I didn’t want to go to the Heart for Gordon Gala.
I hadn’t really been on campus since I resigned. Since I fought for tenure, won, and then walked away. Since the years of pushing against an administration that resisted change, resisted history, resisted me.
I knew walking into that room meant seeing people I once worked closely with—some who greeted me warmly, started conversations, and acted as if no time had passed. And others, people I had spent years collaborating with, who refused to make eye contact. Who turned their backs rather than say hello.
Still, I knew why I was there.
I was there because someone I respected invited me.
She’s asked me to serve on committees. She’s asked me to attend events. And whenever she does, if I’m at all able, I go—because I respect her, and because I like spending time with her. She’s one of those authentically kind and hardworking individuals.
But I still felt the weight of being back.
And then, before the gala even started, the new president walked up to me.
“Welcome back, Jessica.”
And I believed him.
I believed he meant it.
It didn’t erase the past, but in that moment, it mattered.
And then Jimmy Matthews took the mic.
It was a moment that could have passed unnoticed, but it didn’t.
Not for me.
He had just accepted his award, stepping off to the side of the stage, when he turned back and called out—loud, clear, impossible to miss.
“I’m the Phantom!”
Then, he walked away.
For a split second, silence. And then, a ripple. A few people—just a few—clapped, laughed, recognized what had just happened.
Most of the room barely reacted.
At my table, people turned to me. What did that mean? What’s the story?
Then she leaned in. Now I have to know.
And that was the moment.
Because she had helped build what Gordon is today. But she had never been told what it was.
At the table next to me sat a man I consider one of the keepers of the stories. One of the few who carries Gordon’s unspoken history—not just the version in official archives, but the one held in memory, passed from person to person.
He was there for that last oral history interview—the one where three Black women sat on stage together for the first time in decades.
One of them was one of the first two Black students to integrate Gordon when she was in the eighth grade. The other young woman who walked through those doors with her has since passed. Neither of them have been recognized in Gordon’s official history. No plaques. No buildings. No scholarships in their names.
The other two women who sat beside her came the following year, along with a handful of others. They had all recorded their stories individually, but this was different.
This was the first time the three of them had been back together.
They had never been to a class reunion. Never stood side by side again in this place that had shaped them. And in that moment, on that stage, they were reclaiming their space.
That was the interview that changed everything.
It was the first time they had returned, not to ask for recognition, but simply to say, We were here. We have always been here.
And now, I had returned too. Not for the same reasons—not for anything as significant as what they had done. But still, I had returned.
And as I sat in that gala, watching Jimmy Matthews reveal a long-hidden truth that barely registered with the room, I understood.
I turned to the man next to me.
He met my eyes. Nodded. Go ahead.
And in that moment, I realized something that had been weighing on me for years.
I already knew I was a keeper of the stories. I had been holding them, carrying them, sitting with them. Every time I thought about Gordon, I felt that pull—regret, unfinished business, something unresolved.
But until that moment, I hadn’t fully realized why.
Because I wasn’t just supposed to keep them.
I was supposed to tell them.
So I did.
I told them about the Phantom, the legendary prankster no one ever caught. About the stunts, the mystery, the decades of speculation. And as I spoke, I watched the people at my table—people deeply connected to Gordon—realize that there was a whole world of its history they had never been given access to.
Not just about the Phantom.
Not just about the pranks.
But about all the stories that had never been shared beyond the small circle of those who lived them.
I walked into a fundraiser that night, unsure how it would feel to return to a place that once denied me.
I walked out knowing exactly what I had to do.
Because history isn’t just about what gets recorded. It’s about what gets remembered.
And who gets to remember it.
The three women in that interview came back to tell their stories.
I came back to realize I still have to find a way to share them.
I’ve been holding these stories for too long.
It’s time to tell them.
