Going Solo

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by Karla Jynn

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My sneakers squeaked against the sloping auditorium floor. I chose an aisle seat about halfway down, trying to blend in. I’d never imagined a “parents” night, for me, as a night on my own. The padded bottom of the chair thunked as I pushed it down and sat. Small flocks of parents chatted and laughed.

From my previous visit, I knew this school community prided itself on being inclusive and welcoming, but I couldn’t feel it yet. It seemed alien compared to the insular, tight-knit community of Swedenborgian Christians who had surrounded me in Bryn Athyn, the tiny town I’d lived in for my first 52 years.

My three older children had attended conservative religious school there, as did my grandparents, parents, countless other relatives, and I. But here at Germantown Friends School, in 2006, where my soon-to-be-ex’s mom paid the tuition for our youngest child’s ninth-grade year, I knew not a soul.

The auditorium was eerily like the Bryn Athyn one we had filed into for worship every school day for years. Red velvet curtains with slightly worn edges, musty smell, stage, coffered oak ceiling. But this one had no altar, thank god.

The cheery headmaster welcomed parents old and new, though it seemed to me most were “lifers”—their term for those wealthy enough to send their kids to this highly-sought Quaker school from kindergarten on. As he spoke, my outsider eyes scanned the crowd.

The room felt chilly despite our mild September.

After his talk, the headmaster directed everyone to the doors leading toward the other campus buildings.

A slow river of parents flowed to the far side of the auditorium. While I waited for my turn to exit, a man in line behind me started humming, in a tenor so sweet and clear it made my breath catch. I turned around and saw a handsome dad with sculpted cheekbones, high forehead, and long dreads. I smiled too broadly and said, “You’re good!”

He nodded. His humming grew quieter. My teeth clenched at this lame attempt to connect. It was the first and last one I made that night. If my husband had been with me, I wouldn’t have cared as much. But on the verge of divorce, I was floundering.

In the second week of school, my son came home and said, “I’m getting to know a girl in my class named Maddie. She’s the daughter of Bobby McFerrin.”

“Seriously?!” I covered my face with my hands.

I’d complimented Bobby McFerrin’s voice, without a clue it was him.

There was so much I didn’t know. So many voices I’d have to explore before finding my own.

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