Bonnie Yarry has a B.A. in History from City College of New York, writes for trade publications and free-lances
for the Orlando Sentinel newspaper. Her career began at age nine as an artist's model and she's had jobs
from funeral home secretary, tour guide and flight attendant to editor of a federal newspaper, tutor, teacher,
and graphologist. She travels with her husband and they collaborate on photo essays for periodicals. Her
bag is always packed awaiting the next adventure. She is trying to get her novel published and has been a
daily diarist since the age of thirteen.
for the Orlando Sentinel newspaper. Her career began at age nine as an artist's model and she's had jobs
from funeral home secretary, tour guide and flight attendant to editor of a federal newspaper, tutor, teacher,
and graphologist. She travels with her husband and they collaborate on photo essays for periodicals. Her
bag is always packed awaiting the next adventure. She is trying to get her novel published and has been a
daily diarist since the age of thirteen.
E = Calculus²
Wednesday, October 9, 1963, New York City
Two weeks into my freshman year of college, Professor Rhodes asked me to stay after Calculus. Oh no! I winced. Don’t
tell me blowing Bazooka in class did me in, but heck, I was trying to stop smoking.
“Miss Young,” he began in an octave lower than his seminar lecture voice, “I see you have an excellent grasp of calculus
and do well on my tests.”
He gave us a surprise test Friday, another Monday and a quiz today. The guy is exam-mad.
“Thank you.”
“This class isn’t a challenge for you and perhaps you would like to tutor students who need help.”
“I don’t think so. It’s just that I took calculus in high school and remember a lot. A term of math is required for B.A.
majors so I took this. I’m not really good.”
“Oh, but you are, Miss Young. When is your last class over today?”
“At four in Markham.” Markham Hall on South Campus was a ten block walk from North Campus where I was now.
“How about we meet at quarter past four in my office and we work out a schedule?”
“Sure, but I think you have the wrong girl.”
“No, I am certain I don’t. See you at four fifteen in B23.”
A mere seventeen years old and a professor singled me out! I was flattered and proceeded to the snack bar in Daley Hall
to order a tuna fish, lettuce and tomato sandwich on white toast and a cup of black coffee with saccharine. With three
quarters of an hour to spare, I reviewed my calculus notes in between bites. Tutoring my cousin in G.E.D. geometry
wasn’t the same as college math. Besides, I only did that twice and felt guilty about not devoting more time to her.
My English professor is ancient. We call him Monotone Man. Our assignment was to write a page: Would Ernest
Hemingway accept the vision of reality present in Pulvis et Umbra by Robert Louis Stevenson? I had a hard time
concentrating, no less understanding, but filled a page with gibberish.
Monotone Man kept us late so I had no time to stop in the bathroom after class and my back teeth were floating as I ran
down the stairs in Sheeler Hall while brushing my hair. I arrived at B23 at precisely at four fifteen. Professor Rhodes was
seated behind a tan metal desk with only two sharpened pencils and a five by seven lined notepad. No calculus text, no
student papers to mark, no shelves housing math books, no testimonials on the wall, just the scent of incense like the
punks we smoked as kids thinking we were cool. The place reminded me of the interrogation room used by Sergeant
Friday on Dragnet to shake down a suspect. Highlights’, “What’s Wrong with this Picture?” flashed before me.
Professor Rhodes arose from his desk, tip-toed to the door and gently closed it.
“You can leave it open. I don’t mind.”
“No, Miss Young, we need to concentrate.”
“But it’s hot in here with no windows.” I felt my voice shaking.
“Take off your sweater. You’ll be fine.”
“Nah, I’m okay.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Sit down, Miss Young. Just relax.”
I thought I faked being relaxed, but apparently I exuded nervous vibes. I didn’t sit all the way back, but planted my
derriere on the edge of the wooden armchair, the kind of hard seat stationed outside the principal’s office that we sick
kids sat on while P.S. 148’s school secretary called our mothers to come and take us home.
And then! Oh, gosh, dear God, suddenly this crew cut choir boy (because that’s what he resembled to me) turned into a
giant octopus. He simultaneously blocked my path of escape by standing in front of me while opening his fly and, oh, I
can’t write the rest.
When he whipped out that thing I acted instinctively. I bit hard like I did when the dentist took an impression to fit me
for braces. Professor Rhodes leapt back in pain and grabbed his private parts and I likewise grabbed my purse and
books, flung open the door, ran up the stairs and continued sprinting until I exited Sheeler Hall.
I found myself in the Girls’ Bathroom of the Chapman Library, midway between North and South Campus, not knowing
how I landed there. The girl who stared at me in the mirror was a stranger, red countenance, hair disheveled, with beads
of sweat on her forehead. I washed my face and found a sticky crystal Life Saver in my bag. It was the last of the roll
and had loose tobacco stuck to it from cigarettes I mooched during the day. I washed off the clear round candy and
swished it around in my mouth to ensure it touched every tooth, upper and lower gums, and palette and tongue.
What a fool I was! Dummy, why couldn’t I see the train wreck coming?
Heading back to North Campus to pass Sheeler Hall to take the D train in Morningside Heights at 145th Street made me
cringe, so I opted for the less than safe route now that it was dark of walking along St. Nicholas Terrace, desolate with
the steep drop to the park below, and passing the resident drug addicts awaiting their fix on stoops of the tenements,
figuring two disasters couldn’t strike me in one day.
But I was wrong.
***
I don’t want to write about my next experience, yet it sneaks to the front of my thoughts, like one customer in
Waldbaum’s Supermarket begging another, “I only have three items; please let me go ahead of you.”
Evening rush hour. I hopped on the D at 125th Street and had my choice of seats riding against commuters until I
switched at Seventh Avenue to the E, the Sardine Special, for the usual vertical football pileup. My standard train tactic
— waiting until the mass of people enter and then squeeze in just as the doors start to close so my back is wedged
against the door and my bag is hanging down in front of my abdomen while my books are flush against my breasts —
failed me today. I was propelled into the car with the throng behind me and my chest leaned against the passengers’
hands as they clutched the center pole. I had to tilt my face to one side to avoid being smacked in the nose by the metal
shaft.
When I left home this morning, Mommy warned, “You’re dragging the season. You’ll catch a cold.”
The calendar decreed it fall but the weather matched January’s. Guilt. Now I suffered the consequences of wearing this
waist hugging suede jacket instead of my knee length coat?
As soon as the E moved I felt the protruding part of a man grinding back and forth against my rear. Was my butt
seductive like Gina Lollobrigida’s? A wave of nausea overcame me, that sickening feeling of dread of what might come
next. My brain raced. What to do? Scream? Don’t draw attention to yourself. Try to move? Where? I stealthily rolled my
shoulders back and attempted to make my wings kiss. Don’t shift from one leg to another. He’ll feel the movement and
think I am encouraging him. Stay paralyzed, muscles contracted, like standing on line in second grade to receive the
polio vaccine shot. I tried holding my breath same as I practiced in the dentist’s chair of torture when normal inhalation
and exhalation took all my concentration insisting I can endure one minute of anything: Drilling without Novocain, Frankie’
s slovenly kisses, or waiting for an empty toilet in Macy’s when my back teeth are floating.
Seventh Avenue is the worst station because the E always creeps to Fifth Avenue to merge onto the track it shares with
the F also headed to Queens. It’s creeping. Creeping slower... and more slowly... and now... motor idling... off. Oh no,
lights out. Don’t panic; don’t panic! Try counting. Sweating. Fans stopped. Why don’t you stop, disgusting man?
Remain silent. Scared. What if he gets mad and does something worse to me? Think of sunshine. Bouncing Spaldine?
Close my eyes.
A, my name is Alice
And my husband’s name is Al
We come from Alaska
And we sell apples.
B, my name is –
Should I butt him with my head? Should I kick back? No, maybe I’ll miss him and bang someone else. Step on his feet?
No, just endure this horrendous experience and get out of the train at Fifth Avenue. Jump rope.
Teddy Bear
Teddy Bear
Turn a-round
Teddy Bear
Teddy Bear
Touch the ground!
Teddy Bear
Teddy Bear
Do a split –
No!!! Legs apart. Ghastly image!
Lights on! Motor starting. Moving slowly. The fortyish lady opposite me lifts her head and we make eye contact. I feel
her cigarette breath on my cheek. Without speaking, I squint towards the left as I angle my head a quarter of an inch in
the same direction and scrunch up the muscles of my mouth to indicate discomfort while trying to keep the rest of my
body motionless. She understands as she nods the slightest acknowledgement. It probably happened to her too.
Fifth Avenue! Doors open. I push my way out and don’t look back. Just let me get away. I bury myself in the pack of
high schoolers waiting for the F. As my body cools, I feel the wetness on my skirt near the crack of my buttocks. He
must’ve been a short man. Another wave of nausea overcomes me. Sick man getting his kicks on me. I try not to let
anyone see my shaking and shivering. Please let me just get home quickly to wash my clothes and take a bath and tell
Mommy. On second thought, nix the Mommy.
Welcome to the real world of E = Calculus² Miss Young!
Wednesday, October 9, 1963, New York City
Two weeks into my freshman year of college, Professor Rhodes asked me to stay after Calculus. Oh no! I winced. Don’t
tell me blowing Bazooka in class did me in, but heck, I was trying to stop smoking.
“Miss Young,” he began in an octave lower than his seminar lecture voice, “I see you have an excellent grasp of calculus
and do well on my tests.”
He gave us a surprise test Friday, another Monday and a quiz today. The guy is exam-mad.
“Thank you.”
“This class isn’t a challenge for you and perhaps you would like to tutor students who need help.”
“I don’t think so. It’s just that I took calculus in high school and remember a lot. A term of math is required for B.A.
majors so I took this. I’m not really good.”
“Oh, but you are, Miss Young. When is your last class over today?”
“At four in Markham.” Markham Hall on South Campus was a ten block walk from North Campus where I was now.
“How about we meet at quarter past four in my office and we work out a schedule?”
“Sure, but I think you have the wrong girl.”
“No, I am certain I don’t. See you at four fifteen in B23.”
A mere seventeen years old and a professor singled me out! I was flattered and proceeded to the snack bar in Daley Hall
to order a tuna fish, lettuce and tomato sandwich on white toast and a cup of black coffee with saccharine. With three
quarters of an hour to spare, I reviewed my calculus notes in between bites. Tutoring my cousin in G.E.D. geometry
wasn’t the same as college math. Besides, I only did that twice and felt guilty about not devoting more time to her.
My English professor is ancient. We call him Monotone Man. Our assignment was to write a page: Would Ernest
Hemingway accept the vision of reality present in Pulvis et Umbra by Robert Louis Stevenson? I had a hard time
concentrating, no less understanding, but filled a page with gibberish.
Monotone Man kept us late so I had no time to stop in the bathroom after class and my back teeth were floating as I ran
down the stairs in Sheeler Hall while brushing my hair. I arrived at B23 at precisely at four fifteen. Professor Rhodes was
seated behind a tan metal desk with only two sharpened pencils and a five by seven lined notepad. No calculus text, no
student papers to mark, no shelves housing math books, no testimonials on the wall, just the scent of incense like the
punks we smoked as kids thinking we were cool. The place reminded me of the interrogation room used by Sergeant
Friday on Dragnet to shake down a suspect. Highlights’, “What’s Wrong with this Picture?” flashed before me.
Professor Rhodes arose from his desk, tip-toed to the door and gently closed it.
“You can leave it open. I don’t mind.”
“No, Miss Young, we need to concentrate.”
“But it’s hot in here with no windows.” I felt my voice shaking.
“Take off your sweater. You’ll be fine.”
“Nah, I’m okay.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Sit down, Miss Young. Just relax.”
I thought I faked being relaxed, but apparently I exuded nervous vibes. I didn’t sit all the way back, but planted my
derriere on the edge of the wooden armchair, the kind of hard seat stationed outside the principal’s office that we sick
kids sat on while P.S. 148’s school secretary called our mothers to come and take us home.
And then! Oh, gosh, dear God, suddenly this crew cut choir boy (because that’s what he resembled to me) turned into a
giant octopus. He simultaneously blocked my path of escape by standing in front of me while opening his fly and, oh, I
can’t write the rest.
When he whipped out that thing I acted instinctively. I bit hard like I did when the dentist took an impression to fit me
for braces. Professor Rhodes leapt back in pain and grabbed his private parts and I likewise grabbed my purse and
books, flung open the door, ran up the stairs and continued sprinting until I exited Sheeler Hall.
I found myself in the Girls’ Bathroom of the Chapman Library, midway between North and South Campus, not knowing
how I landed there. The girl who stared at me in the mirror was a stranger, red countenance, hair disheveled, with beads
of sweat on her forehead. I washed my face and found a sticky crystal Life Saver in my bag. It was the last of the roll
and had loose tobacco stuck to it from cigarettes I mooched during the day. I washed off the clear round candy and
swished it around in my mouth to ensure it touched every tooth, upper and lower gums, and palette and tongue.
What a fool I was! Dummy, why couldn’t I see the train wreck coming?
Heading back to North Campus to pass Sheeler Hall to take the D train in Morningside Heights at 145th Street made me
cringe, so I opted for the less than safe route now that it was dark of walking along St. Nicholas Terrace, desolate with
the steep drop to the park below, and passing the resident drug addicts awaiting their fix on stoops of the tenements,
figuring two disasters couldn’t strike me in one day.
But I was wrong.
***
I don’t want to write about my next experience, yet it sneaks to the front of my thoughts, like one customer in
Waldbaum’s Supermarket begging another, “I only have three items; please let me go ahead of you.”
Evening rush hour. I hopped on the D at 125th Street and had my choice of seats riding against commuters until I
switched at Seventh Avenue to the E, the Sardine Special, for the usual vertical football pileup. My standard train tactic
— waiting until the mass of people enter and then squeeze in just as the doors start to close so my back is wedged
against the door and my bag is hanging down in front of my abdomen while my books are flush against my breasts —
failed me today. I was propelled into the car with the throng behind me and my chest leaned against the passengers’
hands as they clutched the center pole. I had to tilt my face to one side to avoid being smacked in the nose by the metal
shaft.
When I left home this morning, Mommy warned, “You’re dragging the season. You’ll catch a cold.”
The calendar decreed it fall but the weather matched January’s. Guilt. Now I suffered the consequences of wearing this
waist hugging suede jacket instead of my knee length coat?
As soon as the E moved I felt the protruding part of a man grinding back and forth against my rear. Was my butt
seductive like Gina Lollobrigida’s? A wave of nausea overcame me, that sickening feeling of dread of what might come
next. My brain raced. What to do? Scream? Don’t draw attention to yourself. Try to move? Where? I stealthily rolled my
shoulders back and attempted to make my wings kiss. Don’t shift from one leg to another. He’ll feel the movement and
think I am encouraging him. Stay paralyzed, muscles contracted, like standing on line in second grade to receive the
polio vaccine shot. I tried holding my breath same as I practiced in the dentist’s chair of torture when normal inhalation
and exhalation took all my concentration insisting I can endure one minute of anything: Drilling without Novocain, Frankie’
s slovenly kisses, or waiting for an empty toilet in Macy’s when my back teeth are floating.
Seventh Avenue is the worst station because the E always creeps to Fifth Avenue to merge onto the track it shares with
the F also headed to Queens. It’s creeping. Creeping slower... and more slowly... and now... motor idling... off. Oh no,
lights out. Don’t panic; don’t panic! Try counting. Sweating. Fans stopped. Why don’t you stop, disgusting man?
Remain silent. Scared. What if he gets mad and does something worse to me? Think of sunshine. Bouncing Spaldine?
Close my eyes.
A, my name is Alice
And my husband’s name is Al
We come from Alaska
And we sell apples.
B, my name is –
Should I butt him with my head? Should I kick back? No, maybe I’ll miss him and bang someone else. Step on his feet?
No, just endure this horrendous experience and get out of the train at Fifth Avenue. Jump rope.
Teddy Bear
Teddy Bear
Turn a-round
Teddy Bear
Teddy Bear
Touch the ground!
Teddy Bear
Teddy Bear
Do a split –
No!!! Legs apart. Ghastly image!
Lights on! Motor starting. Moving slowly. The fortyish lady opposite me lifts her head and we make eye contact. I feel
her cigarette breath on my cheek. Without speaking, I squint towards the left as I angle my head a quarter of an inch in
the same direction and scrunch up the muscles of my mouth to indicate discomfort while trying to keep the rest of my
body motionless. She understands as she nods the slightest acknowledgement. It probably happened to her too.
Fifth Avenue! Doors open. I push my way out and don’t look back. Just let me get away. I bury myself in the pack of
high schoolers waiting for the F. As my body cools, I feel the wetness on my skirt near the crack of my buttocks. He
must’ve been a short man. Another wave of nausea overcomes me. Sick man getting his kicks on me. I try not to let
anyone see my shaking and shivering. Please let me just get home quickly to wash my clothes and take a bath and tell
Mommy. On second thought, nix the Mommy.
Welcome to the real world of E = Calculus² Miss Young!
Bonnie Yarry
