Alarie Tennille
WAVE Alice Marie Adams, Alarie’s mother
by Alarie Tennille
Part 1: Feminism and Learning to Stand Up for Myself
I’m a UVA pioneer coed with a BA in English, a Phi Beta Kappa key,
and a black belt in feminism.
My older brother went to the University of Virginia. I was already in love
with beautiful places and historic buildings, since Virginia was brimming
with them. (In case you didn’t know, the university was founded by Thomas
Jefferson.) I was thirteen when my parents and took me up to UVA to see my
brother’s dorm room and the lovely Blue Ridge Mountains. It was love at first
sight for me, but Geoff regularly reminded me, “You can’t come here.
Only men are allowed.”
When he graduated in 1969, he wrote to let me know that I could come there
after all. The school took the case to court, asserting that a state institution
shouldn’t discriminate against the daughters of Virginia who didn’t have the same
privileges allowed to their sons. The school took our case to court. I had no idea
what trials waited for me. My mail from UVA was always addressed to
Mr. Alarie Tennille.
Two years ago, my husband and I went back there to celebrate our 50th college
reunion, and I was invited to share some of my poems about the experiences
of being a first coed. Several of my poems appeared in the book: Here to Stay:
The Story of the Class of Women Who Conducted the University of Virginia.
I was honored that our book author, Gail Burrell Gerry featured me both
in the book and in my brief reading during our 50th year anniversary.
She Doesn’t Have to Call Me a Bitch
Everything about her
shouts it – the red face, bared
teeth, the way she charges
like a shrieking hyena. Ignoring
the older man beside me, she singles
me out for the kill. “YOU
are destroying the family!”
she screams. Hoisting a sweaty
baby like a trophy, she sputters,
“MY daughter is going to be a LADY!”
I sit at an outdoor table, spread
with N.O.W. pamphlets and petitions
for the Equal Rights Amendment.
I look her in the eye, say nothing,
become a wall that her words
bounce off. She turns on her heel,
huffs away.
The silence sizzles.
First published in Gimme Your Lunch Money: Heartland Poets
Speak out against Bullies
Leaving the Coast for a Kansas City Job
Over 1,000 miles away –
would it be worth the worry, the expense?
Our lists of pros and cons proved
useless ¬– weighing the cotton candy
of dreams against brick and mortar:
our first house, friends, family,
two paychecks. Unknowns can topple
any column of logic.
He took the job. I tried to sell the house.
Mama died. Daddy got cancer. Six months
later, in February, I left camellias
and daffodils and flew back to winter.
At least we had each other. Determined
to like our new home, we explored
neighborhoods, shopping, and museums.
The zoo was fun until I smelled
salt water at the sea lion exhibit.
I cried.
First published in Waking on the Moon
Paratrooper Sergeant Paul Tennille, Alarie’s father
Part II: Finding a New Home and Losing my Parents
My future husband and I had a hard time getting decent jobs in the wake of a deep depression.
We moved away from our beloved college town to Tidewater, Virginia to get work and find a house we could afford. I worked as a technical editor (private office overlooking the water!) and Chris taught middle school. We found a house. Chris decided to accept a job with Hallmark
in Kansas city, and both my parents soon died. My mother had just turned 59, but had cardiac failure. My father had lung cancer and lasted just more than a year longer. I didn’t have any friends (yet) in my new home.
When I did find new friends on the job, an especially dear friend said I should write about my
eccentric parents’ entertaining lives. I decided to do that, not in prose, but in poetry.
My parents had lived through difficult childhoods during the Depression, then joining the war
effort. Mama was a WAVE, Daddy a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne. I loved retelling their
stories.
Wild Alice
Black and white photos
can’t hide the colorful life
you lived before me. Crimson
lips whispering smoke,
eyes laughing in ways
they’ve forgotten. Night
clubs, dance floors, “When
They Begin the Beguine.”
Dress rehearsals for a show
that didn’t go on.
Three fiancés,
just one trip to the altar—
that should have been
a sign you weren’t cut
out for a supporting role.
But the backdrop
of war crashed,
leaving a world craving
domestic comedy.
You could still command
center stage: holding placards
in parades, dancing hula
at conventions, promising
to tell the whole truth
in courtroom dramas.
But red taffeta and shimmy
dresses faded to the back
of your closet.
Encore! Encore!
Weekdays at 5:00 p.m.
I held a ticket to your late
matinee. You swept through
the door, catching me up
in a waltz or a jitterbug.
“Marry a man who can
dance,” you’d say. Then,
swirling into the kitchen,
just us girls, you’d take me
behind the scenes, telling me
the stories that made me
wish I’d been born sooner.
First published in Remembering Faces,
chapbook anthology from Palettes and Quills
Daddy and the MPs
World War II
Daddy was a flashy dresser –
added a tartan tie and derby
to his drab uniform.
“You’re in trouble this time,”
said Daddy’s buddy Dale
as the MPs approached.
Sure enough they got stopped.
“Button your pocket,”
they told Dale before walking on –
just a nod to Daddy.
Cigarettes, chocolates, booze,
favorite rations traded with the Brits –
whatever could make war
a little less hell, Master Sergeant
Tennille provided.
I laughed every time I heard it.
A paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne
didn’t have many stories
he could tell his little girl.
The same office friend who urged me to write about my parents
saved me from years of nightmares by calling forth the common sense
of this poem.
Switching on the Light
I wake in the dark.
A man stands silhouetted
in the doorway. I try to scream,
find my voice sleep-paralyzed
like my legs.
Shhh, it’s only a dream,
whispers my husband, pulling
me close. My moan fades.
My adrenalin soars.
I wake in the dark.
A man stands silhouetted
in the doorway. Repeat,
repeat. Over twenty years
of reruns.
I blame the serial rapist
who haunted college nights.
The one time my roommate
was gone, he climbed
through the window next door.
How can that other woman
ever sleep again?
At work the next day, I explain
to a friend why I’m dragging.
This man in the dream
never speaks or comes
toward you? she asks.
Maybe he’s not an intruder.
When you were little,
didn’t your daddy stand
at the door like that to check
on you?
First published in Dying Dahlia
The voice of wisdom in this poem was dear Sharon Valleau.
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