My heartbeat reverberated in panicky, arrhythmic banter. I could feel little, tiny blood bubbles gurgle through my veins as I returned his 'just-being-polite’ greeting of "Hello, I'm Omar from Philly," with this burst of sheer, unabashed ardor... silently to myself. My alter ego, hidden from public view, is far more bold and spontaneous.
"Hi. I'm Linda. Nice to meet you," I voice in wonderment, responding to his introduction with the reasonableness of any single female looking for rescue.
He was as exotic as his name...tall and lean, with beautiful, sleek, black skin and deep, mysteriously childlike eyes. Short, soft hair crowned his quietness. Omar was one of seven or so African American males attending nearby Dickinson Laws College. All of them were intelligent, handsome and available.
The three of us were the only African-American women on a college campus of two thousand white students. We were not getting our accustomed share of male attention. What came as part of a regular day in a high school population that offered male choices like Baskin-Robbins's 41 flavors, was absolutely absent in my first four college years.
No flirtatious grins to foretell of flattering eyes that would follow my every step. I missed that. I missed pretending to be so intent upon getting to my destination that I did not notice the casual tilt of an anonymous admirer's head. I could time the moment his amber honeyed musculature would lean in close enough for me to feel the humidity in his words, whispered as I walked by, "Hey, baby. Why don't you let me walk you home?"
The lines of color were painfully drawn as no men and few women welcomed us to college life. Even our roommates kept conversation to a minimum, prompted only by necessity.
My decision to go to this God forsaken place was fueled by the talk of community folk I trusted.
“If you go to a black college, your degree won't be worth anything. All they do is party." This said with so much certainty to a shy teenager, never far from home, helped to convince my choice. I made my decision as my nerdy, always goofy brother had before me, to choose a college with scholarly pursuit in mind.
Shippensburg State University, housed in a small rural, namesake town, knew nothing of skin colors and sentiments which reflect the warm tones of Africa. Well, gee, thanks oh leaders of the flock. You forgot to mention this more special degree would come at the great price of seldom getting to "party". I was surrounded by sea of faceless forms that gave no indication of seeing me or hearing me.
We could not complain to African American people who had known the southern hospitality of "Jim Crow" intimately. No, they wouldn't have thought to warn us. It was too close to them. To them going to an all white college without a police escort was proof that their suffering had been vindicated. How dare we even think of complaining to them. We knew better. It would be selfish, sacrilegious...like wimping out on our ancestral strengths.
So there we sat on Saturday nights, knowing we could turn a young man's head with the best of them, huddled together in dreary misery, unbelieving of what we had done to ourselves. We met, week after week, in Cynthia's oak paneled room, too dark for laughter, staring at the shiny, hardwood floor that mirrored the reality of our sacrifice. It, too, was special but you couldn't be comfortable on it. Its beauty would be tarnished by the irreverence of playful scuff marks and strewn clothing or last night's wine glasses, still wet and scented. Our more reputable degrees cost us the messy, fun part of living at college.
When my two snobbish upper class friends and I learned of the seven or so men, we abandoned all sense of the modesty drilled into us by our mother's patterned protestations against our bellies swelling before their time and headed for our "oasis of love" at Dickinson Law College, only thirty minutes away.
A dorm room, home to two of the men, one of them Omar, became the designated safe hangout. We wanted to be together, all of us, just to feel what it was like to see brown skin wherever we looked.
Omar was like no other person I had ever known. He seemed a totally complete package, a gift assembled, maintenance free and wrapped with meticulous elegance. The rest of us were hungry for conversation. He said almost nothing. We all wanted someone to latch onto. He preferred the company of himself. He was happy to observe, contemplate and read. His stillness stood out as gallant among our restless faces. I want to know him. I wanted to him to love him. I wanted him to love me. He loved more the words in his books. He seemed at peace when reading them. They gave his life what I was sure he could give me.
He was entranced with something beyond my awareness. It seemed to insulate him from my need to nest. At least, that is what I imagined. What could I do to myself to catch his glance finding me irresistible? How would I let him know that he was missing a wonderful, loving, person? Me. We could return to our classes wearing each other’s smiles, strengthened by our mutual reflections. Omar did glance my way, and yet past me, to daydream in peace into the camouflage of nature just outside an opened window behind me.
A silent knowing rested nearby when I chanced to see Omar. He seemed to be captivated by a lover more dependable, more expansive than I. Yet, I was determined. I took up the fight to win him admirably, on his own terms. I searched the libraries for the same books he held like newly purchased gemstones, marvelous and priceless. Krishnamurti-Indian philosopher. How humbling new paradigms can be. Some of the things I read I understood. But, no, most of it, I did not. What the hell was this man trying to say? How could I ever converse with Omar? I didn't even understand most of what he read.
My attempts at conversation with him grew weaker as the sparks I ignited flew to faintness and disappeared in front of us. He never gave signs of wanting to know me better. I returned to SSU alone but with the memory of the ever present serene aura framing Omar still in my vision. If I couldn't have him, perhaps I could have that sense of something solid, something true for all times that seemed to give him such sweet solace.
The particulars of each succeeding partnership began to fade in importance. I had become aware of a pattern with all of them. Love is here, Hallelujah! Hello, soulmate. Love is gone. Why am I alone? Soulmate, where are you? In the midst of a partnership of volatile passions that seemed to go nowhere I began to long for what is true and always there when the lover is not. I suspected I was missing the better part of love somehow.
It would be four years later, after SSU and into teaching, fresh from the wounds of a forbidden love that my heart heard its Beloved call. " Would you like to go to Satsang with me?" asked a friend, a new convert to a Hinduism spin-off.
What is Satsang?" I knew better, but I asked anyway, not really interested.
"Well, lots of us go and listen to mathamas tell stories that teach lessons about life and love," she eagerly responded, taking the opportunity to open wider the door of invitation.
I could think of no reason why I would want to do that. I thought of the best "nice girl" way to say “No, thank you. Maybe some other time. Like some other lifetime.” My mouth opened and my heart answered. Out came, "Okay, where are the meetings held."
Now the mathatma, bald and obviously free of the worldly burdens we carried, reminded me of someone I had witnessed earlier. He possessed a definite sense that he was tied to something inside that gave him a deep sense of calm. This very slight man of no degrees or possessions or muscled manhood emanated a sense of power that filled the room.
"Love is within you,” he'd say with sweet contentment, as each story ended. Why yes, I could plainly see it was within him. How do I get to it without all the mess of romance? Easy to say. Hard to do.
I watched a seed of realization plant itself and take root in my heart. It grew with my questions. Does my search for true love have more to do with me than my "dream" man? Will I even want my dream man if I find true love in myself? Because I still want my dream man. If it means one over the other, well, I have to think that over...a lot. I am not that strong.
My quest to return to the place where love always is continues. Its certainty is assured by a summer night's dream in which many of us danced angelic in luminous, flitting forms. Like hungry hummingbirds we paused, pairing in flight, to exchange an invisible, precious elixir. We surrendered in willing service to this dance of no partners, for our communion was as necessary to us as breath. It did not matter whom we loved. It mattered that we loved. We bowed into and out of each other as Grace and Dignity watched. Then away we waltzed in midair to touch yet another form ...to connect once again.
Waking remembrance gave me no frame of reference in my life to assign to this dream. A bunch of people exchanging partners for love. Hmmm... now that sounded too much like loaded hippies at Woodstock . I chose carefully who heard this dream. What stuck with me was the fact that love was much more accessible that I had known before. There was honor in this dance. It moved us from within. We could feel love by giving it.
This dream changed the quality of my interactions with people. I used to wait to see if a person smiled at me before I smiled. I used to wait to show that I cared about someone. It was safer. Now, I realize that in giving I immediately start the flow of love, which is what I really want to feel anyway.
Relationships are easier now. And fewer. I can tell with one question if I want it to begin.
"So what is your goal in life, " I probe a potential partner. An innocent enough inquiry usually delivered with obvious screening intent. Omar's smile beams from my face when I hear anything suggesting the answer I want.
"To be content with life" or "To know myself,” he might say.
I say, casually, while somersaulting inside, "Oh, that's cool." He too has been searching.
It no longer destroys me if words that brought us together in relationshiop together tear us apart. If eyes that sought me seek another. I still hurt. I still cry, but not as long or as deeply because only a memory away is the dream, my placental guide to love that is steadfast and unceasing.
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