TO HAVE AND TO HOLD

by Jodi Walker

My roommate from college was married last week.

She was one of the last of us to take the plunge, and most of our crowd, who have remained remarkably close over the almost 18 years since our mediocre private college brought us together, had never met her husband-to- be. Priscilla transferred in to CW Post at the same time I started my freshman year. She had been studying vocal performance at Tulane University in New Orleans, but had heard of an amazing voice teacher at Post and had decided, kind of on a whim, to move her life north to work with her. My first semester I was enrolled in a music history class and one of my assignments was to attend a performance where Priscilla was a featured soloist, and to write about the experience.

She enchanted me. Her voice was unlike any I had ever heard, and she made the classical piece she sung both accessible and ethereal. I wrote my paper and received an A, and about a month later I ran into Priscilla at a party and told her about the paper. She was flattered and touched and we became fast friends. Funny enough, her first experience with me was also as a spectator; at a party she had walked in on a conversation I was having in a bathroom with my then boyfriend, and, loving all things tiny, she noticed my small frame and Laura Ingalls-like appearance and eavesdropped a bit on our conversation. To her surprise, I let out a string of filthy, filthy language that almost knocked her off her feet, and she swears she knew from that point on we'd be friends.

By my junior year, we were both roommate-less and decided to room together. On the surface, we seemed an unlikely match; I was a in a long term relationship with all the proverbial collegial drama typically associated with these types of relationships, while Priscilla was an independent woman with a full roster of suitors she chose from at her fancy. We were a physically striking pair: me, barely 4 feet 10 inches tall and Priscilla, the daughter of a former line backer, considerably taller. Our styles were probably our most outwardly contrasting features: at that time, I had nothing but the most functional of interest in clothes and could barely be convinced to change out of my ratty sweaters and jeans or run a comb though my hair, while Priscilla was always completely put together from head to toe; even her pajamas were the silky grown up kind from the Soaps.

Beneath the surface however, we were remarkably similar. We were both from tight knit, passionate families with super high highs and super low lows. We were both putting ourselves through school and many times pooled our change to split a plate of food for the day. We both held at least 2 jobs throughout school and waited tables at the same restaurant for one brief, glorious period. We both were addicted to laughter and, like any addict, withered without it. And we both, under it all, were big fat nerds, especially about words. We played word games and spent an embarrassing amount of time looking up things in the dictionary. During one semester, we met each evening after work and class were through to read aloud from To Kill a Mockingbird. At first we took turns, but very quickly we realized that Priscilla was the reader and I was the listener, and after a month, as we neared the climax, we wept together as Boo Radley made his epic sacrifice. Sorority sisters had nothing on us.

After college P stayed in New York while I wondered south, and then a few years before I returned to the Big Apple, she found her way home to Florida where she started up a practice of teaching private lessons to young singers and pursuing her Opera career. Over the past 10 years, she has realized that her true calling is teaching and has, of course, succeeded fabulously.

Emersion in the moment is another salient trait Priscilla and I share. We don't keep in touch as closely as we might, but in spite of this, or maybe even because of it, we always seem to pick up right where we left off.   I was not intimately involved with the planning of her wedding, so I was privileged to experience the full effect of witnessing her life and the life of the man she chose to spend the rest of her life with, after many years of being on her own, merge. The ceremony was as stunning an experience for me as her first performance at Post. She and her betrothed openly wept and held each other throughout. Her dear friends sang a duet that soared to the heavens. From the bell choir at the start to the powerful choral piece performed by a vast array of former students and colleagues, the music once again spoke to the soul.

Perhaps the best part of the experience though, was the opportunity we had, after all the evening's festivities, to sit down and get to know her husband. He is absolutely nothing like any of the men we had ever known her to date, and absolutely everything like all the men she chose to befriend at school. He is funny and quirky and confident, smart and aware and he can barely contain his love for her. He and Dave fell in love; at one point, Priscilla and I looked over at the two of them, smoking cigars and bonding over fishing stories, and realized that they ridiculously resembled each other. Priscilla married a tall Dave Walker.

I couldn't have wished for more for my dear friend.