This morning's classes were lovely, yet uneventful. I like both of my professors (one from France and the other four moths pregnant)--they seemed smart and nice and together. I thought I had dance today, but after arriving at Pem studio on time, I was told that dance starts next week.
My real adventure of the day came this afternoon, when, in having some spare time, I wandered into Canaday Library. I took the orange door to head to Special Collections. First, after finding her picture in the 1945 yearbook, I began a small search for the footsteps of my grandmother, Elizabeth Boudreau (BA '45, MA '48). The woman working there seemed slightly annoyed at everything, but was otherwise very helpful and useful. She gave me Grandma Elizabeth's file. This file included all her updates for the alumnae association, as well as clips from her memorial service and a list of her work published in the Lantern (the BMC lit mag. I believe). We started out with student records, as I wanted to find out where she lived.
I have to admit, I was slightly disappointed when I found out she was not a Denbigh girl (although I believe at the time Denbigh and the Pems were the rich girls dorms...not sure, maybe I'll investigate this). She lived in Rockefeller her first two years, and then in Wyndham (when it was a dorm) her second two. She worked in the Deanery as a waitress for extra spending money for a time. She didn't seem to be involved in many activities (some writing for the paper was all I found), and the years she was there were "below par" in her words because of the war. She thought Bryn Mawr a wonderful institution (although she was annoyed about their corporate attitude towards asking for money...she did so hate money!).
I always knew about her incredible sadness and distress about the world, but this gave me another interesting take on it. She mentioned getting older, taking medications for her various ailments, and above all, her excitement about her children, grandchildren, cats and dogs.
She was so smart, so incredibly brilliant, and yet the world could not account for that in the time she lived in. She spoke many languages, was scientific--she described one of her jobs as "furthering scientific literacy"--and thought so well. She worked for the U.S.G.S, and was a substitute teacher, but I think she never got the proper recognition by society that she deserved for her brains. This, I'm sure, left her with a bitterness towards the academic world (including Bryn Mawr), even though she loved and lived the best she could. (Also the whole trauma of her sister's death and mothers following insanity did not help her state). She went to Bryn Mawr in the war years--she wrote something about red lanterns being donated to the war effort (another thing I'll investigate further)--so her time here must have been riddled with loss and helplessness. The yearbook was dedicated to the professors off fighting....I can't imagine the impact the war had on the campus.
She was a particular woman ("detest them" was the response to any reunion invitations), and she was saddened by the fact that nobody wanted to keep in touch after college years. She noted that Bryn Mawr should teach a class on the use of household appliances....that, she thought, would be most useful!
Although somewhat saddening, I got a glimpse into the college experience and personality of my grandmother. I knew her always as a wonderful woman, and she still is that to me, yet now I know more about what her experience here was like.
I found one poem, one article on the League of Nations, and one sad love story written for the lantern--and what a writer she was!
Here is a humorous poem I copied from the May 1942 issue of the Lantern:
Bryn Mawr at Dawn: A Rhapsody
The bells are clanging loud and clear at eight
O'Clock; forgotten last night's burps rise fast,
And glamourpussies curse that bast---
O naughty word! that unkind cruel fate
Bestowed on them for last night's---date
And then, quite raw, from bed they rise at last
And make the effort for their sould to mate
With Kant, Spinoza, Hobbes, Descartes, and Plat--
But their mates they'll find, not for their souls,
For unlike body, soul's inanimate
(Though this hypothesis has many leaks)
And from the bottom of a drinking-bowl,
Become a loving cup you'll find a mate
(That is, if the eyes have it at the Greek's).
-Elizabeth Boudreau
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