IT WAS A Sunday night in mid-May, shortly after eleven. Jerry was bringing me home after spending time with Karen in her freshman dorm at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. As we rounded the corner at the top of my street, we saw a fire truck—parked in front of my house. Unable to get any closer, Jerry parked the car up the street from my house. Getting out of the car, we could smell the smoke. With my stomach knotted and my heart beating erratically, I raced toward the truck. I saw firefighters, but none of my family.

Turning to Jerry, I shrieked, “Oh God, No! Where is my family?” the first thought that bombarded my mind.

Before I could reach a firefighter, an elderly neighbor took me by the arm and informed me my family was okay. Mama and my siblings were at Mrs. Dixon’s house. My father was on his way home from work.

Jerry and I went down the street to Mrs. Dixon’s. Seeing us coming, Mrs. Dixon opened the door, let us in the house and hugged me. After we were inside, my youngest, soot-covered sister, Linda, described what happened. Bernice and I awarded her the unofficial melodrama of the year prize for her description.

“I woke up and everything was black. Everybody was asleep. I smelled smoke. I yelled for Mommy and woke up Teenie, I could barely see through the black smoke, but I felt my way into Kelvin and Martin’s room, screaming for them to wake up. Then we walked down the stairs quickly, like in a fire drill, and out onto the porch. It was terrible.” She concluded, “Mrs. Dixon had us come down here to her house while we waited for the firefighters to arrive.”

That’s when I noticed all of my siblings were wearing night clothes. My mom had on a robe. Thank God everyone made it out. In hindsight, Linda’s description doesn’t seem so melodramatic at all.

The fire department determined the blaze was caused by an electrical short in the kitchen. The next day we were able to enter the house and retrieve our clothes. The fire had been contained to the main floor of the house. We lost our childhood pictures and I lost my Best Actress trophy.

Our family was split up into different living environments. My parents and brothers stayed with one of my dad’s friends who lived around the corner from us. Valerie remained in her apartment at University of Maryland, College Park. Linda lived with friends of the family. Teenie and I lived with Aunt Nellie, as did Karen during her school breaks. I remember feeling a little displaced, being separated from most of my family. However, I never felt homeless because I lived with Aunt Nellie, our family’s matriarch.

During a round of college applications and campus visits in the fall of 1976, I visited Wesleyan University, in Middletown, Connecticut. I fell in love with the library. It housed an impressive number of books. Entering the stacks, I knew I could be quite at home here. In eleventh and twelfth grades, when inundated with work, I would go to the Central Branch of Enoch Pratt Free Library to study in its hallowed hush.

I had applied at Mr. Greif’s suggestion. Knowing me well, he believed Wesleyan would provide an optimal learning environment for me. I added it to the list of colleges I had prepared with my college guidance counselor. Before acceptances arrived, I had considered matriculating at Williams College with Bernice, but I was wait-listed.

Having accepted Wesleyan’s admissions offer and the National Achievement Scholarship awarded to me, I looked forward to the comfort of borrowing books from and studying in the Olin Library.

AT SCHOOL, WE ended our senior year with a personally designed, self-directed senior project. I taught first grade reading at St. Ambrose and completed the course, Child Care and Development in the Kindergarten at Park. I also continued dance lessons.

Each senior was required to orally synopsize his or her project for eleventh graders and members of the upper school faculty. I described my six-week program, tying it into lessons learned at Park. My presentation included a dance solo I choreographed, assisted by my beloved dance teacher, Martita Goshen. I began studying modern and jazz dance with her in tenth grade. I discovered dance was the only activity that silenced the tickertape parade of thoughts that generally bombarded my brain. I selected the Negro spiritual, “Hush! Somebody’s Calling My Name” as featured in the Alex Haley drama, Roots, for my performance. I was honored when Mr. Lakin, my exacting American history instructor, called it, “the best presentation I’ve seen this year.”

A rainy day had forced graduation inside. The people with whom I shared the closest bond were there. I had received extra tickets—enough for my large immediate family as well as Aunt Nellie, Uncle Vernon and Jerry.

Sitting on the familiar theater stage as part of the Park School graduating class of 1977, I half-listened to the selected commencement speakers. Not attending to what they were saying, I thought about what lay behind me as well as what loomed ahead. When diplomas were presented, I accepted mine proudly.

By the end of my senior year, after completing an extensive, reflective senior questionnaire about my Park School experience, I acknowledged to my mother, “You were right. In eighth grade, I didn’t understand or appreciate the quality of a Park School education. I doubt I would have developed the critical thinking skills at Western that I absorbed at Park.”

My learned ability to reason, question assumptions, and think things through in order to formulate reasonable, appropriate plans of action would be essential for future decision making. It was the system I would need to help me override my abundant feelings and eventually manage my unpredictable moods. I was in great physical, mental, and emotional health. Graduating from Park was like bursting out of a womb—with very high Apgar scores.