The Finch Finale

I know it's been quite a while since I wrote about life at Finch College. Though I haven't fully exploited all my adventures there, perhaps it's time to move on and share the closing chapter because — when one door closes, another opens.
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Three years had gone by at Finch and graduation had come. I’d been invited to a classmate’s party at her parent’s apartment in Manhattan. I knew her father was a diplomat. She was smart, she sounded very British and had a royal European-sounding last name.  Though I didn't know her well, I liked her very much.  I was excited to be invited and worried about what to wear. The engraved invitation with its embossed gold seal should have been the tip-off. 

The elevator doors opened INTO the apartment and we were greeted by what had to be, butlers, real butlers in black waistcoats. I remember a dark beautifully wood-paneled room set-up with small round tables covered in pink linen cloths, with pink linen napkins, cut glass crystal stemware, and heavy silver place settings with multiple forks, knives, and spoons and beautiful centerpieces gracing the rooms. It was gorgeous. Simply gorgeous.

The butler-waiters were carrying massive silver platters engraved with the seal of South Africa. Stephanie’s father was the ambassador — this was before anyone really thought anything about South Africa except that it was an exotic place at the bottom of the world. 

Those platters were sailing by piled high with lobster tails — from South Africa. I sat at a table for four with Stephanie’s brother (Julian?) and his best friend. Perhaps they sensed my nervousness because they couldn't have been more gracious. I kept watching what they were doing — which fork or glass were they using?   I was in past my depth. It turned out that the four glasses were for white wine, red wine, water and champagne. Choosing the red wine was a mistake. 

Crowded by all that finery I reached for my water and promptly, clumsily knocked over my glass — and all that red wine spilled over that pristine pink linen cloth. A puddle of red. All over. Horrified, I righted my now empty glass and before I could utter a complete sentence of apology, Julian knocked over his glass of red wine. On purpose! 

“WHY did you do that? Oh my God!” I screeched. “Why would you DO that?” 

“To put you at ease,” Julian answered with calm coolness.

“And I should knock over mine as well,” said the best friend.

“NO!” I implored putting my hand over the top of his glass, “That’s CRAZY!”

“It’s the polite thing to do. If someone makes a mistake, you do the same. You don’t want your guest to feel uncomfortable.”

Now there was a twist on empathy.

At midnight the butler-waiters came out with those silver trays laden with champagne glasses filled to the brim — with fresh orange juice. 

“Orange juice?” I asked. “At night?”

“It’s what we do In South Africa. It’s very refreshing.” And it was.

The clink of that glass signaled the end of an era for me and the beginning of a new time in my life.

Playwriting 101

I thought it was going to be my favorite class that semester. Introduction to Playwriting with Dr. Anthony Santaniello.  I thought the course would give me the tools to turn the events of my childhood into something tangible.  A play.  First produced Off-Off Broadway. Then it would gain a cult following — eventually moving to the Big White Way — possibly starring Jaclyn Smith or Stephanie Powers as the grown-up me.

This class was going to be my beginning.

This class — the one I was betting all my cards on, was turning out to be a huge disappointment.

The professor could barely be bothered with anything I had to say, even though there were barely nine of us in class. Any time I made a contribution, he’d say: “What was that you said?” or “Could you repeat that for me?”  in his phony British accent, but he didn’t say that to anyone else — seemed he was paying attention when everyone else spoke — listened to what they had to say. This class wasn't turning out how I’d hoped.

Through the semester I pushed aside my disappointment. I tried to ignore my hurt while we read plays, discussed them, and did writing exercises while working independently on a final project. My play consisted of four characters: The Mother, the Father, the Boy, the Girl. It was a thinly veiled autobiographical look at the chaos of my home life.

As the fall drew to a close and the weather got colder, we’d finally turned in our first drafts and were meeting one-on-one with the professor for feedback. Though I wanted feedback on the writing, I was on edge and feeling vulnerable.  This was the first time in college I was showing my personal writing to someone else. I was dreading the meeting.  

When Dr. Santaniello started speaking, I was so worked up I could hardly concentrate on his words. Through the haze in my head I could vaguely hear him asking me questions, probing about the characters and their motivations, prodding me to think differently about their actions and then I clearly heard him say in his clipped and breathy dramatic voice,

“Now I just don’t understand why the girl doesn’t try to see things from the boy’s point of view and...”

And before he could finish his criticism, I burst into tears. Sobbing, wrenching tears where I couldn’t catch my breath.  But then — most surprisingly he patted my arm and soothingly said, 

“There, there dear. It can’t be all that bad…”

It was so caring and kind in such an almost loving way that I blurted out,

“But it IS that bad and it’s been that bad ever since I CAN REMEMBER!  Ever since second grade — even though all the grown-ups kept saying, ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright.’ But it WASN'T! It never was all right but no one would admit it!  And you, YOU! WHY are you suddenly being so nice to me? You’re never nice to me. YOU NEVER LISTEN TO WHAT I’M SAYING IN CLASS AND IT REALLY UPSETS ME!” 

With a pained look on his face he replied, “My dear, that’s because I’m partially deaf in one ear.  You sit on the left side of the room and that’s the ear I have trouble with.”

As I took in this stunning admission, all those months of feeling hurt and rejected and unimportant were swept away. His behavior had nothing to do with me! It was hard to take in.

“Why didn’t you just SAY so?” I asked plaintively, begging with my voice to hear his explanation.  What could he say to make up for all those weeks?
He looked down, then looked up again, and turned away avoiding my stare, his eyes looking slightly past me. 

“I was ashamed to admit I was flawed,” he said in the smallest of voices.

Aren't we all? I thought — understanding him and myself through new ears.

Just found this (current) shot of my professor!
He calls it "The Seer With a Sneer"

Adventures at Finch - That's Entertainment!

Julie was not someone I expected to meet at Finch. In the class behind mine, she had a languid sexy manner that made you think she would meander her way through life mesmerizing you with her Midwestern drawl and her inquisitive way. From Ohio, she was a New Yorker at heart.  She loved,loved, loved Manhattan. She loved the hustle, the bustle, the buildings, and the people.  She loved art, the theater, and fashion.  From the time we became friends, she was forever dragging me to see plays, concerts, movies, or art exhibits — one after another. 

Uptown to the Whitney, the Frick; downtown to Off-Broadway, Off-Off-Broadway, and Greenwich Village — where we heard Melissa Manchester sing in a small bar with a stage.   In 1971 Manchester had been hired by Barry Manilow and Bette Midler (whom Julie saw on Broadway in the now-famous Clams on the Half Shell Revue) to be a back-up singer, but she was still trying to strike out on her own.  We were close to the stage and I kept saying how small her hands and fingers were.  But her voice was enormous.

1974 was a stellar year for us — January in particular.  From the balcony of the Morosco Theatre, we saw Jason Robards, Colleen Dewhurst, and Ed Flanders in A Moon for the Misbegotten. Three remarkable actors embodying the angst of Eugene O’Neill. Clive Barnes, the theater critic for the New York Times wrote, "This is a landmark production that people are going to talk about for many years. " The cast's portrayals of these flawed and tragic characters was so powerful that people were actually holding their breath during the soliloquies.  I remember thinking, “This is what it means when people say, ‘It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.”

After a seven-year-plus hiatus, Bob Dylan decided to return to the stage and perform with The Band.  One of the concert dates was on Julie's birthday at the end of the month and she was determined we would go. "The tickets were hard to get.  Had to mail in a check and it was a crap shoot.  I mailed the check at five minutes after midnight and didn't get the damn tickets.  A friend knew someone at Madison Square Garden who got us tickets."  Alan Bershaw wrote,  "Over five million paid mail orders were reportedly sent in for the 650,000 tickets available over the course of the [43-day] tour, making them the most in-demand ticket in the history of rock music."   The music was incredible; Dylan was incredible, but what I remember most from that night — it was the first time people lit and held up their Bic lighters (these had just come out in 1973). Everyone holding their flame high to create a sea of tiny flickering lights in the surrounding darkness of that massive arena. 

Here's Redford on our street

Later that year, next to one of the magnificent buildings that was a Finch dorm was the location of a film shoot for Three Days of the Condor with Robert Redford on the block!  It was the office where he works at the beginning of the film, a CIA front.  We were all scurrying around, hanging out on 77th Street to catch a glimpse of him and when we did  — he was short!  

After I graduated from Finch and Julie went back to Ohio, I still went to see plays.  In 1976 I saw Equus with Richard Burton.  My sister was a huge fan of Elizabeth Taylor and even though he wasn’t with Liz at the time (he was in a marriage with “Susan”) I still thought it would be great if I could get his autograph for Donna — so along with crowds of others, I waited at the stage door after the emotionally harrowing performances of this disturbing play. [He won a Special Tony for his performance in his limited 14-week run.]

The mob scene was so great that when Burton came out of the door (with publicist and whomever else in tow) people started surging, and he was quickly engulfed by bodies straining to get a glimpse, a touch, a smile. The throng pushed him into a tight channel of humanity between the theatre and his waiting limo. All of a sudden I found myself smashed up against him, face-to-face in the mob. At first I couldn’t say anything because I was so shocked at how short he was!  Only inches taller than me! I was trying to get over my frozen state when he looked me straight in the eyes (his piercing green eyes) and said in his unmistakable Welsh voice, 

“We simply can’t go on meeting this way. Susan wouldn’t like it.”  

And I simply melted. If it hadn't been for the crush of bodies keeping me upright, I probably would've slid to the ground. And then, before I could think to say anything, anything at all, New York’s Finest — mounted on horses came jostling in to break up the crowd and get Sir Richard (well, not-titled yet) to the door of his limo (Susan inside) and whisked away. 

Jules, thank you.  For Melissa, Dylan, Redford, Burton, Warhol — and so much more.

Adventures at Finch - Skating

We’d been ice-skating at Wollman Rink in Central Park. I wasn’t very good at it, weak ankles, but it was fun trying to sail around in the cold crisp air. Liz and I were walking back to our dorm at Finch College on 77th between Park and Madison, wrapped in hats, mittens and scarves.  Liz had her skates slung over her shoulders.  We were almost at 77th St when we saw a very pretty, petite woman walking our way.

“Oh my God, that’s Julie Christie!”

“NO! I can’t believe it!  Let’s talk to her!”  Excitedly Liz and I skipped alongside. 

“Hi Miss CHRISTIE!!! We’re such big fans!” we gushed.

She smiled saying, “Why thank you very much. And where are you off to?

“We’re headed to our dorm, we're in college.” and pointed to Chalk House as we rounded the corner.

“And I am going here,” she announced as she headed for the canopy of the apartment building caddy-corner to ours. The front of the building was lined with limos and very well-dressed folks were getting out of those limos in jewels and furs.

“What’s going on?” Liz asked boldly. 

“A fundraiser. For the next President of the United States!” was Julie Christie’s pronouncement.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“George McGovern of course!” and she steered toward the door and away from us.

We were completely star struck. We could hardly think of one movie Julie Christie had ever been in!  Giggling at our good fortune, we waved goodbye and ran into our dorm to tell everyone. Wow. Julie Christie on our block.   Julie Christie across the street.  

“We have to crash that party,” Liz said with determination.

“Are you kidding?”  I couldn’t believe she even thought that was possible. "There’s a doorman. We don’t have an invitation.”

“We’d have to get dressed, REALLY dressed,” she said ignoring me as she opened her closet door and began searching through her clothes and pulling out her dressiest dresses.

“GEEZ, you’re serious!”

“Yes I am.  Now stop sitting around.  Go get changed.”

I was not believing she meant it. I mean we didn’t even know which apartment!  


I had this chocolate brown midi-dress (which I loved) with a Mandarin collar and a gold and red embroidered dragon on the fitted bodice, with long sleeves and a full skirted bottom that twirled when I spun around.  With heeled boots it was the classiest thing I owned.

“You need jewelry,” Liz directed, “lots of gold jewelry. Borrow some.”

So I went next door where Julie, Peggy and Kathi dumped out their jewelry boxes and plied me with wide hoop earrings, gold cuff bracelets, and chunky rings.

As people gathered in my room watching us put on make-up, someone threw me their long brown suede shearling coat.  In 20 minutes we were ready. I looked the part and Liz did too.

We headed back down, out the front door, across the street. The reason we kept going was that everyone was at their windows watching us. No one believed we could do it.  Not even me.  The first hurdle was to get into the building.

The doorman opened the door.

“The McGovern party?” I said in a questioning voice.

“Eleventh floor." and he waved us toward the elevator. We got in. 


When the elevator door shut we whispered in disbelief, "I cannot believe we got in this building!!!"  and we were laughing when suddenly the elevator doors opened and we were IN the apartment.  No hallway, just in the apartment where someone was waiting to take our coats and hang them onto an already-full garment rack that had been placed just inside the door.  We quickly sobered up. A waiter soon offered us glasses of champagne which we took and sipped, as we slid into the main room. We were trying to lose ourselves in the crowd.  We edged further into the room by a railing, looked down into the sunken living room scouting out the room — looking for Julie Christie. There she was, in the middle, surrounded by people. 

“We have to go and talk to her." Liz was firm.  "We have to." 

So we slowly inched our way toward the knot of people clustered around her waiting for our break.  "Hello, Miss Christie — remember us?” 


We tried to stay totally calm. 

“Well that was certainly a quick change,” as she recognized us from the street.

“We crashed the party!”  We were trying to chat with her easily when I burst out, “God! Is that Maximillian Schell over there?”  (So much for easily.) 

“Yes it is,” she smiled.

I was trying hard to say something meaningful. “I LOVED Fahrenheit 451!  What was it like making that movie?”

“Well, you know it was Oskar’s [Werner] first English film. (No, we didn't know.) So it was a bit difficult for him.” 

We couldn't believe she was talking to us and telling us this stuff!  We couldn’t believe our good fortune. It was beyond belief.  Then we noticed someone with a camera snapping our picture with her and then whispering to someone, who then turned to whisper to someone else.

“Uh-oh — we gotta go — someone’s gonna figure out we don’t belong,” we stuttered. 

As we turned to go, she quickly said, “Now I can’t vote here, because I’m not a citizen — but you can.” 

“Oh, we will!” we called back, as we headed for the elevator to find our coats and escape out of there.

“No one will believe us. No one." Liz said as we scrambled into our coats.  "How can we prove we were really here?”

Quite fortuitously, a waiter walked by with a tray of empty glasses, headed for the kitchen.  “Let’s each take a wine glass!” and so we did.  We each took an empty wine glass as the waiter walked by and after he turned down a hallway, we shoved them in the deep pockets of my borrowed winter coat, took the elevator down to the lobby and went back into the cold, crisp night. 


We were both pretty silent as we crossed the street and headed up to our rooms. People had been waiting at their windows — on watch to see when we would emerge from that building (after having hidden in the lobby or been kicked out by the doorman). We drifted upstairs as if we were skating on ice. Quickly people were surrounding us, trailing behind to hear what happened, now a small crowd. 

“WHAT HAPPENED??!!” everyone asked.

“We talked to JULIE CHRISTIE!” we said in unison.

“You DIDN’T!!” people yelled.

“We did,” we said smilingly — as we each reached into the pockets, held up the wine glasses and watched their faces drop.

About Finch

It was 1971 and I was more than halfway through what started out to be a glorious first year at Northeastern University in Boston.  I’d gone there because it was a co-op (work/study) school — you went to school for five years (“middlers” were between sophomores and juniors) and graduated with two full years of work experience on your resume.  Along with getting an education, I’d be able to work and earn my tuition.  It seemed a great way to get an education. 

Being the first  in my family to attend college, I didn't feel I had anyone I could go to for help.   I soon idolized my RA (a junior!) who took me under her wing and provided me with her affection and guidance.   One day, all of that changed and I transitioned from our dorm counselor’s pet to her pariah.  Soon my happy life turned into a tumultuous mess I 
couldn't navigate. For months I was miserably unhappy and looking to transfer.

One of my mother’s dry-cleaning customers mentioned this girl’s school in Manhattan: Finch College.

“Dotty, you should send your daughter to Finch.  Tropicana orange juice’s daughter went 
there. The daughter of IBM’s chairman went there. Tricia NIXON went there.”
I wasn’t crazy about the all-girls thing but there was appeal to being smack dab in the middle of Manhattan.

When I went for my interview, I found it even more appealing.  I met with the Registrar and Director of Financial Aid who was standing in for the Director of Admissions.  She was amazing in every way — smart, funny, thoughtful, practical, just someone I really wanted to be around and learn from; someone I immediately looked up to and felt, this is where I should be.

Early one Sunday morning, my parents brought me to this 77th between Park and Madison to start my new life.  It was the start of my sophomore year.   I headed down to the cafeteria. I had worked in the cafeteria at Northeastern and had to eat dinner at 4:30 before the mess hall opened and the masses arrived.  The joke in our cafeteria was that the meat was the same every day, it just changed color — from brown to tan to gray.

When I entered there was no cafeteria; but there was a carpeted dining room with real artwork, crystal chandeliers, Spode china on the tables, and a chef in a white apron and a big white hat (yes, a chef’s hat!) asking, 


    “Miss, would you like Eggs Benedict or Eggs Florentine this morning?”

     And that is how I ended up at Finch College, where I didn't belong.