New Orleans Four, by Jo Ann Rouse

This is a story written by my mother, Jo Ann Rouse, about her involvement in organizing an official recognition by the City of New Orleans of the New Orleans Four - the four African American girls who integrated the New Orleans public school system in 1960.  Ruby Bridges, Gail Etienne, Tessie Prevost, and Leona Tate.

Published in memory of Jo Ann Rouse -
June 13, 1938 - October 28, 2013

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The New Orleans Four

I am going to tell you a story.  It is a true story of actual historical events.  It is also a personal story that has meaning to me. It is the story of the New Orleans Four.

The story began in the fall of 1960 when I was a 21 years old newlywed, a full time student at the University of Iowa in Iowa City and a housemother for six male graduate students.  My life was so full that sometimes I didn't even have time to read the newspaper.

But this was the time in our history when the civil rights movement was gathering momentum and there were many news stories about the sit-ins, the demonstrations, the voters' registration drives, the black power movement, the use of attack dogs and fire hoses.  I was captivated by this drama that was occurring so far away from the safe little Midwestern town where I lived.  It was the first time that I had to confront the fact that the land of the free, in which I had been raised to take such pride, wasn't free for everyone.

Ruby Bridges arriving at Frantz Elementary
School, escorted by Federal marshals, 1960 

But on November 15th when I opened the Des Moines Register there was a photograph on the front page that I have never forgotten.  It was a photo of a little black girl with a big white bow in her hair who was looking out of a limousine window with large, dark, frightened eyes.  The reporter described the scene.  Federal marshals lined the schoolhouse steps, holding back the angry mob.  When the limousine door opened and six year old Ruby Bridges stepped out there was a roar of curses from the crowd.  Describing this experience Ruby said she felt as though they might have torn her limb-from-limb if they could reach her.

Ruby attended Wm. Frantz Elementary School alone.  Leona Tate, Gail Etienne, and Tessie Prevost attended McDonough 19 Elementary school together.  However there were no white students at either school.  Their parents had withdrawn them.  One little white boy, the son of a local Unitarian minister, had been scheduled to participate but was withdrawn at the last minute.

All of the six-year-old girls ran the gauntlet past a screaming mob daily.  Their lives and the lives of their parents were threatened, crosses were burned on their lawns and two of their fathers lost their jobs.

I felt a strong pull to these children, almost as though I was called to them, called to do something to make the fear in their eyes go away.

But I was a long way from New Orleans and there seemed to be nothing I could do.

A few years later I picked up a copy of John Steinbeck's Travels With Charlie and found the chapter (written in 1960) where he described witnessing "the cheerleaders" who lead the mobs in cursing and jeering"cheers" when the children walked up the school house steps.  Again I felt an overwhelming desire to do something for these children.  But it was now years later and I didn't know where they were or what, if anything, I could do for them.

As the Civil Rights movement faded from the front pages to make room for the Women's Movement, the Vietnam Protests, Watergate, my attention was focused on the latest happenings and I forgot about the desegregation of New Orleans public schools and the four little girls who had run that gauntlet daily to go to school.

Then in 1974, when my naval officer husband was transferred to New Orleans and we prepared to move our family there, I again remembered the traumatic school desegregation story and I let this story prejudice me and contribute to my resistance to the notion that there could be anything good about New Orleans.

How I reconciled myself and learned to love that city is another long story I will shortcut by simply saying that I got involved in a lot of good causes and got to know a lot of good people.

One of those people was Alma Woodfork.

A journalist who had interviewed her called Alma a "powerhouse." She is one of those people who, by sheer energy and force of personality, gets impossible things done.  She is very warm to her friends and tough on her enemies.  By 1980 she and I had become very dear friends.  We trusted each other and worked well together.

Alma was the head of a very dynamic black neighborhood organization in her intercity neighborhood.  I was on the Board and so was present one evening when Elizabeth Rogers came to us to request assistance with one of her projects.  Elizabeth wanted to get a plaque installed on Centennial Walk, a section of downtown sidewalk containing plaques honoring various historic people and events since the founding of New Orleans.  Most of the plaques had been installed in 1976 as part of the bicentennial year.

Elizabeth was not pleased that the bicentennial committee had not included a plaque acknowledging the desegregation of New Orleans public schools in 1960.  She had designed such a plaque and raised the money to pay for it.   Although the Public Works Department, who had to approve and install the plaque, had not expressed opposition, Elizabeth felt she was getting the run-around.

Elizabeth was not the kind of person to accept a run-around.  She had been a fighter for all of her 90 years for causes that she refused to admit were lost.  For the last fifty years she had fiercely held to the belief that communism was the key to economic and social justice.  This position made most blacks, whose causes she always championed, more than just a little nervous.  So her presentation was received politely, but without enthusiasm.  She got no commitment that night.

But Elizabeth was persistent. A few months later she was back. This time, in addition to the plaque, she wanted to hang a painting of the desegregation event in a prominent place in the public library.  The painting was based on the photo I had seen that had moved me so.  She wanted a small ceremony to acknowledge the hanging of the painting and the installation of the plaque.

Again she received a lukewarm reception.  She was told that the board had other priorities.  But Elizabeth knew from long experience that familiarity was necessary to overcome suspicion.  So the next month she was back.

This time she had brought a song she had written to use in the ceremony.

She soon had the Board singing along with her.  She stood in front of the audience, a skinny, stooped old lady with steely blue eyes and a long gray ponytail and told us how she had been involved in the desegregation of public schools and how she had watched those young girls bravely trot past the mobs.

When she mentioned that she had located three of the girls who still lived in the area I was suddenly very interested.  She said that she had gotten the brush-off from the young women, who indicated that they had nothing but bitter memories and they just wanted to forget the whole thing.

After the meeting I asked Elizabeth about these young women.  How were they doing?  What were they doing?  Elizabeth saw my interest and told me that if the Board could give support to her cause she might be able to persuade the girls to come to a meeting and perhaps receive some kind ofsmall ceremonial acknowledgment of appreciation from the board.

So I pushed Alma to use some of her political clout for Elizabeth's cause.  Alma agreed and called the Mayor.  The Mayor called the Public Works Department.  And it was done.  The plaque was installed.

And that is how I met Leona Tate Cooper.

Alma was a frequent guest on a local Sunday morning talk show.  The story that week was about the installation of the plaque.  Leona Tate Cooper was invited.  I was invited as well.  When the host asked what my interest was I talked about the photo I had seen in 1960 and it's impact on me.  Leona looked at me and shook her head in doubt.  She clearly didn't believe me.

We still had to hang the picture.  Alma invited Elizabeth, Leona and I to a Saturday brunch to do our planning to finish the job.  When Saturday rolled around Leona had brought Gail Etienne with her.  Gail was warm and funny and soon we had gotten into some good girl talk.

Then the talk became more serious as both Leona and Gail described some of their experiences.  They were angry because although they had worked hard to get good college test scores the NAACP had reneged on their promise to put the young women through college.

It was late afternoon when the party broke up.  We were becoming friends.

We still hadn't hung the painting and were determined to finish planning that event at our next Saturday brunch.

But we didn't.  Elizabeth had recently lost her husband and she wanted to talk about him and their lives together.  She read us reams of poetry that she had written about him and with him.  And I learned that one can be deeply, profoundly in love, even at 90.

Tessie came to our next Saturday brunch.  We took the time to listen to her life stories, as we had listened to the others.  She had lost her father, who had left the family due to the stress of the desegregation process and the loss of his job.  She was deeply angry with him about this.

As we talked and listened Alma and Elizabeth and I began to be aware that these young women wanted more than tea and cookies and the hanging of the painting.  They wanted some public acknowledgment of their desegregation experience.

"Desegregation" by Alvena Seckar
Still on display at the New Orleans Public Library, Main Branch

The project began to grow into an event.  Elizabeth recruited Moira Ambrose, a long time friend of hers, to join us.  Moira's husband Stephen Ambrose was a professor and historian at UNO.  He had some good suggestions on legitimizing the historical aspect of our event.

The first location selected was a church hall.  But I wanted our celebration to take place in the City Hall Council Chambers, where there would be the greatest public access and participation.  That was agreed to.

We chose a date, began a strong publicity drive, developed a program, recruited a speaker, designed and arranged for the program to be printed.

The publicity and program arrangements were my responsibility, with help and back-up from Leona.  The banquet, which would follow the program, was Alma's responsibility, with back-up from Tessie and Gail.

Alma was an excellent fund-raiser, raising more than $1,000 in cash and that much again in in-kind contributions.  Her technique was a combination of flattery and guilt, applied with a high degree of expertise.

The date was set for Monday, April 18, 1983 at 10:30 a.m. in the City Council Auditorium.

Just one week before the program and banquet Elizabeth located Ruby and, using all of her persuasive skills, convinced her to participate in the program.

The City Council Auditorium was full that morning.  People filled the seats and stood in the side aisles and the lobby.  When the St. Augustine High School band began to play "Pomp and Circumstance" the audience rose as one to honor the New Orleans Four who were coming down the center aisle - Leona Tate Cooper, Tessie Prevost, Gail Etienne and Ruby Wright Bridges.  The young women wore white and were carrying red roses in their arms.

There was music and speeches.  Politicians who had been "too busy" to attend when they were invited decided that they needed to be seen after all and inserted themselves into the program.

A sense of celebration spilled out and overflowed the chambers as the young women were honored.  One reporter noted that 'This crowd brings roses, not jeers."

I had to leave after the program to take my teen-aged son back to school.

When I got to St. Anna's where the banquet was being held I was amazed.  Alma had outdone herself. Not only was there classically delicious New Orleans food, but an elegant presentation of the food and beautiful flower arrangements on every food table.  There was even a swan ice sculpture.

Chairs had been placed in a large circle and I saw that people filled their plates and ate buffet style.  I filled my plate and looked for a chair but the only empty chair available was next to Tessie's father.  And he was looking rather grumpy.  I sat down next to him and attempted small talk.  That was when I noticed a tear sparkling in his eye.

Then he told me "You did good. Y'all did real good. Maybe it was worth it after all."

Then he asked me if I would like to dance?

I looked at the dance they were doing on the dance floor and there was no way I could do that.  I told him "I don't know how to do that kind of dance."

"Well. What kind of dance do you know how to do?"

"I know how to waltz.  That's about it."

He left to talk with the bandleader and as he came back a waltz was beginning.

He was a wonderful dancer and as we swirled across the floor I felt a deep sense of celebration.  I looked at him and saw that he was grinning ear to ear - not at me but at his daughter who was smiling and waving at him.

I saw Leona and her husband and she was smiling and waving at me.

And I remembered that place in the program when the four young women surprised the four of us on the committee by presenting us with plaques honoring the occasion.  Leona had presented me with my plaque and as shedid she hugged me and told me "I love you Jo Ann."

And I thought she loves me because I have been part of a healing experience for her.

And then I realized that a quiet miracle had taken place.  It had taken 23 years but at last I had done what I had felt called to do for all of those years - put my arms around those little girls and give them comfort and protection.

And that is my story of the New Orleans Four.

Times Picayune-States Item article about the New Orleans Four celebration ceremony at City Hall,
April 18, 1983

Tom and Paul Get Married

Paul (left), Tom, Maleigha, and the Justice of the Peace, 2009

I married my husband, Tom, in 2009.  We had been together for 13 years and had a three-year old daughter.  It was a small ceremony; just the three of us, the Justice of the Peace, and her husband, at their home in Greenwich, Connecticut.  One month earlier, none of us knew it was going to happen.  13 years earlier?  As they say in my former home of Brooklyn, fuhgeddaboutit.

Tom and I got together when I was 28 and up to that point, I had been in maybe two dating relationships.  From nearly the first year we were together, 1996, Tom would bring up the subject of marriage.  I don’t mean he would get down on his knees and propose.  That’s not his style.  Rather, he would just… bring up the subject.  Test the waters.  See where I was.  I normally declined, deflected, or mumbled my disinterest in getting married.  I could never quite go there. 

My reluctance had little to do with the fact that we couldn’t legally get married.  It had a lot more to do with, well, being a child of divorce for one thing, and feeling somewhat skeptical about marriage to begin with.  Among other issues.  Oh, those bothersome other issues.

I came out “late,” in my mid-twenties.  (I put the word “late” in quotes because who exactly developed the timetable for when these sorts of life events are supposed to happen?)  I felt impossibly behind on the relationship curve and anxiously in need of “catching up.”  I certainly didn’t feel like I was ready for anything long-term, much less marriage.

From the start, though, Tom felt so essentially right.  No need to impress or prove myself.  I felt complete acceptance, space to be myself.  We connected easily and immediately.  I liked being with him. 

But was I in love?  Up until that point, the guys I had fallen in love with were either straight or they were gay but not interested or the attraction was not reciprocal, or… fill in the blank.  As far as my experience went, the anxious, heart-palpitating, “oh-my-God-I-want-him-so-bad” feeling of being in love was completely intertwined with desperately wanting someone who was not available to me.  This wasn’t that.  So, what was it?

After a couple of months of dating, Tom suggested that we move in together.  The first conversation went like this:

Tom: I know this may be crazy but what would you think about the idea of…

Paul:  No.

Tom: Ok.

I went running to my therapist.  "Tom feels like the mature relationship. But I've never had any immature relationships and I feel like I should have some of those first.  At the same time, I didn't want to risk losing a good thing, so… I don’t know what to do.”

My therapist nodded maddeningly, providing no advice whatsoever.  She was a good therapist.

After a couple of sessions, I made a deliberate decision to explore this relationship, give myself the opportunity to have a positive, different experience of love.  I felt this was a good, positive thing to do for myself.  Daring, even.  I felt very proud of myself. 

Going to Hawaii didn’t hurt much either.

"Living together test"
Hanalei Valley, Hawaii

Tom and his ex (he had come out of a seven-year relationship the year before) had a timeshare condo and they took turns each year to determine who would use it.  1996 was Tom’s year.  In answer to my reluctance to moving in together, he suggested that since it was his turn to use the condo, and he could reserve one in Hawaii, we should try spending a week together on vacation and see if we can stand spending that much time together.  Oh, and he’d pay for it.  Because, you know, a weeklong vacation in a tropical paradise is such a realistic testing ground for the experience of living together.  What can I say?  I’m a sucker and I took the bait.  Decided, hey, this isn’t so bad, and we moved in together two months later.

And it was good.  It worked.  It felt right.  But STILL, this nagging sense of disconnect between what I knew to be a good thing and what I imagined the way that being in love should feel like was always lurking in the back of my mind, occasionally challenging the legitimacy of the relationship.

I did a lot of stupid things.  Felt awful.  And defensive.  And cried a lot.  Worked my way through three different therapists and eventually stopped.

When we moved to New York, in 2001, one of the things I had in mind was, well, perhaps after we get settled in, we’ll split up and can move on.  That requires doing something decisive.  I’d have conversations with myself.  Are you unhappy?  Well, no.  Do you love him?  Actually, yes, I do.  I love and care about him very deeply.  What’s wrong then?  I don’t know.  I worry that I’ve missed something, like the wild, crazy days you’re supposed to have when you’re young.

And then September 11, 2001 happened.  Tom’s job when we moved to New York landed him working in a cubicle on the 102^nd floor of the World Trade Center, Tower Two - the south tower.  I worked three miles north, on Park Ave. in Midtown.

Tom was in his cubicle that morning when the first plane hit the north tower.  There was an intense wave of heat, the smell of jet fuel, thick, black smoke, and flames licking the side of his building, which shook and wobbled significantly.  He didn’t know what it was but decided immediately to evacuate.  We moved to New York from San Francisco, where evacuation drills are held regularly.  The rule of thumb:  when a building shakes or wobbles, get out of the building.  And he knew to evacuate through the stairwell, not the elevator.  Two things that saved his life. 

He called me from his cell phone when he had exited on a stairwell transfer floor, the 70^th floor.  I had seen the images on CNN of thick, black smoke billowing out of a gapping black hole in Tower One and strongly urged him to ignore the announcement on the intercom advising everyone to stay put. 

“A plane hit the other building.  How is that safe?  Get the hell out of there!” 

He hung up, continued evacuating down the stairwell, and five minutes later, the second plane hit his tower.  Looking back on it later, we estimated that he was about 10 floors below the impact zone.

For the next few hours, I grappled with and ignored and walked around in a daze, frozen at the likelihood that he was dead.  At one point, a coworker put her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was all right.  I had gone so inward that her touch was like a jolt of electricity.  I intended to tell her that no, I was not all right.  I had seen on TV where the plane flew into the building where Tom was and, as far as I could tell, impacted the building at the place where he was.  But all that came out was this incredibly loud squawk.  I covered my mouth, embarrassed at the sound.  You don’t make loud, squawking sounds in a workplace environment.  I tried to talk again but again all that came out were squawks and sobs and, eventually, the words I intended to say.

I was brought face-to-face with the reality that Tom is not just this “mature relationship” that I could eventually come around to fully embrace at some point in the undefined future.  He is deeply, deeply important to me.  He’s too important to endlessly dither around with feelings of uncertainty.  And he was probably dead.

Three or four hours later, Tom walked into the office with not a scratch on him, just some black soot at the corners of his mouth and nostrils.  And a soaking wet back from sweat.  He had managed to descend all 102 floors, exit the building, and stumble his way onto one of the last subway trains heading uptown (which went out of service just two stops later).  He was able to get out of the building about 10 minutes before it collapsed.  He held himself together on the walk uptown to my office.  Once he walked in and saw me, he completely fell apart.

That day, well, it’s a much longer story.  But it was important.

I went back to therapy, determined to stick it out with the same therapist, whom I saw regularly for five years.  But this time, it was with a more focused, more concentrated intent.  Because it was important. 

Becoming a parent was the next, well, process.  Evolutionary battle, sometimes.  We decided to adopt domestically.  We went through an agency that mainly specializes in placing older children out of the foster system, though we decided we wanted to adopt a baby.  Two years after we started the process, which included going through the horrific experience of adoption fraud with one birth mother, our beautiful baby girl came home.

There were a few more brief conversations about marriage during those years but I still could not quite go there.  (“Can you believe they just approved same-sex marriage in Iowa?”  “Yeah, I read about that.  Hm.”)

2009 comes around and Tom, frustrated by yet another delay in getting a vote on same-sex marriage through the New York state legislature says, “I’m tired of waiting for New York to get its act together.  How about we just go up to Connecticut and get married there.”

I said, “Ok, sure.”

Tom nearly fell off the couch.

“Wait.  What?  Are you serious?”

“Yeah.  Why not.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.”

Finally, after 13 years I thought, what else do you need to prove to yourself?  

Stephen Thyberg, March 25, 1988

Stephen Thyberg, May 29, 1965 - March 25, 1988

For my first blog entry, I’m posting something I wrote 1998, on the anniversary of the suicide of Stephen Thyberg, who was a student at Wheaton College the same time I was there.  I first wrote this in response to some articles written in a newsletter put out by the Wheaton College gay and lesbian alumi association in the mid-1990's.

Many knew that Stephen was gay.  So the memory or story of his death carries a strong resonance with a number of Wheaton College LGBT alumni, many of whom had the experience of feeling that their sexuality and faith were at irreconcilable odds with each other, an experience that not infrequently brought many to the brink of despair.  

I don't suppose anyone can know with any degree of certainty what were all or some or any of the factors that ultimately drove him to his death.  All I know is that, for those left in its wake, regardless of faith or sexuality or whatever, his death was devastating.  And the ripples continue to bounce back, lapping up against us, even now these many years later.

While the Wheaton group is what initially prompted me to write this memory, it was also something that I very much wanted to write.  

This photo is of Stephen in Wheaton College's production of Godspell.

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March, 1998

I don't know how many times l've sat down to try and write this out. I have talked with many friends over these last few years about what they experienced "when they found out." My memory of that day remains vivid. In many ways, it marked a turning point for me in my life. It’s been rolling around in the back of my head for a long time now. I'd like to share it by getting it out on paper. It happened 10 years ago: Friday, March 25, 1988.

Stephen and I were both in Wheaton's theater group, Workout. Though I didn't know him very well myself, we had many of the same friends. I remember him as aloof, effervescent and arrogant. He was tall, thin, and energetic, with a tuft of bouncy, dirty blond hair and a fabulous smile. I once told him that he reminded me of the character of the younger brother (played by Rupert Graves) in the movie "A Room With a View." "Really?" he said. "Thanks! I love that character!" Then he went bouncing off down the hallway. That's what I remember about him; he bounced. I liked him like that because he seemed accessible and his energy was catching. He could also be very distant, even seemingly, purposefully aloof. At times, I could not walk by him and say "Hi" without feeling that I had done something wrong. He bounced and brooded with equal vigor. He drove me crazy.

In the spring of 1988, he and I had one of the same classes - Modern European Literature, with Dr. Roger Lundin. It was a class full of people who I considered to be the intellectual / artistic elite on campus. I remember feeling intimidated and defensive. Speaking up in class was like an act of defiance against my feelings of intellectual inferiority. Stephen was a part of that for me; laughing at Dr. Lundin's jokes and ironic quandaries. He had grown a literary length of stubble and took to wearing a green, army fatigue jacket.

That Friday was just like most days in Wheaton in March, chilly and gray with a hint of spring in the air. I forget what we were studying at the time - Thomas Mann? Proust? Flaubert?  One of those angsty, romantic existentialists. Dr. Lundin had not yet arrived. 

Just before class, Dr. Henry Nelson, the then Dean of Students, stuck his head in the door and called Stewart, one of Stephen's roommates, out into the hall. 5 or 10 minutes later, he came back in and asked for David (David was also one of Stephen's roommates). Another 10 to 15 minutes went by.

Finally, Dr. Lundin came into the room. He sat up against his desk, stared out the window, and said nothing for a long time. A couple of times he opened his mouth, took a breath as if he was going to say something and then went back to staring out the window. 

Finally he looked at us and said, "Class dismissed." He paused. "Something terrible has happened.  I can't say what. I think you will know by Monday. I wish I could say more. I'm sorry to be so cryptic. I have just heard something terrible and I am not now at liberty to say what." 

Dr. Lundin had a way of choosing his words very carefully. Typically, it was a process he relished. This time, he seemed to be having some difficulty. 

"But you will probably know soon," he continued. "Come back on Monday. I don't know if we will have class then or not.  We'll see." He paused, took a deep breath and said, "That's all."

I waited for most of the class to file out before I decided to leave myself. I really wanted to know what was up. I thought perhaps that something was going on with Stewart, something serious.

As I left the classroom, I headed towards the stairs in the middle of Blanchard Hall.  From the other end of the hall came Dr. Nelson, Stewart, David and a couple of other men carrying walkie-talkies. I will never forget the looks on David and Stewart’s faces. David was staring ahead blankly, his mouth hanging open. He seemed to be in shock. Stewart was behind him, staring at the ground, clutching onto David's shirt tails with one of his hands. Both faces were completely pale.

I stood there for a moment, frozen as they walked past. I had to know what was going on. I walked back into the classroom. Dr. Lundin was talking with Roberta, Heather, Patsy and a few others.

Roberta asked, "It’s TVC, isn't it?" (TVC was Stephen's nickname)

Dr. Lundin nodded and said, "Yes."

"l thought so," Roberta said. "It’s so strange but as soon as you walked into the room my first thought was, 'It’s Stevie. Something's happened to TVC'"

I asked what happened and someone said, "Stephen Thyberg just killed himself by jumping in front of a train."

If it was a movie, I think I would have raised my hand to my mouth, gasped and exclaimed, "Oh my God! No!" 

But the words "Stephen killed himself" and "Threw himself in front of a train" didn't seem real. I think my response was something inane like "You're kidding" or "Wow."

"We think it's him," Dr. Lundin emphasized. "They haven't identified the body yet. Well, what's left of it. They found his wallet. They won't be able to make an announcement until they've made a positive identification and have been able to notify his family. That's why I couldn't say anything. I really shouldn't be saying anything right now. 'Berta, how did you...?"

"l just knew," said Roberta. Roberta also had a way of choosing her words very carefully.  She seemed remarkably calm and she spoke slowly. 

"l knew something was wrong. I ran into him the other day outside of chapel. I know that he had been really depressed for a long time. And for the first time, that day, he was smiling. I asked him what was going on. He gave me a big hug and said that he was just feeling really happy. That he was feeling God's love more than he had in a long time. I don't know. It was strange. l've been concerned but I didn't know what to do. Now that this has ... I mean, there are these typical signs..." 

Tears started to roll down her cheeks.

Dr. Lundin interrupted her. " 'Berta, no. Don't do this to yourself. How could you know? You couldn't."

I feel a little awkward putting this conversation in quotes. It is a conversation that I remember quite well, but obviously, I didn't have a tape recorder. I recall that at one point, Roberta looked up and said, "Jimma." 

Jimma was Jim Young, the director of Wheaton's small theater program. The basis of the program was Workout - an ensemble of 30 or so students who met regularly - twice a week - for improvisational and theatrical exercises. All productions were cast out of Workout. It was (and remains) a very close-knit group. Stephen and I, and David, Stewart, Roberta - all of us were part of that group. Jimma led Workout and was a kind of fatherly-mentor for many. How to break the news to Jimma? I recall that Dr. Lundin agreed to go over and talk to him. 

We left the room. I walked back toward Traber dorm with Patsy (who was also in Workout). Neither of us knew what to say, except that we each felt that we never knew Stephen very well and that we didn't know what to feel, so we found ourselves feeling nothing.

Later that afternoon, I went to work at AV Services in the basement of Pierce Chapel. I wandered around feeling oddly privileged and important. I possessed knowledge that no one else on campus had. I told myself that I shouldn't be feeling that way. I tried to feel sad, which, of course, didn’t really work. I felt self-conscious. I didn’t know what to feel. 

I left AV and wandered down Blanchard lawn. At the base of the lawn, I saw Nate, another Workout person and good friend of Stephen’s. He was running and his face was red. I could tell that Nate had just found out. I went up to him. "You heard?" he said. "Yes," I responded. We hugged and remained there, embraced for a few minutes.  A car drove by. There were a bunch of guys in it and they all shouted at us, tauntingly; "Hey ladies!" or "Fags!" or something like that; I don't remember exactly. I don't know if Nate noticed.

Nate told me that people were starting to gather at the theater. "l don't want to be there right now,” he said. “Right now, all I want to do is run." 

He took off and I headed over to the theater.

When I walked into the building, I looked down the hall way and saw a group of 4 or 5 people huddled together, praying. They looked up when they heard me coming.  I saw their faces.  It suddenly hit me. 

I have sometimes read a person describe what it's like being in close proximity to a bomb or a grenade when it goes off. At first, after the explosion, they can't hear anything; it's like being deaf and they wander around feeling numb. Then they experience a slight ringing in their ears that quickly grows into a loud and painful din. I might describe my experience in a similar fashion. I suddenly sobbed, ran toward them and fell apart.

We cried and prayed with each other. Then Betsy came running in. When she saw us, she collapsed on the floor and screamed. And screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. She quieted down to soft sobs and I thought, "Thank God; she's done." But then she took a deep breath and began to scream and sob all over again. So loud and for so long that I started to get angry at her. Why did she have to scream like that? What was she trying to prove? Why won't she just stop? 

It was terrible. Finally, Jimma came out of his office. He knelt down next to her and spoke to her, quietly, comfortingly and firmly. I don't know what he said, but I was relieved that someone was doing something.

More people arrived, one by one. Some were angry, most were confused, shocked and a few cried. Some knew what happened, others didn't. Many had heard that something had happened but didn't know what. Each time we relayed the message, "Stephen Thyberg killed himself by jumping in front of a train today." Each time became more and more of a chore to say those words. It became tiresome. It became tiresome to deal with the reactions. "Oh my God." "He what? What did he do that for?" "Jesus." 

I remember Anita's reaction.  "You guys, what's going on? I heard Stephen was in a car and got hit by a train or something. ls he alright? What happened?"

"No, he's not alright. He, he was killed. He wasn't in a car."

"He what?" she said. "What, what do you mean he wasn't in a car? I heard he was in a car. How can someone get hit by a train if you're not in a car?  ... how can.... why wasn't he in a car?"

That evening, there was a service in Pierce Chapel. Some of the people in the theater made it their mission to post flyers all over campus announcing the service. Others refused to attend. 

"l'm tired," I remember someone saying. "l'm tired of dealing with all of this. And I

DON'T want to hear a bunch of stupid evangelical Wheaton students who didn't know him pray for his soul. I don't want to deal with it. I am so mad a Stephen right now I could scream."

Word had spread fast and lots of people came to the service. Chaplain Vic Gordon and Chuck Lewis (head of the Counseling Center) led the service. Most of what I remember from this point is in bits and pieces. I remember Vic saying something about how some may wonder at a time like this if suicide is a sin and what it might mean in terms of a person's salvation. 

"While I think this is a complex question," he said, "l don't think that now is the time to deal with such a question." I heard Paul next to me mutter "Damn right it's not." 

Then Chuck Lewis stood up. He was visibly shaken and simply encouraged us to feel what we were feeling. I gained a great deal of respect for him at that moment. Whatever role or position he had at Wheaton College was dropped. He was there as a human being along with the rest of us. We were led in silent prayer. 

I remember while we were praying, someone got up (Stewart, I think, though I've never been certain) and screamed, "Shit God! What the FUCK is going on?" He then sat down weeping, "Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy..." 

Throughout the service, I went back and forth between crying and feeling "l shouldn't be crying.” Like my grief was somehow an infringement upon others.

The service ended. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. It was the counselor I had been seeing at the Counseling Center. She was smiling at me sympathetically. I told her that I wasn't sure why I was crying. She looked surprised. Someone I knew had just killed himself. Wasn't that a good reason? 

"Yeah," I said vaguely, though I didn't quite believe it.

"You gonna be O.K?" she asked. 

"l'm fine," I said assuringly, letting her know that I was not planning on going out and running in front of a train myself anytime soon. 

"Am I going to see you on Friday (our next session)?" I nodded, "Yeah." "Call me if you want to talk before then. I mean it. Call me anytime." I nodded again. She hugged me and left.

To this day, I am still uncertain how much of my grieving was actually for Stephen. I said at the beginning of this that his death marked a turning point in my life. It did. My first year at Wheaton was very difficult. I think Stephen's death shook me out of a kind of stupor. I was brought face to face with a suicide I had so often contemplated as being my own. I was gay.  I didn't come from a "Christian" family (as it seemed that 90% of the other students had). My parents were divorced. I felt abandoned by my father. I could not focus. My grades were not very good and I felt like an idiot. Despite having a number of friends around me, I felt quite lonely.

I wanted to be at Wheaton so badly but I felt so much like I didn't belong. I often sat in my room thinking about killing myself.  Then I would think about how my mother and sister (with whom I’ve always been close) would react.  Imagining their grief and my guilt, I’d cry myself to sleep and woke in the morning, feeling calmer and even somewhat refreshed.  I often interpreted that as a form of grace, God’s comfort settling over me as I slept.

Prior to the service in Pierce Chapel, I remember standing in the theater as the last stragglers were wandering in to find out what happened. I was crying and I was saying, "No. This is not right. Suicide is wrong. Life is a gift, a gift from God, from God who loves us. To do that, to give up, is to throw it back in God's face and say 'Fuck you.' This is a gift, a very precious gift. How dare we think about throwing it away." 

I was preaching to myself. I was giving myself a reason to hang on.  Stephen had given up and here I was, unexpectedly caught in the wake of his self-destruction.

My lesson from Steve's death is not: How a repressive environment like Wheaton can drive a person to suicide. I cannot even make that kind of conclusion or assign blame like that.

Something that remains in my mind is the eyewitness account of the train conductor. He said that Stephen stepped out in front of the train, faced it and clasped his hands over his head, "Almost victoriously." 

Whatever forces brought Stephen to that point - to what? The point of despair? I can’t know what he was thinking or feeling when he made his decision to take his life. I can’t even be sure that it was despair. But regardless of whatever factors may have been acting on him - Christianity, his struggle with his homosexuality, his family, Wheaton, whatever - his final steps onto those tracks were his own.

I almost feel guilty saying that. Wasn't Stephen a victim? What about all those gay teenagers who commit suicide every year because they are gay and they can't accept themselves and their families won't accept them and society won't accept them? Aren't I absolving Wheaton and Christianity and families and society of Stephen's death by saying that it was all him? How can I answer that question? 

I don't believe that it was all him, no.  Nor do I absolve Wheaton or Christianity or families or society or even myself of the human crimes of intolerance and willful ignorance and the pain that these things inflict – intentionally or not. But if being a victim of these things automatically necessitates death, then someone please put a gun to my head. No, I must believe that we have more power over our own souls than that.

My lesson from Stephen's death was: hang on, live. I know life hurts. I know you're parents did shitty things. I know Wheaton can be a terrible place to be. I know that you're lonely. I know that you can't see the point. I know that you don't know what you are doing with your life or how to live it. I know, I know, I know. But I also know that your parents love you (however imperfectly), God loves you, your friends love you. I love you.

Life is a precious, wondrous gift. Hang on, live.