My Bedeviled Country Susan Neville (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Photo courtesy of Division of Medicine and Science, National Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution [End Page 110] I have in my mind a special room with iron doors. The things I don't like I throw in there and slam the doors. —Edith Head Events as I remember them, when placed over the historical record of an era, do not add up. They harmonize, but barely, creating a fuzzy line of historical and personal memory that makes me question whether I existed in that time at all. For instance, it's as though there was a decade known as the '70s with a certain narrative that, like a black hole, pulls all memories of those years, both personal and public, toward it but leaves them in a jumbled mess. I don't know whether to attribute this most to the failure of memory, the power of myth, or something else entirely. [End Page 111] So. It was a weeknight my junior or senior year of college, in the spring as I remember, the first years of the 1970s, when the campus doctor gave a presentation in the freshman dorm. I was in my early twenties. I was a woman, I thought, a sexual being, no longer a girl. And so everything seemed newly born. Even the names of things as simple as flowers were new to me, as though spring hadn't really existed until I woke up and noticed it. Tulip, lilac, daffodil, forsythia. Suddenly I could name them. Where had I been all my life? I walked through that Midwestern college town as though it were a movie set or water, walked through it as though I'd never experienced the pressure of air on my skin, the sweet scent and texture of it. The light in the lobby of that dorm was greenish gold as I remember it, that particular spring light that surrounds the doctor in my memory now, holding up a plastic implement so we all could see. He stood, I think, in front of a black grand piano. But how old was I exactly, and which spring, and why am I remembering the event in the lobby of a freshman dorm I never lived in? I'm not sure. I don't remember what the doctor looked like, but I remember that he was earnest. I remember the light, the device (the thing itself or an image from the packaging?) and the grand piano. What could possibly have gotten into the doctor's head that made him feel the need to gather all the female students together one spring afternoon to—as I'm sure he thought—make our lives better? A kickback? Impossible. I only think of that now that I'm old and cynical, but it's hard for me to believe my older, more cynical self. He wasn't a person who gave speeches or the type of adult who would put young women's lives at risk for money. While I can't picture him as he really was, it's incredible how easily my memory rushes in to fill the blank space of him: I believe I remember thinking that the poor, round, bespectacled, middle-aged balding man must spend all his time worrying about us, the young women having sex day and night, with only one doctor to keep us safe. The campus was the rye, and he was our catcher. I was sure at the time that he saw himself that way. Or maybe he was jealous of the professors holding forth, and he wanted his moment. Who knows? We assumed, if we thought of him at all, that he was some kind of failure or he would have been a real doctor still—because of course he must have left some lucrative practice due to a scandal. Now he was a campus doctor, down on his luck, who lived in a small town and gave us our prescriptions for the pill. He did the tests for [End Page 112] venereal and other infectious diseases. Aside from your basic colds and cases of...
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