Commemorating Martin Luther King Day always takes me back to 1964 when I was a freshman at Mount Mary College in Milwaukee. A first-class academic institution, MMC was also a “finishing school” for pampered girls from wealthy families.
Could a dairy farmer’s daughter fit in? I was about to find out.
From the day I failed at driving a tractor, I was determined to go to college. I worked hard at St. Mary’s Menasha where our teachers were School Sisters of Notre Dame, doing a side gig recruiting girls to pursue a “vocation” at their convent in Mequon. Definitely not nun material, I stubbornly resisted.
It fell to my typing teacher to make one last try my senior year. She was livid when my answer was no and said I was squandering 12 years of Catholic education and thwarting God’s will by not becoming a nun. I ended up with all A’s, except for that B-plus in typing.
Though I prayed for a way to pay for college, I hadn’t heard anything by March and got desperate enough to consider the convent. Then in April, I was called to the principal’s office. Sister Lucille Marie said I’d won the Frank Sensenbrenner full-tuition scholarship to Mount Mary. It was a great honor, but I knew I couldn’t afford the housing and fees and tearfully declined.
When I got home, Mom said Gertrude Bergstrom, Frank Sensenbrenner’s daughter, had phoned and asked me to call her. A nervous wreck, I dialed her number. When she came on the line, Mrs. Bergstrom said she was chairman of the Mount Mary Board of Governors. If I went there, she’d pay all my expenses, provided I maintained a B average and kept this a secret until she died. “Yes!” I said. Just like that, this Cinderella had a fairy godmother.
I toured MMC in August, registered for classes and met with the house mother. All went well until she said girls like me often found dorm life at MMC difficult. “Some of your classmates won’t be here for the same reason you are. Their primary purpose is to find a husband, meeting him at socials hosted by MSOE or Marquette fraternities. These events are popular among upperclassmen seeking a suitable wife. Don’t feel bad when you aren’t invited.”
I thought she was joking — until I met my roommate. I knew little about Marianne except what I’d gleaned from one letter written on expensive stationery. She was from Indiana, had attended a private all-girls high school, and wrote that if I was quiet and neat, we would get along just fine. Splendid.
Mom and Dad proudly drove me down in September, my bulging suitcase and painstakingly packed cardboard box stowed in the trunk. When we found Room 282, Marianne had already staked out her claim. She’d taken the better bed and dresser; her tailored wardrobe occupied three-fourths of the closet. I was unpacking my belongings when she popped in, chirped a bright hello, then frowned in confusion.
Looking us over, she blurted out: “Oh my God, you’re poor.”
I’d never known my father to be at a loss for words, and he did not disappoint. “Rich or poor, we all put on our pants the same way,” he replied.
Marianne’s face turned a bright red as she made a hasty exit. With no other choice, we had to get along, though it was no fun living with a neat freak — an immaculately groomed, perfectly coiffed witch with a capital B.
In an amazing stroke of luck, Marianne met Mr. Right at a Marquette Halloween party. A handsome preppy, he’d be graduating early to start dental school. She was engaged by Christmas and gone by January, having punched her ticket to a charmed existence as the Stepford Wife of a successful orthodontist.
Me? I hit the jackpot in the replacement roommate lottery. Ramone was also from Indiana, but as one of the few black girls in our dorm, she’d had her own issues adjusting. She was beautiful, inside and out. Gorgeous hair, flawless skin, flashing black eyes and a laugh that made music.
We talked far into the night about the Civil Rights Movement led by a mesmerizing Baptist preacher named Martin Luther King. Her brother had been at the Lincoln Memorial for Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. We both joined the International Relations Club, where I acquired my love for politics, travel and history.
Ramone left MMC at the end of sophomore year to care for her brother. He’d been badly beaten on Bloody Sunday (March 7, 1965) when he and 600 other protesters were attacked with clubs and tear gas by law enforcement at the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma. Sadly, I lost track of her, but every MLK Day I remember how we shared the same dream: making the world a better place. Something tells me she succeeded.
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
