Early
by Norma Tucker — Age 73 — Bethesda, MD
Back then, a certain set of rituals began my workday. Readying, shifting my persona to ramp up the adrenalin; juice I needed to function in that male dominated academic milieu. Back then, not many like me, a woman in the ranks of college and university administrators, vying to be heard.
Each morning, almost simultaneously, greeting colleagues; coffee; tending plants, adjusting the placement of mementoes on my desk; thumbing through the in- basket; finally pausing, staring mindlessly for a few moments. I needed these for each day’s becoming. I continue to engage in ritualistic preparation–some same, some different. No greetings necessary in my home office, no organized in-basket; yes, coffee, plants, and mementos before I turn to my writing. Musing, feeling; thoughts forming a string of words, becoming.
Back then, on occasion, ritual interrupted, one morning particularly. I arrived very early to my office at the community college to catch up on a backlog of work. The president of the college always arrived early to exercise in our state-of-the-art health facility. He probably saw my Jetta on the parking lot; very few there at that early hour. My phone rang, jolting me, he on the other end.
An extraordinary guy, boundless energy and very quick mind. He, also, could exceed the bounds of excited; one might call it borderline hysteria, when things either did or did not go his way. That morning, his voice over the phone pulsated at top speed, almost without a breath, something about a board member’s request; what we had to do to respond constituted an “emergency.” I listened, trying to make sense of what he was saying.
When he stopped, I spoke slowly, carefully, something like this.
“We do not have an emergency. There are no emergencies in higher education. If we have a difficult situation to resolve quickly, let’s talk about it. So, can we start this conversation again?”
He hung up the phone, saying, “Damn you, Tucker!” and something about my having a sexy voice in the morning. No, I didn’t press charges. I turned in my swivel chair, looked out the window, stared. Mindful. He heard me.
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