A Sixties Tale

PROLOGUE

The events I’m about to describe took place during 1967 and 1968. No one involved besides me knows the whole truth about what happened, and I want to keep it that way for reasons that will become obvious. Some of the names and places used in this story are fictitious. The events are real. Why am I telling this tale to you, a stranger? Because the prospect of taking this story untold to my grave is unbearable.

Some of you may understand that what I did, I did out of love. Others may feel I should rot in hell for my actions. Each reader is, of course, entitled to their opinion. Please keep an open mind.

1967

On a hot, June Monday, I drove to teach my first Summer School Driver's Education class at Central High School in Jersey City. The morning featured shimmering heat, humidity you could cut with a knife, and crawling city traffic with cars piloted by people commuting to jobs most of them loathed. People mad at the world and wondering if it was all worth it. The morning news on the radio offered nothing but more doom and gloom: war, riots, racism, etc.

My name is Elsie Logan, and I am an African-American Driver's Ed instructor. I was 31 years old back then, a former Miss New Jersey finalist, and lucky to have landed the summer school teaching job at Central. My husband, Frank Logan, was a lawyer in Jersey City, one of the few black attorneys in Hudson County. Frank had political ambitions. His ultimate goal was to become the first black mayor of the city. My dream was to become a mom. Despite lots of trying, so far, the Logan house was childless.

We had fertility tests run, and the verdict was Frank's sperm count was low. He wasn't firing blanks, but the physicians said the probability of me becoming pregnant was near zero. We decided to keep trying for another couple of years, and if the situation remained the same, we would adopt. Frank was wonderfully open-minded about it, and I loved him for it.

FIRST DAY

Back in those days, classrooms were not air-conditioned. I walked into the steamy room and found the large number of students astounding. I expected eight or ten students, a dozen tops. What I saw was more than double that. Every desk was occupied. I learned later that insurance companies in New Jersey were offering a discount to young drivers who had attended and passed a driver’s ed course. I witnessed the result of parents browbeating their sons and daughters into taking driver's ed to save insurance money.

I introduced myself to the class and explained that we would have several sessions of classroom instructions, followed by hands-on driving under my supervision. We would divide the class into five groups of five students, each team having a group leader. The hands-on driving sessions would be conducted one group at a time. When I had finished describing the course, I asked if there were any questions. A student named George Miller raised his hand.

“Are you married?”

The female students giggled; the male students laughed. A male student sitting next to George punched him in the arm. I wondered if George had been researching me and discovered swimsuit photos from my Miss New Jersey days. I walked to the blackboard where I had written “Elsie Logan” in big letters and wrote “Mrs.” preceding my name.  

“The answer is yes. Would anyone like to volunteer to be a group leader? You’ll be responsible for distributing class material to your teams.”

Dividing the class into five teams with five group leaders took about ten minutes. I dismissed everybody except the group leaders and asked them to accompany me to my car to get copies of the New Jersey Driver's Manual to distribute to their teams. One group leader was Julian Brennan, the student who had punched George in the arm earlier.

I handed out copies of the manual to the group leaders from a box in the trunk of my car, and the group leaders gradually headed away. I closed the trunk and opened the driver's side door, ready to get in.

“Mrs. Logan?”

I turned. It was Julian Brennan. He was a tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed student I found extremely easy on the eyes. I would later learn that he was a senior at Central, over eighteen.

“Yes, Julian.”

“I just wanted to apologize for what my friend George said earlier. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“No problem”, I smiled. “It’s already forgotten.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Logan. Well, see you tomorrow.”

I waved and got into the driver's seat with the door open. Julian walked away. I was about to start the car when it struck me. I liked Julian and hoped we could have a friendly relationship. I impulsed.

“Hey, Julian.”

He turned and walked back to my car. “Yes, Mrs. Logan?”

“If no other students or faculty are around, please … call me Elsie."

His face erupted into a million-dollar smile. “Sure thing … Elsie.” He held his smile while he closed the car door for me. He waved and walked away.

I know what you’re thinking. I was inappropriate - almost cougar-like. But I assure you it was completely innocent. We were just two people who hit it off chemistry-wise, and I wanted Julian to know I realized that. After all, he didn't need to apologize for George. That's what started the whole thing. But you might think I provided the spark that ignited the fire. But, honestly, at the time, I swear that was the furthest thing from my mind.

HOME LIFE

           My home life back then was peaceful and predictable. My school day ended at three, giving me a couple of hours to read and prepare lesson plans.

Frank was an Assistant Prosecutor in the Jersey City District Attorney’s office and rarely had to work late. We ate out a lot, and when one of us felt like cooking, the food was on the table at six-thirty, and nobody was ever late for dinner.

           The dinner-table conversations usually centered around cases Frank was working on. Jersey City was a college town back then, and most of Frank's cases centered around misdemeanor civil disobedience charges that occurred during anti-war rallies and protests. We both felt the same way about the war. Drafting young men against their will and sending them off thousands of miles to shoot real bullets at an indigenous population they had no quarrel with was beyond stupid. It was flat-out wrong.

           We kept our opinions on the subject to ourselves due to Frank’s political aspirations.

           Our physical relationship had cooled since the fertility tests revealed our odds of conception were slim. We made love once or twice a week, usually on the weekends, and to be honest, the act had become a chore. I don't know if Frank felt the same way. I suspected he did. We never discussed it.

           Did all that cause the subsequent sequence of events? Logically, one would think so, although I never admitted it, not even to myself.

SCHOOL DAYS

           Despite the summer heat, most of my Driver's Ed students were doing very well. When we were halfway through the hands-on driving part of the course, I noticed Julian staring at me when I was in the car with his team driving. His eyes fell when I looked his way. I didn’t think it was a problem until I realized I was guilty of the same thing. Sometimes, I felt like I couldn't take my eyes off him. Sometimes, when I was home alone, I would look at my reflection in the mirror and scream, "Act your age!", smile, shake my head, and burst into tears.

           I seriously considered quitting my job. I could tell the High School administration that I had contracted a disease of some sort. But what could I tell Frank? He’d know something strange was going on with me. No, the only thing I could do was follow Bob Dylan’s advice: keep on keeping on.

REVELATION

           It was a hot, rainy day in July, and I was getting my students ready for the Driver's Ed exam in a few days. Julian was absent. After class, I asked George if Julian was all right. George said he hadn't seen Julian all day, but he'd been acting a little strange lately.

           I walked out to the parking lot. It was pouring rain. I ran to my car and got in, ready to drive home. I started my car when I saw Julian standing in the rain near the parking lot exit. I drove over to where he was standing, rolled down the window, and shouted at him: "Julian! For God's sake, get in the car. You're getting soaked!"

He climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door. “Thanks, Elsie.”

He was dripping wet. “Are you alright? You missed class today.”

“I know. I have to drop Driver’s Ed.”

"What are you talking about? There are only a couple of classes left, and then the final. You'll pass for sure. You're one of my best students."

"I'm not worried about passing, but I have to drop the class."

“I don’t understand. Why? Please tell me.”

He looked into my eyes. “You see, it seems I’ve fallen in love with the teacher.”

His words hit me like a ton of bricks. Oh my God. A student is in love with me. And not just any student. The student I can’t get out of my mind. The student I dream about almost every night. The student who, if I was honest with myself, I was falling in love with. I didn't know what to do, so I caressed his wet hair and kissed him softly on the lips. I whispered in his ear: "I love you too."

We fell into the gentlest of hugs, trembling with fear and pent-up relief.

“Julian, we’ve got to be careful about this.”

“I know. I know you’ll never leave your husband.”

“There’s that. And we also need to draw the line physically.”

We agreed that our relationship would not reach the biblical sense. We would have afternoons together. Walks in the park. Movies. Day trips in the August when we were both off, and Frank was at work. Stuff like that. Just enjoying each other’s company.

I drove Julian home, and we kissed before he jumped out of the car. I was on cloud nine. When Frank got home, he asked if I was using some new kind of conditioner from the Dermatologist. “You glow,” Frank observed.

SUMMER OF LOVE

           That summer, we shared the secrets of each other's souls.

Julian passed his Driver's Ed final. He had no intention of going to college and got a job delivering for UPS, which afforded him plenty of free time for our rendezvous. He was eighteen and had a draft status of 1A, which meant no deferments. Fair game. I prayed Julian would be lucky and not get drafted, or at least not until the war was over.

           Love and wonder filled the summer months. We discovered we both loved classical music. We savored Bach, Puccini, Mozart, and Beethoven while Julian's peers permanently damaged their auditory senses listening to the Beatles, Stones, Joplin, and Hendrix at mind-blowing volume levels.

           Our love deepened as the summer wore on, but we remained true to our pledge. We never consummated our love.

           In August, Central High School informed me they had decided to make Driver’s Ed a permanent part of the curriculum. They offered me the job. I took it.

GREETING

           Greeting:

You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States …

I stared at the letter and felt like somebody had punched me in the stomach. We were on the beach in September. There was a hint of fall in the stiffening breeze. I grabbed Julian and hugged him like never before.

“Ten days. Can you fight it?”

Julian laughed. "Not really. The only options are to head for Canada or the Caribbean. I won't do that without you."

Tears spilled uncontrollably down my cheeks. “You know I can’t.”

“I know. Look, Elsie, I’ll be home on leave before you know it.”

IN COUNTRY

Julian was right. He was home in a few weeks after training. It was then that the second shoe dropped.

We were huddled in my car on a cold November afternoon when he showed me the letter. It was his orders. He was going to Vietnam. I started the car.

“Elsie … where are we going?” Julian asked.

I didn't say a word. I drove to the El Dorado motel on Route 9, pulled into the parking lot, exited the car, and charged into the motel office.

A few minutes later, I came out of the office and got back into the car.

"Elsie, What are you doing?" Julian asked.

My face was wet with tears. I held up the room key. "If you think you're going to Vietnam before we make love, you are sadly mistaken."

1968

           I received letters from Julian a couple of times a week. Fortunately, I got the mail before Frank got home. I wrote to Julian almost every day. He was in some dangerous areas, and I prayed for his life.

           I began to feel ill in late January, and Frank took me to the Doctor. After the examination, we went into his office for a consultation.

           “Congratulations.” The Doctor said to us, beaming ear to ear. “You guys are pregnant!”

           Frank gave me a big bear hug. "It's a miracle!" He exclaimed. "Elsie, I love you!"

           I looked down. My mind was going in a million different directions. My only thought was, "Now what?"

           I decided not to tell Julian the news by mail. This sort of thing required a face-to-face discussion. There was no question in my mind that Frank and I would raise the child as our own, and Frank must never know that he was probably not the father. I dreaded the meeting with Julian when he came home on leave. I was reasonably certain he would see common sense staring him in the face, but you never know in these situations.

           The Tet Offensive rendered my concerns moot.

TET

           I was home alone after class on a gray day in February. The doorbell rang, and I answered it. It was George Miller. His eyes were all red and puffy. Julian had told me that George was his best friend and that he knew about our relationship. It had been several months since I last saw George. I knew there was only one reason why he was standing in my doorway.

           “I’m sorry,” was all George said.

           My legs felt like rubber. Waves of nausea came over me as I began to sob uncontrollably.

I slammed the door in George's face and stumbled upstairs to my bedroom. I stuck my face in my pillow and released animalistic wails of sorrow and pain. My parents had passed away a few years earlier, and I thought I knew what grief was. I had no idea.

           Frank came home a little later. He took one look at me, and we were off to the Emergency Room at the Jersey City Medical Center. They checked me out and released me. The diagnosis was Acute Pre-natal Sickness.

AFTERMATH

Julian’s funeral was in March. Because he was killed in action, he was eligible for burial at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C., but his parents declined. They wanted him buried locally in Jersey City. I watched his burial with all the military pomp and circumstance from a distance. No one noticed the African-American woman standing alone, quietly sobbing behind her dark glasses.

Francine Jude Logan was born on a sweltering hot day in August: a healthy eight-pound, six-ounce baby girl. She was light-skinned, but so was I, so the family had no raised eyebrows. She was named Francine, after Frank, and Jude, after Saint Jude, the patron saint of impossible causes, since her conception was considered a miracle. I never mentioned to anyone that I loved the Beatles’ newly released single Hey Jude, mainly because Paul McCartney wrote it for John Lennon's son, whose real name was Julian.

As I said at the beginning, no one besides myself knows the truth about what happened back then. Frank and I raised Francine with love; my daughter never suspected anything else. When Francine was fifteen, we visited Washington, D.C., to see the sights. One day, Frank went off to watch some proceedings in the Supreme Court, and Francine and I went sightseeing. I took her to the newly opened Vietnam Memorial. I found Julian's name on the wall and touched it with a lump in my throat.

Francine watched. “Who’s Julian Brennan, Mom?” she asked with a frown.

“Oh, just someone I knew before you were born, sweetheart.”

I hoped she didn’t notice the quiver in my voice.

EPILOGUE

           Am I a monster? Did I take advantage of a barely eighteen-year-old high school student? I admit there were a couple of instances where my heart and hormones overruled my brain, but there never was an ounce of malice in my heart. I tried to relate the facts to you as objectively as I possibly could. It's for you and God to judge me.