, and fondness for these people, and the sudden realization that we may not be together again for a long time hit me like a ton of bricks. The ride home was long, but it felt good to fall into the arms of my family on the other end.
It's hard to explain just what this reunion has meant to me. Over the past couple of months, this past reunion weekend--with its promise of good cheer, free therapy (!), endless fun, long-overdue, stimulating (adult!) conversation, and late night, mid-life mischief, all with
my favorite people in the world—has loomed like an enormous sparkling light, urging me through the murk and trouble, a tether to the wellspring of support and love that has come my way, and that greeted me upon my return last Thursday. It has been my focal point, a chunk of days on my calendar that I have looked forward to and worked to reach, a place and time that has spun and shimmered with possibility--You can get there, you can do anything--go back, dance a little, pull myself up and out of this darkness, and move forward, lighter, stronger, healthier. And all those people! I could see their faces, feel their energy, Juju personified, waiting with open arms. And so when the weekend arrived, I was so grateful to be there, and fall into those arms. And it delivered, truly, on every promise. Not many things do that anymore.
my favorite people in the world—has loomed like an enormous sparkling light, urging me through the murk and trouble, a tether to the wellspring of support and love that has come my way, and that greeted me upon my return last Thursday. It has been my focal point, a chunk of days on my calendar that I have looked forward to and worked to reach, a place and time that has spun and shimmered with possibility--You can get there, you can do anything--go back, dance a little, pull myself up and out of this darkness, and move forward, lighter, stronger, healthier. And all those people! I could see their faces, feel their energy, Juju personified, waiting with open arms. And so when the weekend arrived, I was so grateful to be there, and fall into those arms. And it delivered, truly, on every promise. Not many things do that anymore.Twenty-five years is a long time. A looooong time. Long enough for fashions to have re-cycled their way through the 70's and 80's at least two or three times already, for music to have reinvented itself, only to sound like the old stuff again, and for my life to have revisited my adolescent uncertainties, angst and self-doubt in a new midlife mode of what the hell am I going to do with the rest of my life? It's seems it really is all about the three R's.My kids listen to music from the early 80's and wonder when "shawty" replaced "baby" in all the songs. I listen to the music my kids like and wonder when that guy, that wonderfully obsessive guy who tours the country in search of typos and grammatical blunders, tool box of fat sharpies, white out, and amicable smile at the ready, is going to stumble upon all the heinous violations in such songs and lyrics as "The Way I Are," and "drinks is on the house!" The guy would have a hey-day! I admire him for the tactful way he goes about engaging everyman in an exchange of mindfulness training about the English language (we could use him around here: our bike path meanderings lead us by several graffiti-stained bridges, where WANA TOKE? bellows from the steel like a bad omen). Hey there! You've spelled "spaghetti" wrong on your sign. Mind if I fix it? No need to feel like a total idiot. Your neighbor forgot the apostrophe in "you're!" So, hey, you're not so dumb!
But I digress. Twenty-five years. One weekend did not do it justice.
And how could it? After battling through the harsh landscape of an Exeter adolescence together, before a wiser, more female (a nod to Kendra O'Donnell, the first woman principal, and all the women faculty and administrators who blazed the trail before her--see Friday night speech at end of post; picture to the right) sensibility warmed up the place, and trying to gut it out alone was about all we could do, we return together, 25 years later, a collective class of '83 soul resonating with the realization that after all these years, we were not alone, that we had each other, that we still have each other. We are close. These are the ties that bind: you leave for twenty-five years, return on a whim, and pick up where you left off. No matter. Good friends are like that. There's nothing better.It's Friday now, my week has zipped on by, and I am still thoroughly and wonderfully exhausted by an intense four days spent getting to know Exeter again: the place, the people, the memories, the whole experience. My head still buzzes with remnants of the non stop talk, my heart with the improbability that the weekend is over. I am sad. I am missing my friends. The let down is brutal.
Don't get me wrong, I love reunions--for the reconnections, mostly, infused with a spontaneous hilarity and laughter, and a delirious, rapid fire exchange of news, ideas, troubles and joys, that leaves me wanting more, always. It's always a wonder I've done without for so long; no wonder I've been withering on the vine. I appreciate, too, those reconnections with myself too, the chance to remember the baby-faced girl in the photo, reclaim my self from the depths of my own negligence and disrepair, dust off this dancing girl, light up a smile, and shine again. I love reunions for the sole pleasure of getting to know people I didn’t know way back when, and I am always uplifted and energized by these new connections, and by the deepening of older ones that happens so spontaneously as well. There are old bonds to be strengthened, new friendships to be mined, exciting opportunities to be harvested, fun to be had, so much fun to be had. But painfully bittersweet, all. There are always people who aren't able to make it back, leaving visible, glaring holes in the group, and with everyone there is the feeling that you have only skimmed the surface, and could use hours, days, weekends more for truly catching up properly. Just when you're getting going, bang, it's over. How brutally tough that it is just one solitary weekend that had to end as suddenly and swiftly as it began. The hardest part, of course, is having to say good-bye, leave each other, and scatter, again, into our respective lives and our own pockets of the world...until who knows when.
But it was clear--that though we leave each other behind, we do carry each other around within us--and as we go about our lives, we are impregnated with that utterly unique collective class of '83 soul. As I've navigated this breast cancer trail, I have become acutely aware of how lucky I am to have gone to school with such gifted people, and over and over again I have been humbled by the caliber of the company I kept, and amazed by the idea that whatever the trouble, mishap or worry that befalls me, there is someone, many someones, I can call for help, support and love, to get me out of a jam, bail me out, quite literally, to offer wisdom and advice, to find me the best breast surgeon. The absolute privilege of the network--the people I know and the people they know--has hit home this year, and I am forever grateful for this community of people that has seen me through these past difficult months. Going to the reunion was a blessed reminder of how much I have come to depend on that network--the collective energy, talent, and experience that glows ever brightly, a beacon in this often dark and chaotic world.
This was a world, and remains so, that I have always felt at ease in. And Exeter is by no means even close to the elitist preppy snobby world fabrication of misguided folk; who could feel at ease with that? Rather, Exeter has always been a place where I have been able to be me. It's simple. I can unfurl like a fiddlehead and shine in the sun. It was always like that. It still is.
Before I came to Exeter as a tenth grader, I spent three years at a large public junior high in Andover, MA, a town with a "good" public school system that sent a fair percentage of its charges to private schools every year--mostly Phillips Academy, which was just up the road. Despite being just down the road from P.A., East Jr. High sported the typical public school social system of putting each kid into a neat little box, a layout that was so deftly captured by the short-lived but heroic TV show Freaks and Geeks. Like most everyone else, I had a hard time fitting in to those boxes without some serious compromise. I suppose I did just fine socially, learning quickly the ins and outs of the boy-girl trade, the hustle of the boy-girl party, the emotional detachment necessary for surviving the endless loop of boyfriend swapping and the mean girl brigade. But I skirted the deep, dark waters in favor of shallow pools, where no one could really see me. But I was there, somewhere, hiding out behind my flipped back hair and v-neck velour tops, and I was eager to get out. The trouble was, in my school, you were either a Jock, an Egghead, or a Burn-out, and well, I was all three, and I wasn't supposed to be. Some crossover was allowed, but not much. Jocks sometimes partook in Burn-out activities, getting together to drink beer, smoke pot, and talk about buying J's for a buck a piece in the hallway. But to be a true Burn-out you needed to hang out with other Burn-outs by the bandstand outside at recess time, wear army surplus gear, try not to shower too much, and reek of smoke as much as possible. Jocks and Burn-outs were typically not Eggheads, who got the best grades, always did their homework, and had to stand up on stage in front of the whole school at graduation to receive their Highest Honors awards (yeah, that was fun). To the contrary, Jocks--and Burn-outs--gave each other high fives for getting D's, as if they were aspiring to flunk out and spend the rest of their lives pumping gas around the corner. But no one, no one, could be all three. Just didn't happen. Jocks could not be Burn-outs and Eggheads. Eggheads could not be Jocks and Burn-outs. Eggheads didn't party. They studied. And they certainly weren't Jocks.
But then I came along, and really screwed the system up. What to do with a girl like me, who captained three sports, liked to party, and made Highest Honors? Most kids just called me weird and looked at me 
with some curiosity. But I knew I had to get out of there--it was the Egghead tag that was most problematic. I had no desire to dumb myself down just to fit in, so I made the great escape to Exeter after my ninth grade year, and as soon as I had my interview on campus, I knew it was the right place for me. And as soon as I arrived for the start of my first year there, I was ecstatic: all around were people like me, people just being themselves, and no one as far as I could see was forcing them into a box, or a tag, or a category that excised or diminished some other part of them. There's real magic that happens when those social boundaries are removed--and Exeter, of course, was not without its boundaries, and its cliques, and its social maneuverings, because adolescence is adolescence in all its raw brutality and beauty no matter where it unfolds, but it was different, and it worked. I was at ease there, with myself, with those around me. And it was no different this past reunion weekend; twenty-five years later, I realize I am looking for my next Exeter.
with some curiosity. But I knew I had to get out of there--it was the Egghead tag that was most problematic. I had no desire to dumb myself down just to fit in, so I made the great escape to Exeter after my ninth grade year, and as soon as I had my interview on campus, I knew it was the right place for me. And as soon as I arrived for the start of my first year there, I was ecstatic: all around were people like me, people just being themselves, and no one as far as I could see was forcing them into a box, or a tag, or a category that excised or diminished some other part of them. There's real magic that happens when those social boundaries are removed--and Exeter, of course, was not without its boundaries, and its cliques, and its social maneuverings, because adolescence is adolescence in all its raw brutality and beauty no matter where it unfolds, but it was different, and it worked. I was at ease there, with myself, with those around me. And it was no different this past reunion weekend; twenty-five years later, I realize I am looking for my next Exeter.
Just a few more days to go before I am released. I will celebrat
e with proper vigorous dancing, much jumping up and down, booty shaking, pelvic grind, slash and burn, the bump, and the hustle. I might even reprise John Travolta's Saturday Night Fever dance (Sam?). I'll be jerkin' back and forth until my sweat flies off my forehead, my legs start to ache, and the fish flops out of my chest. And as they say, You can dance anywhere, even if only in your heart.
e with proper vigorous dancing, much jumping up and down, booty shaking, pelvic grind, slash and burn, the bump, and the hustle. I might even reprise John Travolta's Saturday Night Fever dance (Sam?). I'll be jerkin' back and forth until my sweat flies off my forehead, my legs start to ache, and the fish flops out of my chest. And as they say, You can dance anywhere, even if only in your heart.
To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful, more powerful. ~ Agnes De Mille
It wasn’t until I had endured my first year as the head of a girl’s dorm at the Middlesex School that I realized that after many years I had been wrong about Susan Herney.
By the time I had arrived at Langdell as a lower, the older girls in the dorm—particularly the ones we looked up to, with their intimidating 70’s-stylized brand of aloof cool, butt-room privileges, and endless tales of mischief—had mythologized Susan Herney into some fantastical creature with supernatural powers, able to see all, be in more than two places at once, see through closed doors, sniff out illicit substances of all kinds, and—here’s the clincher—work triple duty as Dean, Dorm Head, Advisor, AND still have the time, energy and gumption to follow all the so-called blacklisted students on every Swazey Parkway hike, unseen, running tree to tree ala Benny Hill, as she and the other deans made their way down Crater trails, looking for the big weekend bust.
As if she didn’t have anything better to do…
But I bought it, hook, line and sinker. Those older girls were convincing. Watch out for Susie Q, they told us. Heck, one even wrote it in my yearbook.
But here’s the thing: she never seemed very menacing to me; to the contrary, she was always kind, warm, and respectful. She was there when we needed her, but she didn’t hover. She set clear limits, and we knew exactly what was expected of us. And when we screwed up, she doled out discipline and consequences with a consistent follow-through and a level-headed calm that would have made Super Nanny proud. She entrusted the proctors with a huge amount of responsibility. She even did Jane Fonda workout videos with us in the Langdell common room. This is the stuff that good parenting is all about, particularly when it comes time to teenagers. Trust me, I have one at home and I struggle with it constantly. Despite my doing my best to be scared of her anyway, it was difficult, because I knew, back then, it was just what I needed. Wasn’t it what we all needed?
Once at Exeter, I needed that 8-10 study hall—in my room, by myself. I needed the 10:30 bed time, enforced by proctors, who drifted in and out like shadows of the mothers we had left at home. And from the Dean’s Office, I needed those slips telling me that I couldn’t miss any more classes. (I know this because I really could have used this kind of help in college). By the time I was a senior, things had changed, of course. By then, we had been allowed to grow into the responsibilities that we had now been given as proctors, and Mrs. Herney ably allowed us the space and support to do our job: to assume responsibility for the whereabouts of 45 girls on, say, a Friday night, to make sure they were doing okay: getting their homework done, getting enough sleep, getting along with each other, and getting through the weekends, it seems, without drinking too much. I remember one fac-proc meeting in her apartment, when she asked me very point blank, “Liz, do you think Rachel is drinking too much?” Not, “Liz, do you think Rachel is drinking?” But is she drinking too much. There’s a big difference there. “No,” I said, trying not to miss a beat, “I think she’s just fine.” What would I have said? “No, I think she’s drinking just the right amount?”
Throughout my time at Exeter, and despite my grumbling, I counted on knowing that Mrs. Herney would be checking me in on many Saturday nights, when temptations drifted my way, and it was infinitely helpful to have a clear limit on what would work and what would absolutely not, and I respected her for that. I remember one such Saturday night, when, after a night of dancing, sweating, and jumping into the Exeter River, Rachel and I returned to the dorm for check in dripping wet. Mrs. Herney could have been furious with us, and maybe she was, but she didn’t show it. She very calmly told us that it simply wasn’t a good idea to jump into the river, especially in the dark. It was dangerous. And you know what--? She was right!
Ten years later, when I was running a girl’s dorm, it was torturous thinking about all the foolish things those girls were doing, especially the ninth and tenth graders, and I didn’t get much sleep. Thinking back to the way Mrs. Herney had trusted me as a senior proctor, I enlisted the help of my senior proctors to help me try to keep them out of trouble, and somehow made it through the year without any major catastrophes, or completely losing my head, but you know—the year gave me a much deeper appreciation for how capably, nimbly, and expertly Susan Herney did her many different jobs at Exeter.
And let’s be clear, here. Exeter hasn’t always been an easy place to be female. Imagine what it must have been like in 1972, just two years into the tenuous beginnings of co-education at Exeter, and a full five years before girls would be admitted as boarders. This is when Susan Jorgenson arrived at Exeter. Six years later, she had married Jack Herney, and moved into Langdell. In our day, as the school was celebrating 10 years of co-education, its Bicentennial, and the dedication of the Love Gymnasium, and as Sue Herney was serving as Dorm Head, a dean of the school, and advisor, there were only 24 women on the faculty—Suzanne Graver, Christine Robinson, Eve Plumb, Senorita Piana, to name but four—and few women held department heads or top administrative positions. In 1981, the first four-year boarding girls would graduate. Did you remember that?
And yet, many would argue that it was by and large the females on campus—in all sorts of different roles—who created community at Exeter—a community that would benefit all students, and one that would benefit from changes made to warm up and strengthen residential and day student life, diversify the faculty, staff and student body, rebalance the male-female student ratio, establish new programs to better support healthy, responsible choices, and infuse the curriculum with such offerings as “Women and the Family” and “Great Women Writers.” As we know, it takes a while for such changes to take hold at a place where tradition has sunk its teeth, deeply, into its customs, curriculum, and ways of life.
Susan Herney has been a huge part of the ongoing efforts to create a healthier, warmer, more balanced community at Exeter. In 1985, just two years after Exeter hosted the National Conference on “Women Educators in Independent Schools,” she became the first woman to be appointed Dean of Students and set about continuing to do what she’d be doing for the past 13 years—listening and responding to the needs of the community, and working to better it. She has worked in development and currently works as the Senior Associate Admissions Director. Throughout it all, her husband Jack Herney has diligently and tirelessly worked for the betterment of the school as well. A New York Times article from 1987, heralding the arrival of Kendra O’Donnell as the school’s first woman Principal, wrote about the “perfect Exeter girl: confident, intelligent, athletic, and well-connected in the boarding school world.”
Thank you, Susan, for blazing the trail for Kendra, and so many others.
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