My Mother & My Guidance Counselor, 1964

When I was born, my mother leaned over my bassinet and whispered in my ear, “Never rely on a man. Make your own way in this world.”

She pounced on every opportunity to reinforce this vision of me as an independent woman. She wanted to immunize me from the culture of the time and the prevailing idea that girls should marry well, raise children, and let the man provide.

When I ironed a handkerchief at age five, she told me it was a marketable skill. I felt her pride when, at eight, I sold extra produce from our garden to the neighbors. And although I was on the college prep track at school, she insisted I take two years of typing. "That way," she said, "you can make money typing term papers in college."

So, in the fall of 1964, I looked forward to my appointment with my guidance counselor, Mr. Trimmer, to talk about my future.

I dressed carefully for the occasion: a light blue A-line wool skirt with a matching cardigan, my hair teased in a bouffant style. As I sat in his office, I tugged slightly at the hem of my skirt which I had shortened just above the knee, very daring at the time.

“So, Connie,” he said, peering over his glasses, “tell me what you have in mind for the future.”

“From as early an age as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a teacher," I replied, smiling. "I used to organize my brothers and sisters to play school. They endured my worksheets, gold stars, and tests.”

He looked at me with disbelief. “That would mean you’d have to go to college.”

My stomach dropped.

Even then, I had a sense that something was wrong with his response. Now I wish I had said: I came to you for guidance on how to apply to college—not whether I should. What the hell?

Maybe he thought I wasn’t smart enough. Maybe he knew my family didn’t have the money. But he didn’t say that.

And yes, it was true: I wasn’t a stellar student. I was bored in most classes, more interested in boys and friends than in algebra or biology. But I still believed, deep down, that I was capable. That I could apply myself, if I chose to.

“But I am going to college,” I told him with fake conviction. My mother had programmed that belief into me. After all, my grandmother, great-aunts, and my mother had all gone to college, so it didn’t feel like an impossible dream.

Mr. Trimmer humored me and suggested a school in the South. When I looked into it, I found it was a small, historically Black college—one where I would have been the only white student. My confidence in his guidance faded.

When my mother found me crying in my room, she marched to the school and demanded to see Mr. Trimmer. She walked into his office and said, clear and fierce:
"Perhaps you who should consider another career. Guiding young people’s futures doesn’t seem to be your gift."

I was both mortified and proud.

My mother believed in me.

Looking back, I understand things I didn’t then. How adults sometimes don’t see their own limiting beliefs and project them onto the young. How a single sentence can shape or shatter a dream. How belief in ourselves, even when fragile, is the most important kind.

I did go to college and graduated with honors. I did become a teacher who believed in my students and in their dreams.

And I’ve never forgotten that conversation.

Not because it defeated me, but because it dared me to believe in myself.

Pictures: Me in my bassinet in 1947, my high school graduation pic in 1965 and my favorite picture of my mom when she was in her 50’s in her palm reading outfit! Showing her true unconventional spirit.