That was the deal. My college French professor made it after I dragged my exhausted self in to retake my final exam — an exam she lost, by the way.
I’d taken it early. It was my first test during exam week.
When the professor realized my exam was gone, she offered me one option: retake it at the end of the week.
I had pulled all-nighters studying biology, chemistry, and three other courses. I was fried.
Still, I showed up — bleary-eyed and nowhere near clear-minded.
After I stumbled through my verb tenses and hillbilly-accent-destroyed French, I begged her — “Just let me pass. Pleeease!”
She looked at me and said, “Donna, I’ll give you an A... if you promise never EVER to utter another word in French again.”
Deal. Done.
No Roadmap. Just Guts and Guesswork.
You see, I wasn’t exactly prepared for any of it. Not French. Not college. Not life.
No one gave me a roadmap. I didn’t have a high school counselor telling me what to do or where to go.
My best friend was going to VPI — Virginia Polytechnic Institute — so I applied there, too.
When someone mentioned the SAT, I asked, “What’s that?” I had no idea.
But I took it cold in 1966 and scored well over 1200. I didn’t know what that meant either. I just got in — but my best friend didn’t.
So I was heartbroken. And clueless about college.
I was such an idiot my first year. My ego got the best of me, and I registered for six courses each quarter at Virginia Tech.
I didn’t understand the difference between semesters and quarters — or how much more you had to cram into a quarter system.
I overloaded myself with 18 credits each quarter.
My First Hand in a Male World
There I was, in a school with over 10,000 students in 1967 — 10,254 to be exact — ninety percent male.
I guess that was my first hand dealt in a male-dominated world.
Topping at 6'5" and taller than all my high school teachers, I had never been asked out. I knew something was wrong with me.
I didn’t know yet that boys were scared of tall girls who never apologized for taking up space.
It took decades to realize it had nothing to do with me.
We were raised to believe in soulmates. One perfect person. Only one.
So when I met a man my height, I thought, “Well, I guess this is it.”
When Saying “No” Didn’t Matter
He ended up being a date rapist.
I had agreed to have sex with him once — on the way to the Orange Bowl.
But when the moment came, I panicked. He stood naked in the bathroom doorway with his penis fully engorged.
From my extensive knowledge of male anatomy today, his dick was massive.
The kind men wish for. The kind women appreciate — when used with care, foreplay, and tenderness.
The kind that lubricates our loins and awakens our sexual desire.
But back then, even though I was of age, I was still a child inside — a lost girl.
Seeing him standing there — staff at full mast — I froze. I said no. I couldn’t.
He was furious.
The next night, on the way back from the game, he climbed into bed and forced himself on me.
I kept saying, “No!” Even nearly screaming. He didn’t stop.
The intense physical pain synced with emotional despair.
The next day, riding home in the backseat of a friend’s car, I curled up away from him in shame.
I was raised to be a virgin until marriage. And now, the only way to “make it right” was to marry him.
So I turned to him. Laid my head on his shoulder. I gave in.
Writing this, I remember the feeling that I no longer mattered.
The guilt? Yes. Guilt!
Damn the guilt I was feeling.
I kept thinking, “I made my bed — I just have to sleep in it.”
Sheesh. Pisses me off today.
The Universe Was Yelling
During the following summer, he asked me to marry him. Two weeks later, we were married.
On the way to the wedding, he crashed his car. Totaled it. He walked away fine.
Was the universe screaming NO?
I almost said no at the altar.
My knees were shaking. My voice was caught somewhere between my throat and my gut.
Mama Peggy was watching. Everyone was watching.
I told myself I had no choice.
That’s how good girls made things right.
So I swallowed my scream, smiled for the pictures, and signed my life away.
Mama Peggy pulled strings to get us a Ford Fairlane with a white vinyl top.
All the money we’d set aside for a honeymoon? Gone — used as a down payment for the new car.
We drove 45 minutes away to a sleazy motel with a number in the name, like Motel Six.
That’s how my marriage to the date rapist bastard began.
And Then Marriage Ended — in Thailand
He was stationed in Vietnam. I flew to meet him for R&R in Bangkok. That’s the military term for “rest and relaxation.”
Getting there almost broke me.
Pan Am deplaned me in Tokyo, halfway to Thailand. I was pale and weak and nearly passed out on the flight from San Francisco.
Without a visa, the immigration officer refused to let me in to Japan.
I was about to collapse — standing on a single square foot of floor, not allowed to move — not allowed back on a plane until I recovered.
So a Pan Am agent walked up. Spoke rapidly to the guard.
After a tense exchange, the officer stamped my passport and handed it to the man.
I didn't care who he was or where I went.
As he drove me to his home, he explained that his two teenagers were learning English and had never met a native speaker.
When we arrived, his wife and children treated me like royalty.
He had even stopped to buy expensive beef — Kobe, I think — for a special meal.
Since none of their beds fit me, they made up a bed on a futon over a woven mat — lovely thatched flooring.
I had never felt so cared for in my life.
The next day, I flew on to Thailand.
My husband took one look at me and said:
“I don’t know who you are. I left a little girl in Columbus, Georgia, and now you come to meet me after leaving me waiting. I was expecting you yesterday, and I don’t like you anymore. Go home and get a divorce.”
I sat on the edge of that stiff hotel bed, staring at the floor. My body went numb. My heart ached.
I had given up everything to be his wife.
And in one breath, I wasn’t even worth a goodbye.
I had no plan — just pain.
So, I Fucked My Way Home
Back in San Francisco, I spent the first night with a Pan Am agent.
The next morning, he opened a closet and casually revealed chains, leather straps, and paraphernalia I’d never seen before.
He chuckled at the confusion on my face and told me he was a male prostitute that specialized in S&M. (I had to look that up!)
“But why did you bring me home with you last night? Do I owe you money?” I asked.
“No,” he laughed. “Being with you was payment enough. You're the tallest woman I’ve ever known. You’re beautiful, a sweet country girl, but I have to ask you to leave. I have a client coming.”
I’m glad he didn’t ask for payment because I would have been happy to pay him.
He sure knew how to give pleasure.
On top of that, I had smoked my first joint with him that night.
I kept saying, “What’s the big deal! This is nothing,” until suddenly — “Oh shit!”
Laughter, Finally
Later that morning, I wandered into Pier 1 Imports and met a woman my age.
She invited me to Fisherman’s Wharf for dinner.
As we walked into the restaurant, from behind, a deep voice boomed above me.
“Are you with anyone?”
I turned and looked up at a 6'9" light-skinned Black man.
“No,” I said, bewildered.
He grinned:
“Are you ready for your obligatory minority affair?”
I stared at him.
And then… I laughed.
I didn’t expect to laugh.
But something about his bluntness broke the spell.
That laugh didn’t come from joy. It came from recognition.
I was still in there, somewhere.
And damn it, I was done apologizing.
Finally, I pronounced “Ooh la la” correctly!
It would be three decades before I discovered poker.
But life had already dealt me hand after hand — some unplayable, some wild, most of them unexpected.
What I didn’t know then was this:
Sometimes, you fold.
Sometimes, you bluff.
And sometimes you get up from the table and walk away, even when you’ve gone all-in.
That’s not weakness. That’s survival.
That’s resilience in action.
That’s the first step to playing your own damn game.
This has been a part of my ongoing column, Poker’s Life Lessons, where I share raw truths, gut-punch clarity, and the wild ride of real-life hands we never asked to play.
If this stirred something in you, pass it along or become a subscriber. I appreciate both free and paid subscribers. My intention is for the paid version to replenish my poker bankroll.
Just remember. You’re not alone at this table. I’m here for you.
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