COLLEEN DIPPEL, AGED FOUR, was in the car in 1976 when her mother lost control on an icy winter road and hit a tree. Colleen had been playing on the floor of the backseat, something her mother often let her do. She heard and felt the crash. The backseat, thrust forward, fell on top of her. When she pushed her way out from under, she saw blood everywhere. She found her mother crumpled in the front seat. She tried to open the woman’s eyes, but it was no use. Patricia McCafferty Dippel never recovered consciousness and died four days later.
Dippel’s father was a construction worker, a good provider without a college degree who sometimes struggled with the demands of raising his very social daughter. Dippel went to parties instead of studying. Most of her friends in Gardiner, New York, were going off to college. Dippel assumed she would too. But in her senior year, her father told her he would not pay for it. “I can’t trust you,” he said. “I don’t believe you are going to go and really study and be there for the right reasons.”
She shouted at him, “You are ruining my life!” But years later, she realized his decision was a turning point. He was right. She only wanted to go to college to be with her friends. She was forced to think about what else was important. Working several jobs—Planned Parenthood office clerk, lifeguard, swimming teacher, waitress—she put herself through Dutchess County Community College and the State University of New York at Albany. She had planned to be a lawyer, but a string of administrative jobs with the Teach For America program, in New York and then in Houston, led to a different life from what she had imagined.
At the beginning of a staff meeting during her second week in Houston, in the summer of 1995, a Teach For America institute faculty director she didn’t know walked into the room. He was big. He was wearing what Dippel considered a ridiculous outfit, a Colonel Sanders string tie, a vest, and a black cowboy hat. She wondered how anyone would have the guts to dress like that and not be self-conscious.
They went around the table introducing themselves. The urban cowboy said he was Mike Feinberg, a Teach For America corps member overseeing a group of new teachers in training. When it was Dippel’s turn, she smiled and said, “Hi. I’m Colleen. You’ve probably received several e-mails from me. I’m running the workshops this summer. You don’t need to know my title, but you do need to know that you all have to turn your course descriptions in to me, and if you don’t turn them in to me, I’m going to become your worst nightmare.”
Right after the meeting, Dippel found Feinberg looming over her, trying to introduce himself. He liked sassy, attractive women. Dippel had the lean, healthy figure of a swimming instructor and resembled the actress Julia Stiles.
“Oh, yes,” she told him. “You’re on my list. You haven’t turned in your paperwork yet.”
Feinberg seemed delighted. “Oh,” he said, “I would hate to be your worst nightmare.”
What a smart-ass, Dippel thought, but she was undeniably intrigued. Her doubts about the cowboy guy increased when Feinberg turned in his project description, nearly identical to the one she had received from her friend Mike Farabaugh, another corps member adviser that summer. She went to see Farabaugh.
“Mike, what’s with this guy? You wrote his course description.”
“I did not write his course description.”
“You’re lying, but what’s his deal?”
“Well, why?”
“Well, he’s kind of cute.”
Farabaugh smiled. Teach For America summer institutes had their romantic side. “I’ll set you up with him.”
She still found reasons to talk to Feinberg. At a Teach For America institute social event, she cut in on several female corps members who were telling him in great detail how they were freaking out because they didn’t have their lesson plans done. Dippel chatted with him a bit, then said she was leaving.
“I’ll leave with you,” he said.
She wanted to go back to her dorm room at the university and get some sleep, but they stopped for ice cream and walked around a bit. He finally dropped her off at her floor before he went up to the room he had been assigned so he could avoid the long trip back to his Gulfton apartment. Half a minute later, after looking for her room key, she realized her roommate back at the party had it. She went upstairs and knocked on Feinberg’s door.
“I know you’ll think I am making this up, but my roommate has my key. Can I crash here tonight?”
Feinberg welcomed her in and made her comfortable on the bottom bunk. Like a gentleman, he took the top bunk. Ever after, he would tell Dippel, and all their friends, that he knew if he didn’t make a pass at her at such a vulnerable moment, she would be unable to resist him in the future. As much as it irked her to hear him repeat this story, he was proved correct.
The next night, they went to the movies. “Want to come over to my apartment with me?” he said as they left the theater. “I have to fax something tonight.”
She thought this was the lamest come-on she had ever heard, but she agreed. She discovered that his Gulfton apartment was indeed loaded with office equipment and books for the school he was about to start. The Xerox machine was almost blocking the front door, forcing them to squeeze into the apartment sideways.
Their romance began for real that night, as did a very long and inconclusive argument over whether he had actually had something that needed faxing.