I Will Always Drink The Kool-Aid When It Comes To Pat Simms

I didn’t want to be editor, honestly. But Pat has a way with people.

The journalism class I’d taken sophomore year of college (which was not taught by Pat, for the record) did not spark my love for the industry. If anything, it had the opposite effect. So when Pat, the advisor of Edgewood’s newspaper, sent me an email in July 2018, asking if I wanted to take over as editor, I was hesitant.

She told me to give her a chance to convince me and offered to meet for coffee, her treat (the first of many dates at Barrique’s).

But Pat and I didn’t know each other very well at all leading up to that. I hadn’t had a class with her, I hadn’t been on the newspaper staff — she was just a professor I saw shuffle around the English Department every now and then.

When I stayed with her one night a couple weeks ago, I asked her why she picked me. She answered, “I don’t know. Sometimes, you just see people at their core.”

Pat came into my life at a point when I was really needing to get a grip. I was too soft. I let people walk all over me, drag me along as an extra in their lives. At that point, writing angsty poetry was my only personality trait.

But Pat showed me that I’m someone worth standing up for. She gave me my voice. She believed in me more than anyone else, because she saw exactly who I would become. I tell her all the time that I’d be nothing without her. She disagrees — she’s wrong.

I suppose I would still be something, but a journalist? No. That side of me — which has grown wide and deep — is all her. I didn’t know if I’d like journalism at first, but she was right, once you get your foot in the door, it’s hard not to “drink the Kool-Aid,” as she puts it.

Very quickly, though, Pat became more than an advisor to me. We joked a lot about “boundaries.” At a certain point, we just didn’t have them anymore. She’s been a professor, an advisor, a mentor, a neighbor, and somewhere in between ended up being the one friend I never get tired of. Ever.

The first time I told Pat I loved her, it was about 10 p.m. and we were on the phone wrapping up an important story, back in December 2019. As we said goodbye, I just naturally said, “Well, goodnight, I love you.” And it was what it was.

I’d come over to her house just to hang out sometimes, I stayed there while I was moving apartments, and she’s the first person I’d call when having a low day. One time, I called to ask about coming over and said, “I have a story I want your help on, and it’d be nice not to do laundry at my old apartment,” then my voice cracked and I added, “and I’m just having a really bad day.”

She said, “Oh, honey, why didn’t you just start with that?” And I did my laundry while we watched a Nicholas Cage movie and she comforted me as I cried about problems we both had, even with 53 years between us, and she made me waffles and coffee in the morning.

I learned that as tough as Pat is, as to-the-point she could be as my advisor and editor, she’s one of the most nurturing people to be around. Once you really know each other, she doesn’t judge. When I feel stuck or frustrated, talking to Pat is my remedy. And it’s not like she always says the right thing or what I want to hear. It’s that her voice just makes it better. The tone when she says “Hi, dumpling.” Her laugh. My smile is never as big as it is while listening to her.

I’d do anything — anything — to sit across from her in her office on campus, the desk cluttered with diet Pepsi and fruit cups from the dining hall and stacks of papers, watching her fiddle around the computer editing a story. I’d do anything for one last Barrique’s date — she’d get a vanilla latte with skim milk, extra hot, and an espresso chocolate scone. I would do anything to drink sangria and eat cheese on her porch while she tells reporter tales. I’d do anything for her to drill AP style into my brain, help me with a headline, tear apart my lede. I’d do anything to be late to another painting class because I was too caught up in chatting with her during my break. I would do anything for her to sing me happy birthday again this year, chocolate cake sitting between us, summer crickets in the background.

Describing those scenes brings me back to college — which seems much longer ago than it was — and shit, college was hard, for a lot of reasons. Pat became my rock. I did not know how much I needed that rock until I had her.

I don’t think she understands just how much peace would pass through me when I would see her in the English Department at school, or that she’s aware of the effortless power she has to snap me out of whatever insignificant drama is clouding my mind, and remind me that there are so many days ahead that I’ve yet to see — days filled with love and laughter, tested patience, heartbreak, celebration, grey clouds and good food and neighborhood walks, the list goes on — and her voice will forever be in the back of my head, searching for stories among them all.

In January, during her first round of chemo, I came over for a visit and brought some groceries. I was walking into the kitchen, and from the living room, Pat said, “Alyssa?”

I turned back, and she continued, “I never thought asking you to be editor would bring us here.”

That’s a moment I’ll always remember. It was the simplest way to say: I’m just really glad we met.

I haven’t had a big loss in my life yet. And I’ve been surprised that I haven’t felt more angry at how unfair it is that it’s her of all people, that the youngest spirit I know has had to go through this. Instead, I’ve been overwhelmed with a sadness that boils down to feeling so damn thankful to have known her in the way I do. To have learned from her. To have been there for her.

That quote from WandaVision about grief began circulating around social media around the same time the news about Pat’s condition came out in February: “What is grief if not love preserving?”

I am so humbled, so grateful to grieve this loss, to preserve this love.

I’ll think of her every day as I edit the news, write in the notebook she brought me from Sweden, drive or walk past her neighborhood, drink out of the wine glasses she gave me, hear “Sweet Home Alabama,” indulge in the friendships she’s at the heart of. She’ll never be just a memory. She’s a presence I’ll carry with me everyday.

There are more words I could piece together to explain how Pat’s touched me, but I know she’s rolling her eyes at how long this is already.

It’s all just to say that I love her. Oh, how I love her.