More than thirty-five years ago I left school-teaching to enter a career as a mental health counselor. I was sitting on my front steps brushing my Chow-Chow dog. My home faced the back entrance of a residence for “troubled” girls. The girls lived and attended school within the building. I knew nothing more about the place, but frequently on Fridays, I would observe a number of young women climbing out of the fire escape to run away. I guessed that they would be caught some time over the weekend, and be returned. I assumed this since each Friday the same ones escaped.
Staff members parked behind the building, and as I sat with my dog, a young woman came out to her car to drive home at the end of her work day. She glanced at me and waved. I wave back, but I wasn’t sure if I knew her. Instead of getting into her car, she walked across the street to talk with me.
She introduced herself as Joani and called me by name. That was no help. I still didn’t know her. She said that I had met her once with my girlfriend Carol. She said that she knew a lot about me from Carol.
“Ah, a sudden flash of recognition. I remember you now. You’re a counselor. So…you work at the residence? I often see some of your girls escaping on Fridays. I expect I’ll see some tonight as usual.”
Joani laughed.
“I expect you will, but they are always picked up and returned before Monday. I heard that you just received your Masters in some Psychology program. You’re a school teacher now. Isn’t that right? Have you considered leaving teaching now that you have a psychology degree? Maybe we could discuss a counseling job that’s open across the street where I work. I’m the Director of Counseling, and I’m looking for a counselor to add to my staff. I’m looking specifically for a male therapist. I think the girls need some positive male connection. Most of the staff that directly relate with the residents are women. The counselors, teachers, and house mothers are all women. I understand that are continuing to a Ph.D. in Psychology. This job could be a wonderful beginning experience with psychotherapy”
I answered that I was interested, but that I was committed to teach to the end of the school year. I have no experience at all as a counselor.
“That’s OK. We’ll train you on the job. More than anything else we need a male counselor. The Executive Director is a male Behavioral Psychologist, and we have a male Psychiatrist. The girls have no direct relationship with either of these men. Between the two of them and me, you’ll learn all you need to learn to work as a counselor with these girls.”
Over the next month Joani and I met and she introduced me to the Club, as the residence was called, and to the rest of the professional staff. There were two other counselors, two teachers and a Program Manager, all women, and three males, the Executive Director, the Psychiatrist, and the Education Director. All seemed friendly and welcoming, assuring me that I would learn and perform successfully within a short time.
The very next weekday after the end of the school year I began my new profession. I spent my first day walking around the Club with Joani. She introduced me to three women from whom I would learn and receive the best guidance as long as I worked at the club. They were called the “House Mothers.” The oldest one, Mrs. Tilley, looked at me with skepticism recognizing how little I knew about counseling teenaged girls. I would have to win her over as soon as possible.
My second day Joani dropped Twenty-two files on my desk and I was thrown into the ‘deep end” to sink or swim..
“Read them today, or wait until after you have met your clients. Here is your schedule of their appointment times. You will enjoy all of your clients. Some of them are tough, but they’re all nice girls at heart.”
Then she turned at the door. Smiling, she said:
“Oh…there is one who will be a challenge. You may want to read the notes about Libby today. You’re not scheduled to see her until next Monday morning. She’ll start you next week with a bang…if she talks with you. at all.”
Wednesday was my day one as a counselor. I met with four residents and with the Club psychiatrist for training. I was nervous and apprehensive before each session, but by the end of each I developed more confidence in my ability to communicate as a listener and a helper. With each I felt the beginning of a personal relationship. By the end of the week I had met with fourteen of my twenty-two clients, and felt pretty professional.
On Friday the same familiar faces climbed down the back of the building, but now they waved to me with recognition. I was the counselor. I felt obliged to call out to them to stay “home.” They just laughed and continued on their way.
Monday morning arrived, and I sat in my office looking over my schedule for the day. Instantly my eyes fell on the file of my 10 AM appointment, Libby. I hadn’t read her file yet. I opened the thickest folder of notes and documents.
Libby was 17, and had lived at the club since the age of 13. She was described as 5 feet 5 inches tall, weighing about 180 pounds. She was considered very strong, with anger issues. The House mother notes indicated that they liked her and cared a great deal about her, but that she was capable of physical confrontations with the other girls, if they did anything to insult, hurt or anger her. One incident was described in detail. One of the girls ridiculed her publically and accused her of stealing. Libby threatened and rushed toward her accuser, and was restrained just in time by Mrs. Tilley, the tough little house mother.
Later that evening, Libby broke down the door to that resident’s room cursing, and threatened her with her fists. She didn’t touch the girl, knowing the possible punishments, but she scared that girl, the rest of the residents, and some the staff too. Uh Oh, I whispered to myself.
I looked at my watch. Ten of 10. I walked out of my office and looked down the hallway. No sign of anyone who fit Libby’s description. I walked back in and closed the door. I sat in my chair facing the door and waited for a knock.
10:00. No knock. 10:05. No knock. I decided to go again to the hallway and see if she was coming. I opened the door and in front of me stood Libby with arms folded in front of her. She smirked, then laughed…and not in a kindly way.
You Silverman? She scanned me from head to toe. She moved not an inch.
Yes, I’m Mr. Silverman.
Oh. Mr. Silverman it’s going to be, huh?
Yes. Are you Miss Bradley?
This brought a genuine laugh from her.
Call me Olivia. Do I still call you Mr?
OK, You can call me Michael. I hoped that this attempt at informality would begin to lighten our encounter.
I think I’ll call you Mr. Silverman.
Well? Are you coming into my office for our meeting?
No…I don’t think I am. I’ll just stand here with you.
OK. If that’s what you want. I’m going back in and working on reports, unless you want to keep talking from outside.
No, I’ll just stand here for a while.
“Our session lasts until 10:50” I said.
“I may not stay that long.”
“OK.”
I went into my office, sat at my desk and self-consciously pretended to work. At 10:40 Libby turned to leave. I called after her
See you next Monday at 10?
No answer.
The rest of my first week as a counselor raced by with staff meetings, training sessions and twenty other individual client sessions. All of these sessions felt successful. All of the girls were happy to meet with me and pleased that I was a man rather than a woman. I was the only male counselor in the place, except for the part-time psychiatrist and the Executive Director.
Though I was encouraged and confident in my first counseling week, I looked forward to the challenge of meeting with Olivia again, or almost meeting.
Monday morning at 10 came, and I opened the door. Again Olivia stood before me, this time with a smile.
Are you coming in Olivia?
No, I’ll just stay here.
Are we going to talk with each other?
Not yet.
Hmm. This seems more promising for today and maybe next week. Do you think so?
Not necessarily.
This time while I seemed to ignore her, she stood briefly and then left after 15 minutes.
Next Monday I looked at my watch many times before my 10:00 o’clock appointment with Olivia.
When I opened the door she stood ready to come in or leave. Which would she do today?
OK I’m coming in today.
As I held the door Olivia walked past me to the seat across from my desk chair.
Sitting with her hands folded on her lap she stared at me expectantly.
She confronted me with confidence: “What do you want to know?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said: “Tell me the story of your life. We have 40 minutes. That should be enough time since your just 17.”
She smiled, then laughed.
“Oh, you think 40 minutes will do it huh? How about we start with you. How did you get this job? I’ve seen you outside with your dog when I look out the back window. Is living close by all you need to be a counselor here?”
“That did help me get hired. That and a college degree in Psych.”
“Joani introduced you when you started. Did knowing her get you the job? Is this who you know not what you know? Did you ever do this work before?”
“No I never did. This will be on-the-job learning. You’ll teach me a lot I suppose.”
“OK I’ll show you how. I’ll be the counselor and ask you the questions this time. I’ll be the judge of whether you are honest and worth trusting. If you are we may get somewhere, since except for Mrs. Tilly, I don’t trust anyone here.”
Thus our “talk therapy” began. Olivia asked probing questions about my life and my background, avoiding only questions of drugs and sex. By the end of two sessions she said she was satisfied that I was hiding less than she hid, and I was OK. In fact she approved of me as her counselor, hoping that I would stay in the job.
“Call me “Libby” from now on.”
Over the next nine months Libby and I accomplished a great deal. With trust came candid discussions of past abuse, anger and other more peaceful ways of being with the rest of the residents and staff. Our counselor–client relationship became solid, open and direct, a friendship.
Libby was intelligent and talented. She described her history of singing in church when she was a child, and how her voice deepened as she became a teenager.
“Do you ever sing here?”
“No. It wouldn’t be appreciated. In fact I’d probably be made fun of, and that would piss me off. I don’t think you’d want me to “act out”. You know what I can do when I’m angry.”
“Well do you sing at all here?”
“I sing softly in my room or in the shower, but you wouldn’t believe what I sound like when I let loose.”
“If I close the door will you sing for me? Even softly so I can hear a bit of your talent?”
“No. Everyone will hear even soft singing.”
“Come ‘on, Just a few notes real fast so I’ll get the idea.”
“What do you want me to sing?”
“What you sing best?”
“Bluesy stuff. OK I’ll sing one line.”
Libby took a deep breath, then started softly and building to all out power.
“Nobody knows you
When you’re down and out
In my pocket not one penny
And my friends, I haven’t any
But if I ever get on my feet again
Then I’ll meet my long-lost friend
It’s mighty strange without a doubt
Nobody knows you when you’re down and out
I mean when you’re down and out.”
Covering her mouth with her hand she rushed to open the door and looked out in the hallway. With a sigh of relief she returned and sat down.
“Well what do you think? Not too bad, huh?”
I was almost speechless.
“Wow.” Was all I could manage.
Over the sessions that followed we talked about her day-to-day living and a little about her aspirations and fantasies of a singing career.
She believed that they were strictly fantasies. That singers were “a dime a dozen, and “buddy can ya spare a dime?” Ha!””
I continued to encourage her to sing, even to perform in the house so others could enjoy her. Indeed she became much more open and sociable in the house, singing softly and a little more loudly in the halls, receiving compliments and showing greater confidence.
One day I was sitting in my office alone when someone knocked. Mrs. Tilly the house mother asked if she could discuss something with me about Libby.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, not a problem. It’s about her singing.”
“Is she too loud. Is anyone complaining?”
“No. In fact there may be something special for Libby that could allow her to sing in public.”
Mrs. Tilly told me about Jack, the son of one of her neighbors who worked at the YMHA (Jewish Y) on Broad Street. He was in charge of programs and activities there. That was his job. Jack was a young black man in his late twenties. He had a college degree in theater and script writing.
He had written a play with music that he wanted to produce at the Y. What he wanted to talk with her about was an idea he had about enlisting the help of one of the residents at the club. He knew that most of the residents were black teenage girls, and he just by chance if any of them could act and sing.
“I immediately thought of Libby, “she said, “and when he told me about the play I just knew that this would be a perfect opportunity if she would take the chance to do it.”
The Play was about “Young Bessie Smith”.
“Look at Libby and listen to her singing. Could this be more perfect?”
Jack was so excited when I told him about Libby, the perfect “Young Bessie.”
Well she does love to sing blues more than any other kind of music.
I’ll introduce the idea to Libby and if she wants it, would you take care of the arrangements?
I found myself as excited as Mrs. Tilly. I wondered how Libby would take it or if she’d consider it. It would mean coming out as a performer in public. It would also mean studying, memorizing and practicing with other performers.
At 10 Libby arrived beaming.
What do you think, Mr. Silverman? Do you think Mr. Jack will like me for the part of Bessie Smith? I know I can sound like her.
Have you heard her recordings?
I went to the library yesterday and listened to some. She sounds like me. Or I sound like her.
“Gimme a pigfoot and a bottle of beer,” she sang loudly with a wide grin.
OK, I’ll call him and set up an appointment for you two to meet and have an audition.
I called Jack over at the Y that afternoon. I told him about Libby’s tremendous talent and her excitement about the prospect of performing. He expressed concern that at 17 she may not have the dedication to study a part and work with other performers. I said that meeting her will bring confidence that she is ready.
I said I would send her for an appointment with him the next day at 1:00 PM.
The next day, Tuesday, Libby came to my office to show how she looked to meet at her first show business interview. She was wearing her best Sunday church dress and well picked afro hairstyle. The only make up was lipstick. She looked every bit a star, much older than 17.
How Do I look? Will Jack be impressed, do you think?
I think you’ll knock his socks off.
Libby smiled, turned and walked out to “become a star.”
At 2:30 my phone rang. I picked up and:
Michael? This is Jack. Olivia just left and is walking back home. I wanted to talk to you before she gets there.
Is anything wrong? Was she not right for the part?
None of that. I want to thank you so much for your miracle gift of a young Bessie Smith. As soon as Olivia walked in, I was shocked. She channels Bessie Smith. And when she sang a few notes, I had to stop her. She brought me to tears. If she can learn lines and act with other people, the play will be a knockout.
That is just wonderful Jack. Did Libby seem excited and willing?
I think she’s scared, but I’ll connect her with the other cast members and we’ll all learn together.
I ran to Mrs. Tilly to tell her of Libby’s success. She smiled tentatively, but loved hearing about her appointment.
Just then Libby walked in. She was visibly sweating after walking quickly home from Broad Street to 6th.
I passed! I can be in the show. I’ll be the star of the show in fact if I can act, remember lines and sing songs. We start next Monday night. Jack seemed thrilled. He cried when I sang for him. I hope I can do this.
Libby perspired with excitement, and from the walk home. This could bring a change in her young life.
Rehearsals were every evening over two weeks. Jack directed eight performers. All were experienced actors and singers, except for Libby. Every evening all of them encouraged her on-the-job learning.
After the rehearsals and Libby’s dedication to learning her lines, opening night was planned for Sunday Evening. The show was scheduled for 18 evening performances over three weeks from Saturday Evening through Thursday. There would be no performances on Friday since it was the Sabbath and the venue was part of the Jewish Y.
At Saturday opening night the audience was sold out. 25 people came from the Gratz Club to see their friend Libby become a star.
As the house lights dimmed the lights on the stage came up, and alone on the stage was Libby alone in a wooden chair. A piano at the edge of the stage began to play the strains of an old “black church hymn.”
And Libby softly began with the piano: “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.” The pianist maintained the same volume, but Libby’s voice grew louder and louder, until by the end her tones rang through the auditorium.
Then silence, and Libby remained motionless in her chair..
There was silence in the room for a few seconds, then the entire audience rose and applauded with calls of hurray and bravo.
Libby turned toward the audience and smiled proudly maintaining her role of young Bessie with tears streaming down her face.
The show ran for two hours with an intermission in the middle. The story covered the period from Bessie’s teen years until her first star performances in her early twenties with Ma Rainey’s musical show. Her first recording “Downhearted Blues” an instant blues hit, ended the show followed by another standing ovation. Then the whole cast came out to the stage to sing, with Libby, the star in a long gown as Bessie Smith.
After the show Libby returned home to the Gratz Club for a celebration and continued to perform flawlessly for the entire three week run. What a career starter!
Jack felt that with a little polishing, he might find financial backing to take the show to New York, off Broadway.
The show ran for eight performances, each sold out after reviews in the local newspapers. By the end of the brief run Libby was a professional, an actress with polish and confidence.
Jack immediately began work on the move of the show to New York at a Y or if possible a small off-broadway theater. Jack made sure that all of his actors were paid up members of Actors Equity Association. They were. Libby would have to become a member.
Jack pulled out all the stops to obtain an application and membership for Libby, but for a number of reasons it couldn’t be done. So even though he obtained a theater commitment at a theater in New York, Libby could not be included in the cast.
Libby disappointedly returned to life at the Club as a regular resident. Then matters got worse. Libby was only a couple of months away from her eighteenth birthday. The Club received a notification letter that indicated that the financial support that allowed her to be a resident was terminating as of her birthday. There were no extensions available and arrangements had to be planned for her move out.
I was shown a copy of the notification. I would be responsible for giving the news to Libby and helping her make the move. I immediately met with Mrs. Tilley, who calmly and seriously said she was expecting this. She couldn’t predict how Libby would react to the news, but she was confident that I would be the most trusted one to break it to her.
I hoped I was ready for our regular Monday morning appointment. I sat at my desk staring at my closed office door, waiting for the usual knock. When it came I jumped and said:
Come in…too softly and repeated
Come in…this time too loudly.
Libby entered and quietly sat in her accustomed chair next to my desk. She was sort of smiling.
I guess I still need to talk about how bad I feel about ending my brief stage career, at least for now.
Yes, we should continue to talk about that, Libby. It’s not finished. Everything was going along with so much continuous success, and suddenly came to an end. This may not be the end of a career on the stage, maybe a bump in the road. We can talk about strategies to work on. You accomplished a wonderful beginning.
We have to talk about something else today though. Your eighteenth birthday is coming up in a month. I don’t know if you understand what that means.
Libby leaned in toward me. Tension filled the room as she anticipated more disappointment.
Libby when you become eighteen, you can no longer live here with government support. We have to plan for where you’ll live then. Have you thought about where you can go? Are there relatives you can stay with for a while or permanently?
Libby turned away, her eyes tearing. I have a place to go. I’m OK.
Will you tell me where? I’d like to know where you’ll be, so I can keep in touch with you.
I know where to go. I have people who will be there for me. You don’t have to worry yourself about me.
Libby’s voice shook as she spoke those words. Suddenly there was anger and fear as she closed down her emotion in my presence.
How long can I stay here…until my actual birthday any no longer?
Yes, that’s the limit. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.
Don’t be. You don’t make the rules. I’ll be OK. She repeated.
Do I have to stay until my birthday?
Yes, because we’re responsible for your well-being until then.
I don’t want to talk about this any longer.
Libby stood up and walked out the door, closing it softly, to my surprise.
And so ended our last counseling session. In the next few weeks we passed in the halls unconnected. At my hello each time she was unresponsive. I saw her walk by all of the adults in the club without acknowledgement. She talked and joked with the other girls and ate all of her meals as usual with others on her floor. Mrs. Tilley watched her pass with concern. She would signal her worry to me with her eyes. Libby had been closest with Mrs. Tilley and not a word passed between them.
On the day of Libby’s eighteenth birthday the cook made a special cake that was served at lunch. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday” and Libby thanked everyone with a simple “Thank you.” Any gifts that were given were left unopened in the dining room.
Libby went to her room and closed the door. After a brief silence, noises of breaking glass and crashing objects were heard for what seemed like a long time. Then silence again for a number of hours. At 4:00 o’clock Libby opened the door and carried trash bag after trash bag down the hall to the trash-room. Finally, she stood looking into her room now empty of any evidence of her existence. Other girls stood with her, some keeping their distance and others reaching out to hug her. She refused none of the hugs.
She carried one trash-bag of clothes downstairs and set it down at the front door. She walked to Mrs. Tilley’s alcove and stood in front of her. Libby reached out her arms inviting a hug. The two now adult women embraced each other whispering their good-byes.
Then Libby walked down the hallway to my office and knocked on the door. I opened the door and we stood quietly facing each other. At the same time we reached for a hug and held on tight. In silence we connected and then pulled back. Libby turned, walked down the hall to the front door of the Club, grasped her bag of clothes and left her childhood forever.
Thirty-five years later I sat in my living room with my son, Andrew playing a great blues guitar. His renditions of old blues music reminded me of Libby and her portrayal of young Bessie Smith.
I told him about Libby and her show business adventure. He enjoyed it and asked:
Did you ever see her again after she left the Club?
No. She didn’t say where she was going to stay.
Don’t you wonder what happened to her? Why don’t you see if you can find her?
He and I opened my laptop and Googled her name and approximate age, her mid-fifties.
I had some memory that she had relatives in Georgia. There were lots of people with her name, but few with her age.
Andrew suggested that maybe she never left Philadelphia. Try here.
I looked on the people search in this area and found three Olivias with her approximate age.
I could call all three and maybe I’ll get lucky. Andrew left for work, and I told him I’d let him know how I make out with my calls.
It took some courage to make those uninvited calls. Maybe none of them were my Libby. Maybe one would be and not be interested in my intrusion.
A week later I looked at the three names and neighborhoods and phone numbers. I picked out one that just felt like the most likely.
I pushed the buttons of her number. Ring…Ring…Ring…click.
Hello?
Is this Olivia B. who once lived at the Club at 6th and Spruce in Philadelphia?
Who is this? And why are you calling me?
Before I could answer, Olivia B. breathed an audible gasp.
Is this Mr. Silverman?
Yes Libby.
How did you find me and why?
I explained how I had told my musician son her story when he played blues guitar for me.
At his encouragment I just looked you up.
To make this long story shorter we agreed to meet at City Hall and then go for lunch to catch up on the past thirty-five years.
We recognized each other immediately and didn’t feel even one year older.
We reminisced about the Club and then talked about Libby’s singing then and now.
Is there a now? Do you still sing? Have you performed anywhere.
Yes I still sing, but I don’t perform.
How’s your voice. What kind of music can you sing. Can you still sing blues?
Of course, but lower than when I was 18. I’d say “loud down and dirty blues”
Maybe someday you and my son can perform together. He’s anxious to meet you and hear you sing if you still can.
With a sarcastic look:
I certainly still can sing.
A few weeks later the three of us met. Andrew played the guitar and Libby sang “Saint James Infirmary.”
For a number of seconds after the song ended we sat thunderstruck.
Andrew spoke first:
I’m blown away.
After thirty-five years all three of us were blown away.