After we’d been together for several months, Alex gave me a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate for my birthday to an upscale jewelry store in Boston. Even though I’d never heard of the place, I was beyond excited at having an opportunity to pick out whatever I wanted. This was my first gift certificate, the first time I’d had a significant chunk of money to spend on myself—a huge amount in 1975 when rent for a two-bedroom apartment was $150. When I saw the building on Boylston Street, the glittering baubles in the windows overwhelmed me. I never would’ve gone in there on my own, but Alex led me through the front doors like he owned the place despite his ratty jeans and wrinkled shirt. I spent a long time looking at the glass displays, mesmerized by the expense and gaudiness of most of the merchandise. Uncharacteristically, Alex hung back instead of telling me what to do. I chose a pair of heavy, silver dangling earrings made in Mexico that cost exactly the amount of my gift. The salesclerk put them in a beautiful box and substantial tote bag. When the exchange was complete, Alex approached me with that maniacal laugh, and said, “It was really wild to watch a welfare mother shop at Shreve Crump and Low.” I’d hoped Alex gave me such a special gift as an expression of love. Realizing I was the pawn in his socioeconomic experiment stung. I’d had the audacity to accept generosity when what I was given felt like derision.
By this time, I was attending college thanks to a federal program to assist single mothers get off welfare. My major was art education, and my first elective was ceramics. The physicality of kneading clay and rolling coils, along with the concentration involved in throwing pots on the wheel, soothed my jagged psyche. The class was small and mostly female. The instructor was a beautiful, breezy, blond woman I’d met at the farmhouse where Alex lived.
One afternoon in the empty studio space as I worked on a coiled pot, I sang to myself softly not realizing there was anyone else in the room.
“Is that Joni Mitchell?”
Embarrassed but pleased the song was recognizable, I smiled. Edith, another student in the class who had been around a corner working on a wheel, swayed across the room, stood right next to me, and leaned on the table beaming warmly. I’d noticed her in class because she seemed so calm and happy, engaging others easily. Her lips were red and full, her eyes huge, and her short, curly hair an unruly mess. No other woman had ever looked at me like that. It was similar in intensity to Alex’s stare when we first met, except it wasn’t predatory. As our eyes locked, she said, “I love Joni Mitchell.”
Unable to return her gaze for more than a second, I mumbled, “She’s my favorite.”