BJUnity

Today, we present the first of two parts by Lane White. Lane will return on Friday for the conclusion of his story.

LaNeece (Lane) White

I’ve been on the threshold of this post for a while now. At first I was very eager to share my story. Like many of us, I probably spend too much time reconnecting with folks that share my collegiate experience. It has been fun to reminisce about those years! Then ever so slowly, I felt emotions that had been so long buried I had nearly forgotten they existed. In some way, this cathartic exercise is necessary for me, and if we are lucky, maybe for some of you, too. I am not the best writer, but I write from the heart.

As I sit back and ponder my “BJU” years, a flood tide of emotion, like the creeping gloom of an ominous fog begins to seep into my soul again. I suffered depression for so many years, believing a lie, taking the spiritual beatings that I was sure I deserved–after all, isn’t that what we were all taught? How can so many people be THAT wrong (ergo, it must surely be me that is wrong)?

First comes . . .

Anger . . . how does one harness the rolling boil caused by so many years of condemnation for being different from the norm? I can recall being called to the Dean of Women’s office and told I should wear a wig as they did not like how I fixed my hair. Or the other time I was sent to “counseling” with my dorm supervisor for a year because I wore a jean jacket (the only “coat” I owned). Being told I wasn’t fit to be a spiritual leader because I was “moody,” even though everyone around me — including my Prayer Captain (PC)*, my Assistant Prayer Captain (APC)*, my extension group, my society, and a few friends — petitioned on my behalf. I constantly tried to cram this triangle peg into their square hole and was made to feel “less than.” To say that I didn’t fit their mold of how a southern “Christian” lady should walk, talk, and “act” is probably one of the world’s most notable understatements, but I can honestly say it wasn’t for my lack of trying.

Then . . .

Resentment . . . this dark, surly irritation, this feeling of injustice branded me like a hot iron. It left me scarred and feeling bitter. I remember my Dad at one point trying to convince me to transfer out of BJU due to their lack of accreditation (when I attended, Bob Jones University was proudly and completely unaccredited, unlike today with their TRACS “national accreditation”). I was convinced back then that this was “God’s special place” for me, and that to veer off course would surely put me out of God’s will for my life. I bought the pulpit message that we all were there because God wanted us to be there! (Who was I to argue with God?) [ed. note: in the 1980s, BJU used the slogan “God’s Special Place for You” in its marketing materials]

I followed the rules, I went all in, doing my best to be all they expected me to be, only to find out that would never happen. You see, I met a woman and my whole world changed.

I was out a semester trying to make enough money to pay on my school bill, and the long and short of it was that I instantly became whole, mortified, exhilarated, and terrified all at the same time. This emotional connection to another human was nothing I had ever experienced! I literally didn’t understand that this intuitive, delicate affinity even existed. So while part of me realized that this was the key, the part of me that had been missing, the other part of me was screaming, “NO, don’t you understand what this means?” This struggle was so intense that I ended up losing her. It is nearly impossible to be with someone who is still grappling with who they are and the dichotomy of their two worlds. The next semester was spent in abject misery over a broken yet unmentionable relationship. I spent the rest of my days at BJU denying who I knew I was, because to do otherwise was to risk everything. Not just my enrollment, but the vulnerable center of the real me. On some level, I reasoned, I was probably better off with a man because I never wanted to hurt and be utterly exposed like that again. I knew I would never have that kind of connection with a man–it just wasn’t (and oddly enough, still isn’t) there.

Enter . . .

Regret . . . The soul-searing bitter wind that blew in the clouds of depression and angst. Looking back, the decision to run from myself (a fruitless endeavor, trust me), and the last ditch attempt to “fit in” was undoubtedly the worst possible move I could have ever made. The remaining time I spent at BJU was one of external involvement, but internal isolation. Feeling removed and exiled in a “damned if you are and damned if you aren’t” existence, I shunned those who came to me with their own journey and solidarity, and remained rejected by those I tried so hard to please. I had put all of myself into my time at BJU, working on “work scholarship” – I labored in the Dining Common an average of thirty-five hours a week at $2.85 an hour (below minimum wage because it was “work study”), killed myself for all three meals of the day: “clock in, clock out, but don’t leave,” sort of like the Hotel California — staying out semesters to feed the ever-present extended hand of the BJU business office. My entire life, my focus, was to finish. I put myself through BJU, paid nearly every dime out of my own pocket, only to have them deny admission my senior year for getting (wait for it . . . ) M-A-R-R-I-E-D, a day or so before commencement (see “running from myself,” above). I was told by phone by Mr. Jim Berg, then the Dean of Students, that I could not re-enroll for a year and only if my bill was 100% paid up, AND with a pastoral recommendation, to boot. It was at that point I knew the rejection was complete, THEY certainly didn’t want me, and they had effectively scuttled any chance of my earning a diploma. They refused to transfer my credits to any other school, holding them hostage, and effectively denying me any chance of completing my degree. But deeper than that was the unstated, underlying sense of rejection that God didn’t want me: I wasn’t good enough for His “special place.”

*ed.: there is a “spiritual” hierarchy at Bob Jones University which, for dormitory students, involves select upper classmen assigned as Prayer Captains and Assistant Prayer Captains reporting to a Dorm Counselor (when Lane was in college) who reports to the Dean of Men or Dean of Women, themselves reporting to the Dean of Students, who reports to the President, at that time Bob Jones III.