Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity. I submitted my application to Medill this morning. I had to use a couple papers on Dickens and Austen in place of the journalism samples requested. While that may count against me, I felt the rest of my application was strong.
If you will allow, I want to honor Father John’s trust and yours by explaining my “sudden change of heart,” as Ms. Temper described it. When I graduated college last spring, I had two opportunities: your grant to fund graduate school or a job at Ernst & Young. In my eagerness to leave Grace House and conquer the world, I chose the job. Six weeks ago I was fired. At the exit meeting my boss claimed I was “unengaged,” especially with regard to peer and client interactions. I did good work there, Mr. Knightley. Good solid work. But “relating” in the workplace is important too, I gather. That’s where I failed.
I’m guessing from your literary choice of pseudonym that you are very likely acquainted with another admirable character from fiction—Elizabeth Bennet, Jane Austen’s complex and enchanting heroine. At Ernst & Young I tried to project Lizzy’s boldness and spirit, but clearly she had a confidence and charm that was more than I could sustain on a daily basis. So now here I am, back at Grace House, taking advantage of the state’s willingness to provide a home for me till I’m twenty-five if I stay in school.
Nevertheless, Father John still doubts me and couldn’t resist a lecture this morning. I tried to listen, but my eyes wandered around his office: photographs of all the children who have passed through Grace House cover every space that isn’t taken up with books. He loves murder mysteries: Agatha Christie, James Patterson, Alex Powell, P. D. James, Patricia Cornwell . . . I’ve read most of them. The first day we met, right before I turned fifteen, he challenged me to stretch beyond the classics.
“Are you listening, Sam?” Father John finally noticed my wandering eyes. “The Medill program is straight up your alley. You’re a great reader and writer.”
“‘I deserve neither such praise nor such censure. I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.’” Elizabeth Bennet has a useful reply for every situation.
Father John gave a small smile, and I flinched. “What if I can’t do this?” I asked. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”
He sat back in his chair and took a slow breath. Eyebrows down, mouth in a line.
“Then turn this down—again—and find another job. Pound the pavement quickly, though. I can give you a couple weeks here to get on your feet, then my hands are tied.” He leaned forward. “Sam, I’ll always help you. But after this, if you’re not in school, Grace House is closed to you. This foundation helps a lot of kids here, and I won’t jeopardize that support because you can’t commit. So decide right now.”
A tear rolled down my cheek. Father John never gets charged up, but I deserved it. I should only be grateful to you both, and here I was questioning your help. But help is hard, Mr. Knightley—even when I desperately need it. Every foster placement of my childhood was intended to help me; every new social worker tried to help my case; when I was sent back home at twelve, the judge meant to help my life too . . . I’m so tired of help.
“I’m sorry, Father John, you’re right. I want this grant and I asked for it again. I must seem so ungrateful to you, to be questioning again.”
“You don’t, Sam, and I can understand wanting to stand alone. Even in the best of times and circumstances, it’s hard to accept help—”
In the end, Father John believed my commitment. I hope you do too. Here is our agreement: you will pay for graduate school, and I will write you letters that give an honest accounting of my life and school—and you will never write back. That simple, right?
Thank you for that, Mr. Knightley—your anonymity. Honesty is easier when you have no face and no real name. And honesty, for me, is very easy on paper.
I also want to assure you that while I may not relate well to people in the real world, I shine in school. It’s paper-based. I will do your grant justice, Mr. Knightley. I’ll shine at Medill.
I know I’ve said more than was necessary in this letter, but I need you to know who I am. We need to have an honest beginning, even if it’s less impressive than Lizzy Bennet’s.
Sincerely,
Samantha Moore
April 21
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Each and every moment things change. For the most part, I loathe it. Change never works in my favor—as evidenced by so many foster placements, a holdup at a Chicago White Hen, getting fired from Ernst & Young, and so many other changes in my life I’d like to forget. But I needed one more—a change of my own making—so I pursued your grant again.
But it’s not of my own making, is it?
Father John told me this morning that he was the one who proposed journalism for me—it was not an original requirement for your grant. I wouldn’t have chosen it myself. My professor at Roosevelt College said I produced some of the best work on Austen, Dickens, and the Brontes he’d ever read. I’m good at fiction, Mr. Knightley. And I don’t think it’s right that Father John took away my choice. I’m twenty-three years old; I should be the author of the changes in my life.
I went to Father John and explained all this. I feel he has arbitrarily forced me into journalism—a field I don’t know and don’t write. “You need to undo that,” I pleaded. “They’ll listen to you.”
Father John closed his eyes. One might think he’d fallen asleep, but I knew better. He was praying. He does that—a lot.
Minutes passed. He opened his eyes and zeroed in on me. Sometimes I feel his eyes are tired, but not at that moment. They were piercing and direct. I knew his answer before he opened his mouth.
“Sam, I won’t . . . but you can. Write the foundation’s director and ask.” Father John stared into my eyes, measuring his words. “Don’t lie. Don’t tell them I’ve changed my mind. I have not. I am wholly against a change in program.”
“How can you say that?” My own shrill voice surprised me.
“I’ve known you for eight years, Sam. I’ve watched you grow, I’ve watched you succeed, and I’ve watched you retreat. I want the best for you, and with every fiber of my being, I am convinced that ‘the best’ is not more fiction, but finding your way around in the real world and its people.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. “Consider carefully. If the foundation is unwilling to alter your grant, you may accept or you may walk away. You always have a choice.”
“That’s not fair.”