On Meeting Julie Diana, Principal Ballerina, at Penn

I was still stuck in the maw of the unfinished business of my novel when I set out late yesterday for the University of Pennsylvania in that gloaming hour (a term that will always belong to my friend Alice Elliott Dark). I was to speak to the Alumnae Association. I had planned to share insights on my students, a few words from Handling the Truth, a glimpse into this novel that I'm writing.

I had planned. I was ready.

What I was not ready for was Julie Diana, who does not just lead the Alumnae Association, but dances as a principal ballerina for the Pennsylvania Ballet. And is a mother. And is a beautiful writer. And graduated from my university with highest honors.

No one had said, "Your hostess will be gorgeous." No one had said, "You will be meeting a star." They had all simply said, "Come and speak."

Sometimes, after journeying far—into the world, into yourself—the only thing that can save you is a good, whole soul. Julie Diana is a good, whole soul. For the invitation to speak, for our conversation last night, for being reminded (again) that fame doesn't necessarily have to be bound up with overt pride, that important people can be listeners, too, that dance is both a silencing and an opening—for all of that, I am grateful to Julie Diana and to the wonderful women of Penn, carrying on their legacies.

I am eager to see Julie dance on her own stage when the season opens.

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reading from a book in progress, tonight at Penn

Tonight I'll be joining the Penn Alumnae Association—talking about my students, reading from Handling the Truth, and debuting these few paragraphs from this pesky work in progress. Much of this new book takes place on the campus I've grown to love. It seems only fitting to share these words with other alum who pass that way again:

The snow is new. Our boots sink deep. Maggie drops the trash-can lid onto the snowy walk and ties it to the leash of her rope. “You first,” she says, and the snow and the lid crunch beneath me and Maggie snaps the rope like a lasso artist and I’m thrown back and now forward and Maggie says to keep my knees pressed to my chin.

I am floating. I am flying between the big Victorian twins and the old trees and past the community garden where Maggie plants her growing things in the spring. It's a long hill down to the raw west edge of the Penn campus, and someone is calling my name. 

Listen.

Between towers, past the Commons, over the bridge and down Locust Walk—me on the silver disk of Maggie’s trash-can sled and Maggie up ahead, the snow beneath us, our trail behind us, the snow falling still. At the compass Maggie turns toward Spruce and the Quadrangle dorms, which are massive and brick and undivided stone, like a fortress carrying on, a blockade, and where the only way in is to belong.

She crosses the street, turns east on the walk. Spruce Street tilts down, and the dorms rise up, and there are lights in the leaded glass, turnstiles in the arches, guards. From within the vast interior courtyards, we hear the sound of snowball fights, laughter, instructions on the making of snowmen—Get up, Stand up, Get going—and we are a parade two, we are a parade for no one; the snow keeps coming on.

Maggie’s red hair has turned white. Her mohair shoulders and arms and the bottom of her dress are white. Her boots are white and Maggie’s disappearing into the night and we go—down Spruce to the end of the Quad, south along the east facade, west beside the south façade, and the fortress is holding, the world is safely held. I close my eyes. Tip back. Let the snow tumble in. When I open my eyes I see crystal stars between my lashes, the melting of the night. The lights in the windows of the rooms are going out. One by one by one, and I slide by.

Everything is vanishing, I say, and now is a long time ago.

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