The Truth of the Matter

What Happens Here...Doesn't Stay Here: Quinn

"Bedroom Hymns" by Florence +The Machine

I had been invited to a private party by a wealthy donor to the college. I didn't particularly want to go, because people who donated thought that they could tell me how to teach, or what to teach. Money gave people a lot of opinions, and the bravado to voice them. The more they donated, the more demanding they became.

The music would be loud so possibly the donor wouldn't be able to talk my ear off about the donation's earmarked purpose. I had no authority over where the money went, that was all in the higher ranks, but that didn't stop them from trying.

Of course I had no say in where the money went but I was expected to get the donations as a part of my position, which I didn't mind but it was the principle of the thing. The wealthy received better education because the money was pumped directly into the schools by their cohorts while anyone who couldn't afford a private education got the leftovers and years of debt.

I hadn't been asked to meet any potential donors for months since the debacle where I rolled my eyes too conspicuously while listening to a story about how a dog should be able to be on a family's health insurance plan.

No one was available tonight, so I was begrudgingly called in. The dean's last words to me were "Maybe pretend to be someone else."

I could hear the music from the club a block away and steeled myself for the noise and interactions with people. I didn't mind talking and making nice with people. It was the social hangover that lasted for several days after an event that I dreaded. People's energy didn't fill me, it pulled the energy out, and only quiet time alone could replenish it.

I flashed an invite at the bouncer and passed right by the anxious wanna be patrons who were dressed in their best and hoping to get selected for admittance.

I had thought about asking a colleague from work named Lydia to come with me but I decided against it for the sake of our working relationship. These donor dates could go one of two ways and I really needed to sell this one. I didn't have enough trust or knowledge in Lydia's networking skills as of yet. I didn't doubt they were fantastic. I respected her presence and enjoyed talking with her and gleaning from her insights.

She was a new doctor of anthropology at the university with me and we had struck up a fast friendship. She was lighthearted, interesting, and had immigrated from Turkey by way of Germany. There is something about ex-pats coming together, it is an immediate bond because of the understanding that comes from struggling to fit into a new culture without forgetting the first. No matter how much anyone loved the country they emigrated to, the homesickness for their first land was always annoyingly present.

Lydia had an easy smile and a loud laugh that shook her shoulders and made her colorful hijab wrinkle, there wasn't much that crossed her mind that I didn't hear about. 

She was an open book and the pages of her story enveloped me. Her family had fled to Germany during the Iran-Iraq war in 1980, she had been five years old. She learned two new languages simultaneously: English and German, while living in a foreign culture and fighting to make her escape worthwhile.

Come to think, she constantly babbled, every thought rushing out with no filter holding them back. Speak first and apologize later was her motto. She didn't mind if I didn't remember everything she said, she would simply repeat herself because it only gave her the chance to add new details that she had forgotten before.

Lydia was a benevolent confidante during the beginning throes of my breakup with Truth. I hadn't wanted to bring up such a deeply personal topic, but she had found a few sketches that I had drawn of Truth in our shared office storage space. I had wanted to forget about her, put away any trace of her existence, but at the same time her absence had left a hole in my life.