We met at Yale in the courtyard on a spring afternoon. He followed me from the post office to the grassy field. He trailed closely behind me hot on my rosy scent.
It took us awhile to discover we were both students in the same university. False humility will have you in denial. Self-importance masquerades as lowliness, but the truth is at Yale status is everything.
Usually, Ivy League students had designated people open their mail for them. So, it took a leap of faith to broach the subject of whether or not our days involved paid labor or intense study. We disdained work. Life was all play.
We climbed a set of stairs as if the ascent to heaven. It was actually the way to our separate bedrooms. We had never noticed our close housing proximity to each other before.
He touched my elbow and asked me the following questions: “Can you read? Are you a student here?”
How romantic! Usually, people measure your worth based on your physical appearance, but this guy - the one I get to play opposite with - was more interested in my literary tastes. Still, I was shocked by his forward nature, “I go to school in Connecticut…New Haven…Pierson College,” I couldn’t drop the Yale act. “Don’t hate me, because I’m a Yalie.”
“Ain’t nobody got time for hate,” he said saliva dripping. I was a tasty morsel. “You betta recognize. Girl, I’m into you.”
“You and I have class. I think we have chemistry?” I said, as a hopeless flirt.
“See you at Starbucks?”
“Who will get there faster?”
We raced each other to Starbucks and passed by a row of restaurants. It was refreshing to have money to spend, to burn, to waste. We were breathless. This is when we ran into a Harvard professor, who rose to his feet at our entrance and extended his hand to us.
“Where are your people from?” Henry Louis Gates asked us.
“Earth,” my partner said.
“Paradise,” I said.
“Same, same - different,” Skip said.
It felt like heaven on earth. I began to sing a solo complete with dance movements, because, well, life at Yale was a musical.
It wasn’t long before my new friend introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Jeremy. Will you marry me? I’ve always wanted a woman who can sing and dance.”
“What makes you think I’m a woman? You haven’t seen all of me yet.”
Jeremy was crestfallen. He worried if I had transitioned.
“I’m just gender bending you. Of course, I’ll marry you. I’ve always wanted an audience of one. Professor Gates, will you marry us?”
“What happened to delayed gratification?”
“Ain’t nobody got time to wait!” Jeremy yelled out.
Then and there, I, Soliloquy, married Jeremy. That day at Starbucks was an awakening.
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