Posted by: Ety W. | February 27, 2008

My Testimony 3: College Years

This is part 3 of “My Testimony”. If you want to start at the beginning, click here.

I have to admit that the only reason I went to college was because it was expected of me. Not that I had anything else in mind to do. Mostly I just wanted to get away from home. In high school I had enjoyed my art classes, so my mother decided I should major in painting. She wanted me to attend the Art Institute of Chicago, but instead, I enrolled in the fine arts program of the university located at the farthest end of the state.

I had absolutely no interest in being an artist. I think my instructors passed me out of the kindness of their hearts. It certainly wasn’t for completing the required coursework. Soon though, I changed majors. My boyfriend at the time was a philosophy major, so first I switched to philosophy. I liked my anthropology class, so next I switched to anthropology.

The spring of my freshman year was when the anti-Viet Nam war movement broke out on a number of university campuses across the nation. My school’s student body was no less enthusiastic for this cause. We quickly took over the administrative buildings and a number of classrooms, forcing the school to close down for the remainder of the school year. Besides being alarmed at how easy it was to be involuntarily swept up into the mob mentality of the protesters, I was actually quite relieved when the school closed. That was the semester I was enrolled in my worst courses, particularly chemistry and speech. With the semester ending abruptly as it did, the university decided to use a pass/fail grading system. Consequently I received all “P’s”, though I probably wouldn’t have been so fortunate if we had finished the semester out for a letter grades.

The only question I now faced was where to go. Certainly not home. My mother had married her boyfriend, sold my childhood home, and moved into her new husband’s house. Even if I had wanted to go back (which I didn’t), there wasn’t a place for me there anyway. I never considered moving in with my father, especially as my mother had so convinced me that he didn’t like me, let alone want me. When an invitation was extended to move out to an old 40 acre farm, I quickly accepted.

The farm was being rented by about a dozen fellow students, and I really liked living there. We shared two small houses on the property and a fair sized barn complete with chickens, horses, and goats. With summer coming on, I slept in the hay loft. This was very pleasant except for the rooster, who started crowing every morning at 3 o’clock. I took to keeping a supply of shoes and other objects hear my pillow to bombard him with when he started in.

This was a relatively happy time in my life. Nothing more was expected of me than to help with the chores. The only specific job I had was to milk the goat. In addition I helped with the cooking, cleaning, chickens, and gardening. Our odd group caught the interest of a semi-hip social worker, who awarded each of us with food stamps, so we pooled these and had plenty to eat. I loved living in the country and the twelve of us got along quite well.

At some point during that summer, someone commented that it was too bad we couldn’t always live like this. From there, a conversation about possibilities turned into a decision to buy land together. How and where we weren’t certain of in the beginning, but we all agreed to go our separate ways for a year, and earn as much money as we could. At the end of that year we would meet up again, buy our land, and begin our new communal life together.

At the end of that summer a friend and I were on our way to New Orleans. We weren’t sure what we were going to do once we got there, but we had our goal, and that was good enough.Content copyright 2008 by https://encouragetheyoungwomen.wordpress.com/. If you find it anywhere else, it’s been stolen.
Click here for part 4.


Responses

  1. Thanks for your comment on the communication thing. Glad I’m not the only one to see the problem. The issue I have is when Christianized resources point people away from God instead of toward Him, and/or become the authority for understanding the Bible, instead of the Bible being the authority for understanding the products. The individual in question practically fled from any possibility of being evaluated by the Bible’s standards, instead trying to force me into his alternate interpretive framework. That disappointed me greatly.

    I appreciate your testimony. Sure like your header graphic, too–so focussed on the Scripture passage and so personal at the same time.

    Keep on encouraging the younger women. :~)


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