D'Ambrosio Arts (formerly Ambrosia Arts Of Virginia)

I want to cry. My past has come back to haunt me, and I want to cry. I want to curl up in a ball, pull a blanket around me to ward off this sudden chill in my soul, and cry for what I lost, for what was, and what never same to be. It's ridiculous; it will change nothing. In fact, it will make me feel worse, but right now I want to cry.

Typical Sunday here. Nothing traumatic going on. My father came to visit and brought me the Sunday paper (The Virginian Pilot) as he always does. My husband and I watched a movie, loaned to us by a friend who's a film buff,called The Departed. Good movie with lots of twists and turns and lots of fine actors but long. I picked up the paper to go through the ads while I watched. When I got to the front page (the sections were in no particular order) there she was -- Nikki.

The front page story headline read "Tech professor reflects on tragedy." Do you know now who Nikki is? If not, let me tell you. Nikki is Nikki Giovanni, who has taught poetry at Virginia Tech for about twenty years now. How dare I call this exceptional poet by her first name? Don't I know it's rude to use a stranger's first name even when she is a public figure? Of course, I do! I refer to her as Nikki because she invited me to do so.

It was a long time ago, early 90's; another life ago. I was still married to my first husband and was in a doctorate program -- the American Studies program at William and Mary to be exact. I planned to combine social psychology and literature. My general thesis topic had already been chosen before I was accepted.
My first fleeting meeting with Nikki was there at William and Mary after she gave a talk and reading of some of her work. Some months later, I got a call from one of my mentors at Virginia Commonwealth University, Dr. Daryl C. Dance. There was going to be a program at the University of Richmond which she thought I might be interested in and I could bring a friend if I'd like; she would see me there. Sure enough when my friend, Sandy R., and I entered the chapel at U. of R., Dr. Dance waved to me; she had saved seats for us. She had brought a friend along too and wanted to introduce us. The friend was Nikki Giovanni. Nikki turned around in the pew and extended her hand. She was smiling broadly, as warm and personable up close as she appeared during her readings. The four of us exchanged small talk before the program began and when I addressed her formally, Ms. Giovanni insisted I call her Nikki. She'd heard good things about me and my scholarship from Dr. Dance, she said. After the performance -- music and poetry from the American slave era, I believe, we discussed my plans to write about another Virginia Commonwealth University professor, Barbadian born novelist, Paule Marshall. I explained that I was especially interested in the mother-daughter dynamics in Ms. Marshall's work and Nikki told me about one of her projects which involved three generations of women.

That was a rough year for me personally. I'd given up four offers to enter doctorate programs in sociology because I'd realized I would always have a need to be involved with literature. The American Studies program would allow me to use my training in both areas. I'd been so excited about it, but then became deeply disappointed and disillusioned when I discovered that the faculty wasn't supportive of the graduate students. They didn't want to take time away from their own projects to help us and that was a necessity. And there were "bugs" in the program's planning -- things that hadn't quite been ironed out and faculty didn't seem at all concerned. There's much more I could say about that but it isn't really needed. At the same time, my marriage was very strained. Then my father was admitted to the hospital for a triple bypass without there having been any warnings that he was in danger.

I argued with the then acting Director of the American Studies program when I learned some unsavory facts about how people had been chosen to receive funding and teaching stipends there. They had not followed state guidelines in all cases but had allowed the reputation of certain Ivy League school(s) to take precedence over proven scholarship, publications, and teaching experience as factors in determining who received funding. He put on a nasty snobbish attitude and informed me it had been "a judgement call" to which I replied, "I'm questioning your judgement!" The man was downright ugly to me on the phone. Meanwhile, my father was out of the hopsital but needed care at home while my mother worked. There was pressure from every side. I ended up going over the Director's head, knowing full well what that would mean. Although it was well past the drop-add period, I insisted that the Dean allow me to withdraw without penalty because my grades stood at a 4.0. When I dropped out of William and Mary, I had no idea it was the beginning of many major changes in my life. But that's another story.

Reading about Nikki today reminded me of my glory days at university. I felt more at home in academia that I've ever felt elsewhere. I loved the exchange of ideas with colleagues. I loved the students I taught and was enthusiastic about the subjects I taught and researched. Moving back here to Norfolk, my home town, after my separation from my husband, meant leaving that world behind. And I miss it terribly. So today, seeing Nikki on the front page, I missed the opportunities I might have had to know her better. I missed working with Paule Marshall on the book I wanted to write about her work, the book someone ought to write.

I missed all those wonderful students I worked with in Sociology including the young man who got angry when we were having a discussion about a wife's role in a marriage. He quoted the apostle Paul and when I suggested Paul's views didn't necessarily reflect the fullness of God's persepctive, he slammed his fist down on the desk and shouted at me: "Do you know God?" to which I replied calmly, "Yes and She doesn't have a problem with my view." That's when he called me a blasphemer. Yet, at the end of the semester, that same young man came to see me and apologized after thought and prayer and guidance from his minister.

I miss all the students I coached in writing too. Especially the ones who came in insisting they couldn't write, couldn't express themselves on paper. Writing workshop was intensive work for me but well worth it when students walked away able to write in such a manner that their messages were clear and their voices were heard.

Yes, I have regrets - at having started too late doing what I was probably meant to do -- certainly what I seem to have done best. It saddens me to think those days are gone, that I'll never be in a classroom again. It saddens me that I lost touch with so many vital, interesting people. But I have the memories and that is something.

The urge to cry is gone. It was just a weak, nostalgic moment. Time marches on and I have to move along with it. This is now and now I have different roles. On the whole, though my life is different than I wanted, it is good I still know good people, I still see beauty around me, and I still have words to create with. That's really something, you know?