There is, in my possession, a fraternity pin, its gold shield outlined in tiny pearls. It is one of my true treasures because it represents a time of self-awakening that came at a time in my life when I found I could live without the hard, unrelenting and judgmental eye of my mother every moment of every day.
      Momma had developed a secret eye language that said things like, "You may be getting away with this behavior now but when the company is gone, we will talk about (your loud voice), (your presumptuous manner with adults), (your daring to enter into an adult conversation), (the dragging of your and Nancy's feet at playing music for guests)." Take your pick of the above listed offenses.
      From the moment I entered Whitman College in 1946, I found there was a person inside me who was like a newborn baby, socially. There finally had come a time in my life when I was responsible for my own behavior, and after the 17 years of always watching Momma for her coded opinions of my behavior in a crowd, her small head shakes, tiny frowns, and sudden pursed lips, the slightest laugh or smile from college friends and colleagues began to build in me a confidence I had never experienced in my early childhood.
      The result of this confidence led to the biggest lesson I had yet to learn: Humility. From a young woman of almost no experience with dating, I suddenly had become "date-bait." From a "four-eyes" who used to stand at the fringes of the dance floor at high school dances, I had finally been able to use the ballroom dance steps my dear daddy had taught me as a child. And now, on a spring evening of my sophomore year and much to my sublime shock and delight, I had been chosen Sweetheart of our local Sigma Chi fraternity. What a heady experience!!
      My duties entailed no more than being hostess of each Sunday afternoon dinner, but the "perks" were endless: always having a date for any event on campus, recognition from every student and professor as I strolled to classes, and the wearing of my very own sweetheart pin, the back of which was engraved "Sweetheart of '48!"
      In the midst of all this attention, I was sent downtown to the local photographer for formal picture-taking, (glamour poses, no less) to be sent back east to the Sigma Chi national office. I was posed in all the model positions one saw in Seventeen magazine. Dressed in my black taffeta off-the-shoulder formal, I smiled, simpered, threw back my chin and stared at the ceiling...you know the routine. I loved it.
      Several weeks later, one of my sorority sisters came dashing into the dorm section that served as Tri Delta's sorority house at Whitman with the news that there was a HUGE picture of me in the photographer's shop window on Main Street; a head shot for heaven's sake! I waited several days before finding a moment to sneak away, unnoticed, to the photographer's studio. Never before having had formal pictures like these taken of me by a professional, I was reluctant to share the moment of revelation with any of my peers.
      On the first walk-by I did not stop, but only glanced quickly to my left. It was huge! It had been a good hair day, I noted as I casually sauntered on down the street. Usually my hair was contrary, going only the way it wanted to go. The day of the pictures, however, I had used water and pincurled my whole head, hoping for some kind of control. The results weren't bad, I thought now.
      On the second walk-by, I slowed down slightly, even pausing to actually look at the person in the photo. I felt something swell inside me; what was it? pride? vindication from Momma's constant disapproval? God knew what it was and answered my questions for me within seconds.
      As I stood at the dead center of the studio's window and gazed at this amazing transformation, I overheard two women, who had paused to my left discussing my photograph. "Isn't she lovely?" said the one older woman closest to me.
      "She certainly is!" agreed the second woman. Then, catching my eye, she looked fully at my face as she smiled and said, "Don't you think she is pretty, too?"

Mary Boulé is a retired fifth grade teacher and long time member of the Vashon-Maury Island Senior Center Memoir Writing Group.