Crash Into Me_ A Survivor's Search for Justice - Liz Seccuro [14]
After a class or two, most students gathered at the Greek amphitheatre in the center of Grounds, mere steps from the fabled Lawn, to study and sunbathe. Tank-top straps would slide off slender shoulders, skirts would be hiked up to the knees, and baby oil would be applied. And in the early part of the semester, thick, creamy envelopes would be waiting for us back at the girls’ dorms: formal invitations to fraternity houses each week to hear bands, enjoy a theme party, or imbibe cocktails. Clearly, these invitations were extended on the basis of our looks alone, determined largely from our photographs in the First Year Facebook, a printed freshman register that was a standard feature of college use before the online social networking site students rely on now. It was a curious time—the careful wardrobe planning, the ablutions, the hair and makeup. But so much seemed to depend on it at the start of college, when anything seemed possible.
Even now, every autumn, no matter where I am, I remember the beauty and the thrill of Virginia in the fall—the gorgeous Grounds and the impossibly crisp air. To stand in the shadow of the Rotunda under the golden trees of the Lawn was a near-perfect feeling. The Lawn in autumn is perhaps the most hopeful place in the world, and it is what I choose to think about when I remember the university.
CHAPTER 3
Darkness on Madison Lane
On Thursday, October 5, 1984, I was enjoying a relaxing evening at my dorm, joking with friends, studying and eating pizza ordered from College Inn, the venerable institution of red sauce Italian and gyros that was a staple of university students’ diets. I needed to complete a great deal of reading for the following week. I was planning to declare an English major, so reading would be a big part of my college years. I was exhausted, but having a great time with friends, watching some get ready to go out, some gearing up to watch Late Night with David Letterman in the common area of the dorm. We lolled about in the carpeted hallways, me in mint green sweatpants and a navy T-shirt, in bare feet. It was a balmy evening with the promise of a chill in the air overnight. It was a typical Thursday night. Around ten P.M., one of my friends, Jim Long from Nashville, came bounding onto my floor in search of me.
“Hey, Liz!” he exclaimed in his joyous, deep southern twang. “Wanna go to a rush party with me? It’s at Phi Psi, you know, the big house at the end of the Bowl! I’ve gotta have a date, you know!” It wasn’t a romantic invitation—Jim was gay. I didn’t want to go anywhere, much less a house I had never been to where I wasn’t sure if I would know anyone. Jim assured me that some other kids from our dorm were going as well. But I didn’t want to go; I was already ensconced.
“Oh, hell no, Jim—look at me! I mean, I’m settled in for the night and I have tons of reading to get under my belt. I’m sure one of the other girls will go.” I gestured down the long hallway, filled with girls studying, eating, or putting on makeup.
I was sympathetic—Jim was right that he needed a date. During rush season for the guys, any man who seemed gay had better bring a girl on his arm or risk being blackballed by any number of houses. There were a few gay-only houses, but many gays didn’t want to join for fear of being stigmatized. This was the early 1980s, after all. It was important for many young men to be able to pass as straight, although to me, Jim was quite obviously gay. Having studied ballet for so many years, I had known openly gay instructors, and it was fine by me. But I understood how hard it could be, especially for a college freshman. And rush was already a stressful process. After much southern charm and cajoling on his part, I relented. Jim was a friend, and I wanted to help. I trotted off to the communal bathroom with my makeup basket to put myself together. Once I had carefully applied some mascara and lipstick, I padded back