1968

By Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.

It was not unlike our own turbulent and tortured time.  A deeply unpopular Democratic President, forced by circumstances to step aside, a hunger for new leadership that would inspire the restive youth of our country, a tumultuous Democratic convention in Chicago, a divisive foreign war, sparking massive protests at Columbia and on many campuses across the nation, and so on.  The parallels between that time and ours are as uncanny as they are undeniable.  That was the year, 1968.

         Who, having lived through it as an adult, could forget the year 1968? The sudden declaration by Lyndon Johnson that he would not run for president again; the assassination shortly thereafter of Martin Luther King, and within two months of that, of Robert Kennedy; the student and worker uprisings in Paris; the riots and police brutality at Columbia; the violence-plagued Democratic convention in Chicago (“the whole world is watching”); the contentious and bitterly fought close election that brought Nixon to power; and throughout that year, the dismal and divisive Vietnam war that was tearing the country apart. Indeed, the whole fabric of American society that year seemed rent in a dozen ways, and it was far from certain then whether or how it could ever be woven back together again. That was 1968, and the enduring images and memories that will always mark it as a nodal time in our country’s recent political history.

         And that was the backdrop to what was surely one of the most turbulent and eventful years in my personal life as well. Everything in my life, too, was up for grabs that year.

         In December of the previous year, I had turned 32—or, as I remember calling it, 2 to the 5th. That year, my birthday was orchestrated by a woman friend of mine, a graduate student named Marty, who was to play a pivotal role in my life in the year to come. Unbeknownst to me, she had organized a surprise party at my house, and when I walked in that night, thinking that there would just be Marty and a few close friends to celebrate with me, my house was packed with dozens of people shouting “sur-prise!” and then laughing their eyeballs out when I felt like dropping through the floor in embarrassment unto mortification. But I soon got over it, and had a great time dancing and carrying on with my friends. I remember, among other things, dancing with one of our graduate students in social psychology, Pilar, a lissome and raven-haired Peruvian of great beauty, who was said to be a princess and who always gave off an air of exotic mystery. The bedlam and mania of that party would be an augury for the new year just around the corner.                         

         It’s difficult for me now to remember the sequence of events that were soon to unfold, so I won’t try to narrate the story of that year in a linear way. Instead, I will have to settle for a more impressionistic account, although I can roughly date some of the specific occurrences I will describe. First, however, a little context.

         By then, I had long been separated from Elizabeth and was living alone in a three-bedroom duplex (the same house where Elizabeth and I had previously resided) with Kathryn who would turn 5 that year in March. I seemed to have had several girlfriends that year, though I was not sexually involved with all of them. My friend, Marty, was really my best friend and confidant, and I would see her often, dropping in at her apartment, frequently with Kathryn in tow. (Marty played the role of a sometimes surrogate-mother to Kathryn, too.) Marty had already introduced me to grass (i.e., marijuana), and was much more “hip” than I was. Then there was Juliet, a former student of mine whom I had wanted to marry. We had had an intense but brief sexual relationship, and I was extremely fond of her, but she was only 20 and didn’t want to get married. Still, she introduced me to the Beatles—and to Linda Ronstadt—and she remained my friend for a long time afterward. There was also a woman named Marlene—another graduate student and a friend of Marty’s, I believe—who lived in my house for a while (but with whom I didn’t have a sexual relationship). In addition, there was another former student of mine, who had graduated a few years previously, named Victoria. She lived in New York and worked at the Bronx Zoo. One of her duties was to bring animals to schools in New York, so, as a joke, I called her “the elephant girl.” (Although she never paraded elephants around and certainly didn’t look like one, though she did, come to think of it, have somewhat leathery skin.) And, finally, there was Maria.

         Maria, too, had been a student of mine, but I didn’t realize that when she had responded to an ad early in the year. I had wanted to find someone to live with Kathryn and me who could do some cooking and household chores and occasional babysitting in return for room and board. I was somewhat disconcerted when Maria showed up at my door one day—because she was black. Not that I had anything against black people, but, er, hiring one for a domestic role? I felt embarrassed to do so, but on the other hand, she needed a place to live, and she took to Kathryn right away. And she could cook. It wasn’t long before Maria became a part of the family. (By then, I think, Marlene had left so Maria occupied her room.)

         I don’t know how this happened, but somehow I got ahold of Maria’s diary, and I started to read it. (Shame on me, I know!) It turned out she was extremely perceptive and very intelligent, and had kept large parts of herself hidden. Plus, she could write—I mean, she had talent as a writer. When I saw into that side of her, my interest in her increased. She was a very complex woman, somewhat cryptic, but she was very good with Kathryn, and that also made her attractive to me. Physically, she was rather chunky and she wasn’t particularly pretty. She was a strong woman, though. (Later, after we had become lovers, I was to see just how strong she was. She tried to strangle me one night, and it took all my strength to throw her off me.)

         Well, as you see, Maria became more than just a domestic in our house. We did become lovers, but we were very furtive about it, and it was never a matter of public knowledge (whatever people thought). I confess that I would have been embarrassed to own up to this relationship openly, so I kept it on the Q.T. This wasn’t fair to Maria, and it became a source of resentment to her (and contributed to her attempt to strangle me in a rage one night when we had been making love).

         Maria was living with us when Martin Luther King was assassinated. That brought us closer for a time. I remember she wrote a letter to Kathryn about King’s murder that she wanted Kathryn to read in later years, but I don’t know what happened to it. 

         In any event, Maria lived with us only for a semester. By the time it ended, we had grown somewhat estranged, and, besides, I had already become enamored of somebody else. More than enamored, actually—I had met the girl of my dreams and started to pursue her like a madman. Maria could see what was happening, and she left without a word of farewell. 

         In June of that year, Marty was to be married in New Jersey, and naturally I was invited to the wedding and reception. Marty, knowing that I was beginning to tire of the life of a single father, was especially eager to have me attend because, as she advised me, there would be a lot of her women friends there, and several of them would be single. In particular, she had told me to keep my eyes out for one of her friends, Susan, who, she warned me, had informed Marty beforehand that she was keen to find a husband and was hoping to check out some prospects at the reception.

         Well, it wasn’t long after the reception started that I found myself sitting catty-corner next to a woman who turned out to be this very Susan. Clearly, Marty had told her about me because the very first words she said to me (and this I have never forgotten— we used to joke about it afterward) were: “Don’t marry me, Kenneth; I’m a slob.” She spoke the truth, as I was later to learn to my sorrow, but at the time I only laughed.

         But, actually, I wasn’t really paying that much attention to Susan. Someone else—one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen—had already caught my eye and had riveted my attention. She looked like an Italian Madonna (and, indeed, she proved to be both Italian and a mother), and I couldn’t help staring at her. Still, I was so overcome with feeling that I couldn’t bring myself to approach her, so I went up to Marty and pulled her away from her other guests in order to find out who this woman was, and whether she was married. “Don’t touch her, Kenneth,” Marty said sharply. “She’s one of my best friends, and she’s already married and has a child.” 

         “Maybe she’s unhappily married,” I countered.

         Marty gave me a look that was a stern warning—keep away.

         I did, but I couldn’t help thinking about her, and I continued to steal glimpses at her until she left (she was alone). 

         When the reception was over, and just a few of Marty’s friends and family members remained, I again approached Marty. 

         “I’ve got to talk to that woman, Marty. Can’t you at least give me her number?”

         Marty was adamant.

         But so was I. I wouldn’t take no for an answer, especially after Marty eventually disclosed that she knew that Renata (as I shall call her) was not in fact so happy in her marriage. 

         That was all the encouragement I needed.

         After I returned home, I called Renata. I don’t remember what I said, but in the end, it came down to this: I asked her if she’d be willing to meet me just once in a public place, and suggested a certain pond in Central Park. She was reticent, but I believe by then Marty had advised her that she might be getting a call from me and that at least I wasn’t a pervert. Before our conversation was over Renata, with great reluctance, finally yielded and agreed to meet me.

         Perhaps only a week later—indeed, I think it was the weekend after the reception—I found Renata waiting for me at the designated location. By then, I had worked myself up into a passionate frenzy about her and already regarded myself as in love with her.

         Again, I don’t remember exactly what I said to her—probably only that I had the deepest feeling for her and wanted to get to know her. I do remember Renata saying that she was Catholic, that she had never had an affair, and that it was out of the question that she would consent to have one with me. She was married with a six-year-old boy, was an art teacher, and was deeply connected to her extended Catholic family. And here I was, a wild, sexually promiscuous Jewish professor with a daughter of my own who lived in Connecticut. The whole idea was absurd. Besides, she couldn’t engage in deception.

         And so on.

         But despite all her arguments, I must have been persuasive because by the time our meeting had ended, she agreed to meet me again, if I could get to the town in Long Island where she lived. I said I would find a way.

         I called Marty—who did not approve, but she was still willing to try to help me. I needed a cover, and Marty suggested that I call Susan, who lived in New York, and who also was very close friends with Renata. Susan had a kid, too, Marty explained, and she and Renata often went to the beach together. Maybe Susan would be willing to act as a go-between.

         I called Susan and explained the situation. She was a bit taken aback, but agreed to serve as my cover. And more—she said that if I wanted to, I could come down to New York the night before and stay at her apartment. Then we could work out the arrangements more simply so that I could sneak off with Renata while she, Susan, pretended to go to the beach with Renata and their respective kids.

         When I could get down to New York again (the next weekend), I went to Susan’s apartment, which was little more than a hovel, really. Now, I need to interrupt the narrative to give you some background on Susan, who was then in her mid-twenties.

         Susan, who was also Jewish, had had a fractious time with her family, growing up in Long Island, and had—defiantly—married a black man a couple of years earlier. Her father completely ostracized her at that point, so she and her husband, Tony, were on their own. Susan quickly got pregnant and in time gave birth to a daughter, Elise. Even before Elise’s birth, the marriage had foundered and she had separated from Tony, who then was drafted, anyway, and went to Vietnam. At the time I met Susan in her apartment, she was scrounging a living working on a film about Martin Luther King. (No wonder she wanted to find a husband— and fast.) 

         Of course, I felt sorry for Susan when I learned all this, and since we were both single parents with young daughters, there was from the start a certain bond of affinity between us. And, besides, I was indebted to her because she was willing to put herself out for me so that I could pursue a relationship with Renata.

         The next day, I was able to meet Renata at a motel—in Hicksville, Long Island, of all places. She must have been thinking about me, too, because we didn’t waste any time. I was ravenous for her and we had what I can only describe as molten sex. I was incredibly turned on and, though you will laugh, I felt like a stallion then. I remember—though this may not have been the very first time—that we made love standing up in the shower. Oh, God, I was so ardently aroused my prick felt like a ram, and Renata was equally passionate. And she was everything I had imagined— she was beautiful beyond words, she was sensual, she was glorious, and I was living somewhere beyond ecstasy. To this day, I still think that was the most intense sex I ever had with anyone.

         Over the next few weeks, we were able to meet several times like this, with my always staying over at Susan’s apartment the night before. By now, I was crazy in love with Renata, and she allowed that she was in love with me. Of course, she had tremendous guilt over what she was doing. She could never have imagined doing this sort of thing, and yet....

         At that time, I was due for a sabbatical the following year, and I was already planning to spend it in California. Indeed, I was set to spend several weeks in California in August in order to scout it out since my sabbatical would actually begin in February of 1969. So I quickly came to formulate another plan: I wanted Renata to leave her husband and come with me to California, bringing her child.

         By then I had learned that Renata was quite unhappy in her marriage and that she really didn’t love her husband. And by then she did love me. I realized that it would be a wrench for her to leave her marriage, especially since, as she told me, there had never been a divorce in her family, but she would have more than half a year to work this all out. Besides, she seemed passionate about me, and I was wildly in love with her—and, well, it was 1968, after all, and everything was breaking up and all sorts of crazy things were happening in the country. The times couldn’t have been more propitious.

         Ultimately, Renata bit the bullet. She would not forego the love we had found or the ecstasy. She would leave the marriage. I was overwhelmed with happiness.

         A few weeks later, I left for California, land of infinite possibilities, to scope out my future. 

         A little more than a week after I had arrived in California, I received a letter from Renata. She was calling it off.

         Her reasons were cogent enough: although she didn’t love her husband, she did love her family all of whom lived close by and she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them for a new life in California. Besides, if she did so, at least under these circumstances, it would cause a terrible scandal and break many hearts. She understood she would likely be breaking mine in writing this letter, and she apologized for it with sincere sorrow. She was sad, too. She had come, within a short time, to love me, but love wasn’t enough. She had to end it. The dream was over.

         I remember how I felt when I read the letter—numb with grief. I remember driving around, looking for a deserted road where I could park my car and just be with myself. I know I felt like crying, but I couldn’t; I was too sad. All the air had gone out of me. I had loved Renata with intense passion, and the thought of a life with her had filled me with anticipatory joy. Now all I felt was emptiness.

         Somehow, I knew it would be futile to try to talk Renata out of her decision. Perhaps I even realized that it was probably the right decision for her, even if it had blasted my dreams. Retrospectively, I understood I had been asking a lot of her, and I imagined at the time that once I had left for California and she had drifted back into her normal life, the pull of that life had become irresistible. Perhaps by then the life we had briefly contemplated only seemed like a fantasy to her, I don’t know.

         I don’t remember how I responded to her—I know we didn’t talk on the phone since I couldn’t call her. I probably just sent her a note of farewell without rancor. I knew she felt bad enough, anyway.

         I would never see Renata gain or have any contact with her. I only had my memories, and, obviously, I have them still. I don’t even have a photograph of her from that time—I wish I did.

         When I returned, disconsolately, from California, it was almost time to begin the new academic year, though I was hardly prepared to do so. (For academics, August is the cruelest month.) Under the circumstances, though, it was natural for me to get in touch with Susan since she had been involved in this affair from almost the beginning. And because of my staying with her, we had developed a kind of friendship of our own. 

         She was very sympathetic, of course, having become something of a confidant in the meantime. I remember we racked up very expensive phone bills during that September and October. I can also remember joking with her that if either of us didn’t find someone to be with by the end of the year, maybe we should just give up and marry each other. You should be careful what you joke about.

         But the fact was, I was both emotionally and physically exhausted as a result of all that had happened that year, culminating with the blow that Renata had dealt me. I really wanted to find someone who could be a mother to Kathryn and I no longer had the heart to chase after women or have multiple relationships with them. I wanted to get married again—and so, for her own reasons, did Susan. 

         I started thinking about Susan in a more serious way as a result of all the conversations we had been having. She was Jewish, she had spunk, her politics were radical like mine were at the time, she smoked dope, she didn’t have airs, and she was actually pretty good-looking. Plus, I liked her daughter (actually, better than I had taken to Renata’s son, the one time I saw him). All in all, it didn’t seem impossible that I could hook up with her.

         I invited her up one weekend in the fall with her daughter, Elise, who was four years old at the time. Kathryn was about five and a half, but the two of them really hit it off well. At one point, holding hands they pranced into the living room where Susan and I had been sitting, and announced, “We want to be sisters.” Susan and I laughed, and we probably gave each other a knowing look.

         Not long after that, Susan came up for another weekend, this time by herself. We made love a lot. She wasn’t Renata, but we got on sexually, and I liked her body and making love to her, too. She kept asking me, “Was I over Renata?” (She was always asking me that.)

         The fact is, I wasn’t. My sorrow over losing the dream of a life that I imagined with Renata was still intense. When I thought about it, it was like feeling stabs of pain in my heart. Susan represented something between a distraction and an anodyne—I needed to be comforted and feel the softness of a woman’s body—but she wasn’t enough to make me forget the passion I had felt for Renata. And though I was fond and appreciative of Susan, I wasn’t sure I loved her.

         I didn’t want to be dishonest with her— but I could tell it bothered her that I still had feelings for Renata. Eventually, to spare myself from her constant query, I told her that I was beginning to get over Renata, which Susan took as encouragement. The truth is, I was just getting worn down, and I could feel the pressure, not always subtle, from Susan to make a commitment to her. Plus, there were our kids to consider.

         By Thanksgiving, Susan and Elise were living with me in Storrs on a trial basis. We were pretty happy. The kids got along fantastically well. We already seemed to be a little family. Before 1968 was over, we had decided to get married—and we did early the following year.

         We went on to have a wretched marriage that lasted five storm-tossed and tear-filled years, but that is  perhaps an episode for another time.

         1968 was over, and worse, much worse, was to come.

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         There is a brief coda to this story.  You don’t need to tell me that I was a love-besotted fool, blinded by passion into pursuing an illusory fantasy, and doing harm to all concerned.  I came to rue and regret my actions, but I couldn’t undo them.  Still, I have never forgotten what I felt for Renata and would later understand why I had been struck by a coup de foudre when I first saw her.