He showed up at the school one evening with an equipment delivery. Another student and I had just finished cleaning and closing the kitchen for the night. We were headed out the door as Rashaad was entering. As soon as the coast was clear, I made my way back to the kitchen where he was waiting for me. I don’t know what made him do it, but for some reason, Rashaad turned off the light before we moved to the back part of the kitchen. I was in his arms when we heard the door open.
We swiftly moved apart and as the light was switched on, I made sure my skirt was down.
We tried to act normal as Miss Robinette came around the corner. She was surprised to see us but Rashaad acted cool and began talking about the delivery he had just brought. I pretended I was looking for something as I made my way out the door. If only he hadn’t turned out the light it wouldn’t have been so suspicious. We couldn’t be seen from the back anyway. But also who would’ve thought Ms. Robinette was going to be in the building at eight o clock at night? Could she not wait until the morning to check out her new used slicer?
The very next day, I was called into Miss Robinette’s office. My heart pounded and I swallowed too often. But like Rashaad, I also denied any immoral reason for the lights being off and my words were accepted as truth. However, in the weeks that followed, I began to rapidly accumulate guilt. I didn’t feel guilty for the kissing and touching. I felt guilty for lying about it. I grew up listening to Ron Hamilton (Patch the Pirate) songs. We sang them in Sunday School, Vacation Bible School and at home. Even the Ambassador Baptist College Ensemble sang them.
“Tell the Truth,” was one that was stuck on repeat in my head. And recently, it seemed like every sermon was about deception. One morning, during the chapel service, a guest preacher referenced I Timothy 4:2- Speaking lies in hypocrisy; having their conscience seared with a hot iron. My father had preached from this same passage many times during which he compared a seared (desensitized) conscience from too much lying to the scar tissue on cattle where they were marked with a hot branding iron.
After wrestling back and forth with myself, I finally made a decision. I was going to confess my lie. Even if I never told the truth, my time with Rashaad was still coming to a close. At the end of the semester, which was days away, I was going to Indiana for a summer ministry. And he was moving to Greenville, SC to fulfill his dream of enrolling in Harold Sightler’s seminary. I had no hope of continued contact once he was gone. He had told me early on in this forbidden relationship that he couldn’t marry me because to be in the ministry, he had to “marry a black woman.”
I too had been brought up to believe that Christians shouldn’t have interracial marriages.
But I had tossed out that notion the same night he first kissed me if not before. I didn’t understand how he could just leave me. I didn’t know why he wasn’t attached to me like I was to him. I had turned eighteen in February and I would’ve run away with him. My heart was tortured and I didn’t have a single soul to whom I could spill my secrets. Nobody, not even my sister, knew. She would’ve immediately told my father.
Two days before the semester ended, I made my way into Dr. Childs’ office. He was my favorite professor hands down. He genuinely loved us kids and harsh judgment was not his forte. With tears streaming down my face, I confessed how I lied to Miss Robinette. In retrospect, I find it interesting that I never mentioned what happened in the piano rooms or at camp. My guilt was only for lying. Dr. Childs didn’t shame or scold me. He listened without criticism and then prayed aloud.
As he spoke to God on my behalf, he quoted Psalm 51:17 which reads, The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise. Before I left his office, he said that he had to speak with the Dean, Dr. Surrett, to determine the course of disciplinary action. I could barely function the rest of the day. Other students were excitedly preparing for summer break while I was grieving the anticipated loss of Rashaad and wondering what was going to happen to me. More than anything, I was afraid that Dr. Surrett would call my father and tell him what I did.
Or if they didn’t call him but still kicked me out, my father would still discover my actions. That was the worst possible outcome I could envision. I didn’t know then, that one day, I was going to be living a life so different, that I could’ve almost forgotten I was once a love sick and broken hearted girl who wore a long modest skirt inside a cult school, while waiting to see if her father was going to find out that she was a whore; the girl so laden with fear and guilt, that she confessed her lie to keep her conscience from getting seared.
The next day I was called back into the office.
A decision had been made. I was going to receive one demerit shy of the number required for expulsion. And they wouldn’t drop off at the end of the semester since this was the last day of the semester. They would carry over to the fall. Surprisingly, I was still going to be allowed to complete my summer internship at Hephzibah House, a reform school for girls, in Winona Lake, IN. And thankfully, my father wasn’t going to be be notified. Relief was what I felt as I walked out of the office and into the sunshine outside.