Moving away from home in Davis and living in a dorm in San Francisco were two giant steps for me. Or, at least, they seemed that way at first glance. I was eighteen years old, on my own, and ready for new adventures--or so I thought.
St. Mary’s Hall was situated less than a block from Golden Gate Park. I imagined myself taking my books into the park daily and studying while the birds were singing in the trees and the squirrels scampered on the lawns. The weather was nearly perfect from my perspective, never too hot and never too cold; about sixty degrees around the clock and usually sunny, not the picture of fog that most people believe. The beautiful fog generally settled into the city in the summer months when I returned to the very warm Davis climate.
My dreams of days in the park vanished suddenly when the signs appeared on the St. Mary’s Hall bulletin board warning us never to venture into the park solo. Gruesome tales of the fates that befell unwary girls, who had ventured into the park on their own, leapt out at us in bold black letters on that bulletin board. Every story that appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle recounting problems in the park appeared there over the next year. I accepted the fact that study in my room, in the basement or at the library would be my fate.
Growing up in Davis, where nothing bad every seemed to happen, I don’t remember ever feeling smothered or over-protected by my parents. At USF, it became clear very quickly that the Sisters of Mercy were there to shield us from all potential outside dangers. The dorm, the hospital and the campus were portrayed as sanctuaries of safety, while the outside world posed potential harm. I, of course, felt doubly safe and secure as my big brother, Michael, who was six foot five inches and weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds, lived two blocks up the hill on campus and was there to protect me from any potential unseen dangers. As a matter of fact, the only real trouble I had my freshman year was having my purse stolen, while studying in the USF library. So much for library security!
When I first arrived at USF, I was looking forward to many adventures touring the big city. My dreams were quite unrealistic, which became apparent very quickly. The next four years I was scheduled to take eighteen units each semester. I had to make up a time-schedule very quickly. I knew there were 168 hours in a week. I had roughly thirty hours a week in classes. We were expected to study a minimum of two hours daily for each hour in class. That took sixty hours a week. If we managed to work in eight hours of sleep a night, a dream that was very short lived, that took fifty-six hours a week. If I allowed three hours a day to dress, undress, shower, do laundry, iron and eat three meals, that took another twenty-one hours. That left one hour a week to walk the two blocks up hill (approximately a seventy degree angle) to campus daily, move from class to class, socialize, write letters, make any phone calls, and tour the city. My touring ideas were quickly scraped.
When I arrived at school, I was engaged to a boy from home. He had joined the army after graduation and had been shipped to Korea for the next eighteen months. Other than writing him letters, I didn’t have to waste any time pursuing the opposite sex. That saved a lot of time, which I didn’t have anyway.
We were greeted the first week of class by Sister Mary Beata, the Dean of the Nursing School, who informed us that we should look to our right and left and one of us would not be here for graduation. She said we were facing a tough schedule and needed lots of determination or we would quickly fall by the wayside. Her remarks did not threaten me. I had wanted to be a nurse since age four, and a little hard work was not going to stand in my way. I was determined from the beginning to be one who would survive the four years.
To be continued
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