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Other Writings
RHODA'S MEMOIR, RHODA: HER FIRST NINETY YEARS IS NOW AVAILABLE AT:  www.Amazon.com
           Turning Points of a Life
           Immigrant families are governed by a formula: everybody works; teenagers as well as fathers and sometimes mothers. My family was no exception. My parents had emigrated from Romania with my oldest sister, Sara, in 1900. Sara and Jeanne had both quit high school to go to work. My brother Al worked during the day and went to law school at night. My sister Fay was given the special privilege of going to a teachers' college during the day for two years, because she would end up with a steady job and a steady income.

           I was the youngest in the family, born in 1918. When I graduated from high school, my mother assumed that I would get a secretarial job and go to night school, but I had other ideas. I was determined to go to a four-year academic university and pursue a career in journalism. The only way to do this without a family subsidy, then as now, was to get a scholarship and work part time.

           That was my path in 1936, at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. I was a tall, skinny eighteen-year-old with a chip on my shoulder when I enrolled at N.U., and immediately joined the leftist groups on the campus. Those were the days when the newly formed Congress of Industrial Organization (C.I.O.) battled the American Federation of Labor (A.F.L) for union control of workers and staged sit-ins in Chicago and elsewhere. Those were also the days of the Spanish Republicans in their war against Franco, and I became the secretary of the League Against War and Fascism.

           I took jobs wherever I could, working as a maid for upper-class Evanston families, and working as a writer for a political science professor for twenty-five cents an hour. Since I was self-supporting, and not living at home, my mother couldn't really object to my lack of monetary support of the family, although she didn't approve.

           I was a junior in 1939, and the turmoil on the campus was intense. As a member of the Political Science Club, I remember hours of anguished discussion about aggression in all parts of the world. All of us had had friends who had either died in Spain during the rebellion against Franco, or had had trouble getting back into the United States after going to fight in Spain. Many of our friends had been stigmatized as being members of the Communist party (whether or not they were) and had had their passports revoked, resulting in their being stuck in Mexico for several years.

           On one particular morning in May, I joined a group of friends at Charlie's Cafe, a hangout near the campus for a discussion about what we were going to do that summer. We all knew it was the last summer of peace, and that it would be only a matter of time before Hitler invaded either Poland or Belgium; we weren't sure which.

           Harry was talking as I walked in. "Let's take a ship to Europe and bicycle through France and Spain," he said.

           "Spain?" Sylvia practically spit out the word. "You're nuts. The Spanish Republicans lost, remember? England, France, Switzerland maybe, but not Spain, and not Italy, either. Not with Mussolini as head of the government!"

           "Okay, Okay," he demurred. "But what about the idea of staying in hostels and going around on bicycles?" Much head-nodding and happy murmuring. "I'm restless," he said, running his hand through his red hair. "If this is really the last summer of peace, I want to go to Europe now." He began to pace up and down the room.

           There was a heavy silence. We all knew war was in the air. My roommate Peg and I, both juniors, were the only ones on scholarship and working twenty-five hours a week in order to pay our fees. I looked at her, and stood up, saying, "Hey, guys, I have to go now. Quiz tomorrow. See you." Peg stood up also, and we both walked out.

           "Yeah," Peg said on our way back to our dorm, "Bicycle through France. Heck, we don't even have bicycles, let alone money for the ship."

           I thought about what my friend Alvin had said to me a few nights before. He was from Stockton, California and was working on his master’s degree in music. We had had long talks about my attitude toward the rich debutantes of the North Shore and the privileged young men in my classes. He thought I would be happier at a public university and had urged me to transfer to the University of California at Berkeley.

           "Listen, Peg," I said, "My friend Alvin, who lives in Stockton, California, says I ought to transfer to the University of California at Berkeley. His idea is for me to go to Yellowstone National Park, work for the summer as a waitress, save up some money, and go on to U.C.B. He said he'd pick me up on his way back to Stockton after summer school and drive me to Berkeley. Are you interested?"

           "I don't want to transfer to UC Berkeley," Peg said, "but I like the idea of Yellowstone. Do you think we could get jobs as waitresses?"

           "Maybe. Charlie, at the Cafe, might lie for us, and say we worked for him. It's worth a try."

           Peg said she would check out Student Employment services and see if she could find out anything about getting a job as a waitress at Yellowstone. On our way back to our dorm, walking through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Evanston, the air seemed cloying, even suffocating.

           I don't want to graduate from here. If I do, I'll probably end up marrying a nice boy of my mother's or my family's choosing, and never get to be a real journalist. I'm sure we can get jobs as waitresses. Alvin had the right idea. I could save up my tips and go on to Berkeley. I guess I'll have to send my credits off to UC Berkeley Admissions. Excitement coursed through my veins like an electrical current.

           The next day I saw Peg waving at me as I left my English class, and she ran to catch up with me. "Guess what! There was a sign on the bulletin board asking for people who wanted a ride to the West Coast! And I got all the information about Yellowstone!" She was jumping up and down. "All we have to do is get a recommendation from a restaurant or cafe owner saying that we have experience, and I think we'll be okay. Here are the application forms that I got from the employment bureau."

           We filled them out immediately and went over to talk to Charlie at the Cafe. "Okay, girls," he said. "I don't think they'll check. The places that hire college kids for the summer usually train them anyway. Good luck." He grinned at us. "Don't take any wooden nickels!"

           I sent off my credits to the University of California, and we called the boys who had advertised for riders. They had signed up with a company that hired drivers to ferry cars from Detroit to California, to save shipping charges. They warned us that we would be driving night and day in shifts, but they did agree to drop us off in Yellowstone.

           I went home to pack, and thought about what to say to my family. How could I explain the force that was pushing me? If I told them my plans, I would be asking for permission to leave. No, I couldn't do it. I would simply say I was going to Yellowstone Park to work for the summer and leave out any future plans.

           Here was a real fork in the road. I knew I could work in Chicago for the summer and save up money for the fall term. Then after graduation, I would probably settle down close to my family. If I transferred to Berkeley, they might never forgive me for running away. Was I willing to take that chance?

           The answer was yes. I went to Yellowstone, then on to California and a new life. It took years for the family to accept the different path I chose.




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