Chapter 21

SEPTEMBER 11

I'd been working in New York for just over a year when I decided, one weekend, to walk into a neighborhood I didn't yet know.

On September 8th and 9th, I went downtown near the World Trade Center. I remember stopping in the street and looking straight up. The towers didn't taper or soften the way other build-ings did—they rose abruptly, sheer and massive, blocking the sky. They felt permanent.

I walked the blocks around them slowly. Went into Century

21. Watched the flow of people coming and going. I was still learning the city, how it moved, where it gathered. I was also working—watching foot traffic, measuring the rhythm of the street, wondering whether this was a place where we might open a store.

It wasn't that busy. Most of the buildings were for business, not residential.

That Tuesday morning, I was back in the office with Don, going over potential locations. Barbara had taken the train out to Long Island to be at the college. The day felt routine, almost quiet.

Phones rang. Papers moved across desks. Nothing about the morning suggested it would be remembered.

I don't remember exactly how we first heard. I think Michael came in and said something about the World Trade Center. The words didn't land at first. Something had happened. An accident, maybe.

We turned on the television.

The image didn't register immediately either—just smoke, a building, blue sky behind it. Then the explanation caught up to the picture: a plane had flown into one of the towers. The room went still. No one spoke. We watched, trying to understand what kind of plane, how it could happen, whether it was a mistake.

Then the second plane hit.

The sound in the room changed—not from the television, but from outside. Sirens began to rise from the street below, one after another, then overlapping, then continuous. The windows of the office overlooked Madison Square Park and the Flatiron Building.

Don said to cancel all my meetings. No one was leaving the office. He was concerned there could be another attack—some-where else, not just downtown. No one knew if this was contained or if it was only the beginning.

I called Mary to see where she was. She was still in New Jersey.

That was good.

Don was worried about Marion. She was on shift at Bellevue Hospital.

He called Barbara. Told her to stay where she was.

From the windows, we could see people running up Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Not walking quickly—running. Some looked back over their shoulders as they moved. Others just ran north, away from whatever was happening behind them.

We watched the horror unfold on TV. Every so often I looked out the window, seeing people walk or run up the middle of the street. There were no cars.

The city, usually loud and impatient, felt suspended—as if it were holding its breath.

Standing at 23rd Street and Broadway, looking south, I under-

stood without anyone saying it that nothing about the city—or about our lives—was going to return to the way it had been the day before.

We stayed where we were.

Rita called to see if we were okay. Jerry had been performing in Atlantic City. He was supposed to fly out of Boston that morning, but he'd changed his flight so he'd have more time to visit his daughter and her family in Rhode Island before traveling to the airport.

Thank God he changed it. My parents called.

We got our information from the TV.

Around six, Marion arrived at the office. She'd walked from Bellevue—1st Avenue all the way to 23rd and Broadway. After her shift ended, she'd started heading home.

She told us what happened at the hospital.

The nurses and doctors had prepared. They'd set up triage areas, stocked supplies, cleared beds. They waited for the injured to arrive. Ambulances were ready. The entire hospital was on alert.

They waited all day.

And almost no one came.

There were no injured. You either made it out, or you didn't.

Marion had stood there in her scrubs with nothing to do except wait for patients who would never arrive. The hospital stayed ready. The staff stayed ready. But the wounded never came.

That was the horror she carried with her—they prepared for hundreds of patients, they received only dozens. Don didn't want her driving home alone. Not tonight. Not through whatever was still happening out there.

The three of us left together in Don's car.

The streets were empty. We didn't know if we could get to New Jersey through the Lincoln Tunnel, but we drove north on Sixth Avenue anyway. No other cars. The tunnel was open—no traffic going either way. We drove through. Smoke or dust hung in the air.

Don tried to drop me off at my apartment, but the roads were blocked. All roads near the Holland Tunnel were closed.

I got out of the car, thanked Don, and started walking east. The air was filled with smoke, and the smell was different from anything I'd ever smelled before. I must have walked a mile before I could see my apartment building. It was directly across from where the World Trade Center had stood.

The building was silent. Strange.

I walked in, and Simba greeted me as if he knew something was wrong. I called Don and Marion and told them I was okay. I picked Simba up and stared out over the Hudson at the glow coming from where the towers had been.

The light never went out.

It hovered over the site—steady, unnatural, brighter than the rest of the city. Rescue lights. Fires. Activity that did not pause. The glow reflected faintly on the water, turning the Hudson into a dark mirror with a wounded horizon.

From my apartment, I could see it every night.

The city across the river was working, digging, searching, burning.

Over the next few days, I realized why the building was so quiet. Signs were taped in the lobby next to the mailboxes, in the garage. Face after face. Missing. Have you seen. Last seen. They were around my age. They'd left for work that morning and never made it back.

Weeks later, I went to court to fight a speeding ticket.

I stood in the hallway outside the courtroom, waiting for my case to be called. When my name was finally announced, I walked up to the window.

The clerk looked at my paperwork, then looked at me. Her expression shifted—not sympathetic exactly, but careful.

"This one's being dismissed," she said quietly.

The ticket was dropped. Not because I'd convinced anyone. Not because I had a valid defense.

Because the police officer who'd pulled me over—who'd written down my license number, handed me the ticket, told me to slow down—had died on September 11th.

I walked out of the courthouse holding the dismissed ticket.

He'd been doing his job. Writing speeding tickets. The most ordinary thing in the world. And then he went to work on a Tuesday morning and never came home.

The glow stayed for months.

Every night, I'd stand at my window and look across the water at that unnatural light. The city kept digging. The fires kept burning. The work never stopped.

And in my building lobby, the faces on those flyers stayed taped to the walls long after everyone knew no one was coming home.

CHINA

At the next board meeting, Donald laid out his vision for reposi-tioning the college.

Up until that point, the New York College for Wholistic Health and Research had been considered a trade school—respectable, functional, but limited in scope and credibility. King Cheek agreed immediately: institutional accreditation would set it apart. It would elevate the college from a niche program into a legitimate academic institution.

But Donald saw something bigger.

He saw the potential for the college to become a leader in holistic and integrative health—not by teaching massage therapy or acupuncture as isolated skills, but by positioning them at the inter-section of Eastern and Western medicine. The curriculum already reflected that direction, combining health sciences with what many still called "alternative" therapies, including a master's degree in Traditional Chinese Medicine. That combination pointed toward a larger idea. If students were going to study Traditional Chinese Medicine, Donald believed they should encounter it where it was practiced every day—in China—not as theory translated into a Long Island classroom, but as a living medical system embedded in culture, history, and daily life. From that conviction came the idea of building relationships with Chinese institutions—partnerships that would give students access, credibility, and context.

Donald had strong business connections in China. He'd been

working there for years, navigating government relationships, intel-lectual property deals, and infrastructure projects. He saw a larger vision unfolding: the college could be part of building "health cities" across China and Southeast Asia—integrated communities designed around wellness, preventive care, and aging populations. He predicted that Americans, especially retirees, would start looking at moving abroad where their money would go farther and quality of life could be higher.

Some people at the table thought this was far-fetched.

I was learning that Donald was a visionary. He didn't see the world as it was—he saw it as it would be, five or ten years out, and positioned himself accordingly. That's how he'd built his patent empire. That's how he'd survived and thrived for decades.

Because of Donald's connections, there was potential for the college to have a campus in China. Not owned outright—Donald was too strategic for that—but structured through what he called a contingent mortgage. The college would pay for the campus based on usage. The more we used it, the more we paid. If we didn't use it, we didn't pay. That way, the U.S. operations wouldn't be indebted to keep up Chinese operations that might or might not succeed.

It was entrepreneurial. It was smart. It was Donald.

King loved the idea. The board loved the idea. Everyone could see the potential—the prestige, the partnerships, the differentiation in a crowded market.

But someone had to go over and check out the campus. Someone had to make sure it was real, functional, and safe. Someone had to design a study abroad program, vet the logistics, and bring back a report.

Donald looked at me. "Lisa will go."

I laughed. "Okay. I have my passport."

Donald nodded, already moving on to the next item. The meeting continued. King talked about accreditation timelines. Barbara mentioned staffing. I sat there, nodding at the right moments, taking notes.

When the meeting ended, I went back to my office and closed the door.

Okay. Let's figure this out.

I pulled up a map of China on my computer. Luoyang. I'd never heard of it.

I zoomed out. Center of China. Dead center. It was like going from New York to Missouri—middle of the country, landlocked, not a major international hub. This wasn't Beijing or Shanghai. This was central China.

And Luoyang was the size of Manhattan. A city of millions I'd never heard of.

I started making a list in my head: I'd never led a study abroad program. I'd never been to China. I didn't speak the language. I'd be responsible for students in a foreign country where I couldn't read the signs and had no backup plan if something went wrong.

But those were just problems. And problems could be solved.

The summer term ended in ten days. Students were in the middle of finals—stressed, exhausted, cramming. And I needed to recruit them for a three-week trip to China that would leave the week before fall semester started.

They'd miss the first two weeks of fall classes. That was the problem. But I could solve it.

I'd arrange for them to have the exact same lectures in China. Morning classes—same content, same syllabi, same coursework they'd be doing on campus. Then afternoons and evenings: site visits, hospitals, Shaolin Temple, museums. For ten days, they'd do structured coursework in the morning, then day trips in the afternoon.

They wouldn't fall behind. They'd stay on track academically while getting hands-on experience in Traditional Chinese Medicine where it was actually practiced.

Ten days to recruit and design the program. Finalize logistics before departure. Three weeks in China—back just in time for the start of fall semester, with their coursework completed.

The campus had to be the base camp. That was the anchor.

Everything else would radiate from there.

But I wasn't going to assume what students wanted to see. I started making a list—every possible site, activity, and experience I could think of. Shaolin Temple. The Great Wall. Museums. Shop-ping. Hospital tours. Herbal dispensaries. City tours. Cultural performances.

Then I turned it into a questionnaire. I sent it to every student who might be interested: Check what you want to see. Rank them in order of importance. If something doesn't get enough checks, it's off the list.

The responses came back clear:

- Shaolin Temple

- Great Wall

- Terracotta Soldiers

- Shopping

Beijing Opera? Zero votes. I cut it.

So I built the itinerary around their priorities. Beijing first—two days to see the Great Wall, adjust to the time zone, get their bear-ings. Then the train to Luoyang, where we'd use the campus as home base. From there: day trips to Shaolin Temple, hospitals, city center, museums, doctors specializing in different areas. Then a two-day side trip to Xi'an for the Terracotta Soldiers. Back to Luoyang for more day trips. Last two days back in Beijing before flying home. Shopping opportunities built in throughout.

Sarah was a Chinese woman I hired as a faculty member—part of the "new team" we were building at the college. She was entrepreneurial, sharp, and understood what we were trying to do. She'd worked for someone Donald had known for thirty years, which mattered. It meant she got it. She understood how to navi-gate between cultures, between expectations, between what was said and what was meant.

She was from there. She knew Luoyang, knew Xi'an, had the connections. I told her what the students wanted, she arranged it: hospital visits, doctors in different specialties, herbal dispensaries, TCM practitioners, museums. She made it happen.

I worked out the academics: Physical arts credit through tai chi and Shaolin. Textbooks sent ahead. Custom course packets for each student with their specific reading assignments for the first two weeks.

I gave the students one practical instruction: Keep your prescrip-tion medications in the original bottles with your name on them. If you get searched at customs or security, you need to prove they're yours.

The students were another story.

They ranged in age from eighteen to thirty-five. Not one of them had ever left the United States.

I held a briefing session before we left. I told them: no explicit shirts. Boys and girls had to stay in separate rooms in hotels, and if they wanted to visit each other, the door had to stay open. Pack lightly—we were going from Beijing to Shanghai by train, and if they didn't have something, we could pick it up in China. They make everything there.

I also created a countdown system. Each person—students and faculty—was assigned a number. Every time we moved as a group, we did a countdown. If someone was missing, we knew imme-diately.

They thought I was paranoid. I'd shout, "One!"

Sarah: "Two!"

Then the students, in order: "Three!" "Four!" "Five!" "Six!"—all the way through to "Fourteen!"

If someone was missing, we'd know immediately. No guessing. No assuming everyone was there. If we got to a number and heard silence, someone wasn't with the group.

Simple. Fast. Effective.

The students rolled their eyes the first time I explained it.

At JFK, before we even reached the gate, I called for the first countdown.

"One!" I shouted. "Two!" Sarah called. "Three!"

Silence.

"Where's four? Who's number four?"

Two students were missing. We hadn't even boarded the plane yet.

I found them at a coffee stand, oblivious.

"This is how it's going to be," I muttered to Sarah. She just smiled.

When we landed in Beijing, I reminded them one more time: "You're not going to be able to read the signs. This isn't like going to Little Italy where you can figure out what the words mean. It's not going to be the same."

As soon as we stepped off the plane, I saw it on their faces—excitement mixed with nervousness. The air smelled different. The sounds were different. The script on every sign was incomprehensi-ble. They were in a place where they couldn't fake their way through.

We stayed in Beijing that first night. I took everyone to a restau-rant that served Peking duck. We all ate together—students, faculty, everyone.

The duck came out on a cart, carved tableside. Crispy skin. Thin pancakes. Hoisin sauce. Scallions. The students watched, wide-eyed, trying to follow along as they assembled their first bites.

Then came the toast.

The restaurant brought out baijiu—clear, strong Chinese liquor that smells like gasoline and hits harder than vodka. Small glasses for everyone.

Sarah raised her glass. "You need to learn this," she said. "Gān bēi."

"Gahn-bay," the students repeated, uncertain.

"It means 'dry cup,'" Sarah explained. "Empty the glass. When someone toasts you in China, you drink it all."

"Gān bēi!" she demonstrated, emptying her glass.

"Gān bēi!" the students shouted back, and downed their baijiu.

Coughing. Laughing. Eyes watering. A few looked like they might die.

But they learned. And for the rest of the trip, every meal started with "Gān bēi!"

The next day, we went to the Great Wall.

I did a countdown before we got off the bus. Everyone was there.

And then we saw it.

The Wall stretched out in front of us, ancient and impossible—gray stone winding up into the mountains like a giant snake. It rose and fell with the terrain, climbing steep ridges, disappearing into mist, reappearing higher up. The scale of it stopped conversation.

For a moment, I just stood there. Two thousand years old. Built by hand. Stone by stone. Mile after mile. You read about it, you see pictures, but standing at the base, looking up at those steps carved into the mountain, you feel it—the weight of history, the audacity of ambition, the sheer human stubbornness it took to say: We will build this. We will connect these mountains. We will make a wall that lasts forever.

The air smelled like pine and dust. The stone under my hands was worn smooth by millions of tourists, but also by soldiers, by emperors, by people who walked this same path centuries ago.

"Race you to the top," I said to the students.

Some of them made it. Some didn't. The stairs are steep, uneven, brutal. Your thighs burn. Your lungs scream. But you keep climbing because it's the Great Wall of China and you're on it.

At the top, the wind hit us. Cold, sharp, carrying the smell of distant smoke from villages below. The view opened up—mountains rolling away in every direction, the Wall snaking along ridges, watchtowers dotting the landscape like punctuation marks.

One of the students stood there, arms spread wide, laughing. "This is real. We're actually here."

We were. And I realized: this was why we came. Not just to see it in a textbook, but to stand on it. To feel it under your feet. To climb until your legs hurt and then look out and understand, in your body, what it took to build this.

When it was time to get back to the bus, I did another countdown.

Two students were missing.

I had to climb back up to find them. Two girls, sitting on the steps halfway down, exhausted, saying they couldn't walk anymore.

"If you don't get down," I said, "you're going to miss the train." They got down.

I realized: this was going to happen every day.

The train from Beijing to central China was an education in itself.

We had "soft sleepers," which meant we had beds with a quar-ter-inch-thick mattress instead of just metal. The students thought this was luxury. I didn't correct them.

Then I made the mistake of needing to use the bathroom.

I'd heard about train bathrooms in China. People had warned me. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepares you for the reality of a squat toilet on a moving train.

I opened the door and immediately understood why everyone had that look on their face when they came out.

There was a hole. In the floor. And through that hole, you could see the tracks rushing past below. The train was rocking. The smell was immediate and unforgiving.

This was not in the brochure. This was not what I signed up for. But I was the leader. I had twelve students, one faculty member, and no backup plan. I couldn't walk out of that bathroom looking

horrified. I had to handle this.

So I did what had to be done—balancing, squatting, gripping whatever surface seemed stable, trying not to think about physics or momentum or the very real possibility of falling through the floor onto the tracks below. It was a full-body workout in focus, coordina-tion, and denial.

When  I  came  out,  I  kept  my  face  neutral.  Composed.

Professional.

One of the students looked at me. "How was it?" "Fine," I said.

She went in. Thirty seconds later, she came back out, pale. "I'm holding it until Luoyang."

"That's twelve hours."

"I know."

If I survive this, I thought, I can survive anything. And then there was the spitting.

In China, getting things out of your system was considered healthy. Clearing your throat, your lungs, your sinuses—it was all part of wellness. So people were hawking loogies constantly. Loud, unapologetic, enthusiastic.

At first, the students were horrified. Then they started laughing.

And the more they laughed, the more the Chinese passengers seemed to perform. It became a back-and-forth, almost a cultural exchange. A deep, guttural hawk from an older man in the corner. Giggles from the American students. Another passenger, louder this time, like he was accepting a challenge.

I sat there, trying to maintain some shred of dignity, thinking: I am responsible for the safety and education of twelve people who have never left the United States. And I am on a train where spitting is a competitive sport.

One of the students looked at me, tears streaming down her face from laughing. "Lisa, this is insane."

"Welcome to China," I said.

But inside, I was managing my own culture shock while being responsible for theirs. Every time I wanted to react—to grimace, to laugh, to say what the hell are we doing here—I had to swallow it. Because if I lost it, they'd lose it.

So I kept my face calm. I nodded politely when an elderly woman hawked and spit directly on the floor two feet from where I was sitting. I smiled when a student whispered, "I think I'm going to throw up."

"You're not," I said. "You're going to be fine." I had no idea if that was true.

But I was learning something Donald already knew: leadership isn't about having all the answers. It's about not letting people see you panic when you don't.

We arrived in central China—if you think of going from New

York west to Missouri, that's where we were. Middle of the country. A place most foreigners never see.

There was a big sign greeting us. A slew of nurses and doctors lined up in white coats. Music playing. People bowing. A big party waiting for us, with a lot of drinking.

Baijiu. Toast after toast. The students kept saying "Gān bēi!" and emptying their little cups.

That first night, there was a young kid—twenty, maybe twenty-one—who kept doing the toasts. Gān bēi. Gān bēi. Gān bēi. By the end of the night, he could barely stand.

I got him back to his room and stayed up all night. Door open. Sitting in a chair. Watching him breathe. Making sure he stayed alive.

I was genuinely scared he might die.

The bugs were unbelievable. Everything was enormous—spiders, beetles, things I couldn't even name. The students freaked out at first, then got used to it.

What amazed me was the food.

Everything was fresh. Not "fresh from the store" fresh—fresh from the ground, the farm, the market that morning. Vegetables still had dirt on them. Fish was still moving in tanks. Chickens were alive until they weren't.

Breakfast was congee—rice porridge cooked for hours until it was silky and warm, served with pickled vegetables, century eggs, fried dough sticks. The students were suspicious at first. By day three, they were asking for seconds.

Lunch and dinner were communal. Platters in the center of the table. Stir-fried greens with garlic—so fresh they still had a snap when you bit them. Braised pork belly, fatty and tender, cooked until it fell apart. Whole fish, steamed with ginger and scallions, eyes still intact, which freaked out some students until they tasted it.

Tofu that didn't taste like cardboard—silky, delicate, with actual flavor. Noodles pulled by hand, thick and chewy. Dumplings folded fresh every morning.

No preservatives. No additives. No ingredients you couldn't pronounce. Just food. Real food.

You could taste the difference. The vegetables tasted like vegeta-bles. The meat tasted like meat. Everything had flavor—not just salt and sugar, but complexity. Depth.

The students stopped asking what things were and just started eating.

Every morning, the students were obsessed with their bowel movements.

Every. Single. Morning.

"Lisa! You won't believe what just happened." "Lisa, it was green."

"Lisa, mine was shaped like—" "I don't need to know," I'd say. They'd tell me anyway.

I realized it was the food. Everything was so fresh, so different from what they ate back home, that their digestive systems were reacting. And because they were studying holistic health, they were analyzing it like it was a diagnostic tool.

Which, in Traditional Chinese Medicine, it is.

But that didn't mean I needed a daily briefing on the color, shape, and texture of everyone's bowel movements.

"This is a health professional thing," one student explained earnestly. "We're supposed to pay attention to these signs."

"Great," I said, laughing. "But maybe pay attention away from me."

I was there to check out the campus, but I also arranged for the students to do more than sightsee. As future health professionals, I thought it was important for them to see what Traditional Chinese Medicine looked like in practice—and what the western hospitals were like in China.

The next day, we toured hospitals. The students met with doctors and acupuncturists. They watched treatments. They asked questions.

One of the most striking demonstrations was in the acupuncture clinic. A doctor—middle-aged, calm, completely focused—was treating stroke victims. Patients with partial paralysis, facial droop-

ing, speech difficulties. Real cases. Real people trying to recover function.

The doctor barely looked at the needle tray. His hands moved so fast it looked choreographed. He'd identify the point, grab a needle, and throw it—not place it, throw it—like he was throwing a dart.

Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.

Needle after needle, placed with perfect precision. Face. Scalp. Hands. Arms. Legs. The patients didn't even flinch. The doctor's face stayed expressionless, his movements economical, almost mechanical in their efficiency.

The students stood there, mouths open. "How fast was that?" one whispered. "He didn't even look," another said.

The doctor continued, adjusting depth, checking pulses, palpating along meridians. Then he'd move to the next patient and do it again. Same speed. Same precision. No hesitation.

One patient—an older woman with left-side weakness from a stroke three months prior—sat perfectly still as the doctor placed maybe twenty needles in her scalp, face, and affected arm. After fifteen minutes, he began removing them and had her try to lift her arm.

She could lift it higher than before she came in.

The students saw it. They couldn't explain it, but they saw it.

This wasn't theory. This was medicine. Different from what they'd learned in anatomy class, different from pharmaceuticals and surgery, but working. Right in front of them.

They started to understand that TCM wasn't just needles and herbs—it was a complete system of diagnosis, treatment, and prevention.

While the students were in their morning classes, I'd leave for meetings. The mayor of Luoyang. The director of education for the province. Donald's name opened every door.

Once they heard about Donald Spector—one of the most famous inventors in the world—and his vision for a health city, they started making calls. Directors of business. Directors of health. Word spread fast. Everyone wanted to be part of it.

These weren't courtesy meetings. They wanted to know: What would a health city look like? How could Luoyang be part of it? What did Donald need?

I took notes. I listened. I reported back to Donald every few days.

This wasn't just a student trip anymore. It was reconnaissance.

One morning, Sarah arranged for the students to participate in tai chi with the locals in the city center.

We arrived early. The plaza was already filled with people—mostly older men and women, moving through tai chi forms in slow, synchronized motion. The air was cool. The sun was just coming up. Everyone was focused, quiet, deliberate.

The students joined in, trying to follow along. They were awkward at first, but the locals didn't seem to mind. A few smiled and gestured encouragement.

Then Sarah introduced the tai chi "master" she'd hired to teach the class.

He was older, maybe sixty, with that lean, wiry build that comes from decades of daily practice. He demonstrated the forms—smooth, controlled, graceful. The students watched, trying to mimic his movements.

Then he pulled out swords.

Two of them. Long, curved, elegant. He moved through the forms with the swords, slicing through the air with precision and speed. The blades flashed in the morning light. Every movement was controlled, deliberate, but fast.

I took a step back.

The students thought it was hilarious—watching this sixty-year-old man move faster with swords than most of them could move without them. The master kept going, completely unfazed, moving through the forms like the swords were extensions of his arms.

It was beautiful. And also slightly terrifying.

The locals in the plaza barely looked up. This was just Tuesday morning.

Then there was Monique.

Looking back, I should have seen it earlier. Small things. The way she'd started talking faster, louder. How she'd fixate on certain topics and wouldn't let them go. The intensity in her eyes when she looked at people—not quite right, but not alarming enough to stop everything.

But I was managing twelve students in a foreign country. Two were always late. One nearly died from drinking. Another pair kept wandering off at the Great Wall. There was so much chaos, so many small fires to put out every single day, that I didn't catch what was happening with Monique until it was too late.

Monique was a big Black woman—strong, confident, opinion-ated. Somewhere along the way, she fell in love with one of the cooks. At first, I thought it was just a crush. Harmless. She'd talk about him, smile when he was around, linger in the kitchen after meals.

Then it escalated.

She started talking about staying in China. About not going back. About running away with him.

"Monique," I said, "you can't run away with him." She looked at me like I'd insulted her. "Why not?"

"Because you're a student. You're here on a program. You have a life back home."

"I don't want that life."

The conversation should have ended there. But it didn't. She kept bringing it up. Every day. Multiple times a day. The cook became the only thing she could talk about. And the more I tried to redirect her, the more agitated she became.

Then one afternoon, she was standing in front of me, staring. One eye closed. Her index finger and thumb positioned in front of her right eye, forming a small gap. She was looking at me through it.

"What are you doing?" I asked. "I'm smashing your head," she said.

She slowly moved her finger and thumb together, closing the gap, her eye locked on mine.

Her voice was flat. Calm. Matter-of-fact.

Then she did it again. And again. Standing there, staring at me, slowly closing her fingers together.

That's when I knew something was very, very wrong.

That night, I couldn't sleep. Around 2 a.m., I heard something. I got up and walked down the hallway.

Monique was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, knees tucked up under her chin, rocking herself. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her eyes were open but she wasn't looking at anything.

I stood there for a moment, watching. This wasn't just stress.

This wasn't homesickness.

This was a psychiatric emergency.

I was in central China. Middle of the country. I didn't speak Mandarin. I couldn't read most of the signs. I was responsible for twelve students, and one of them was having what looked like a psychotic break.

What if she hurt herself ? What if she hurt someone else? What if she actually ran away and I lost her? What if something happened and I had to explain to her family, to the college, to Donald, that I'd brought her to China and she didn't come back?

The weight of it hit me all at once. If something happened to Monique, it was on me.

I called Barbara at the college.

"Do me a favor," I said. "Could you pull Monique's student file? Check if there's any medical documentation. Check the medical records. See if there's anything I should know about her. And please read her application and essay."

Barbara called back within a few hours.

"I read her essay," Barbara said. "She wrote about being schiz-ophrenic. It's documented in her medical records too. She's been on medication for years—should be taking it daily."

"Then she should have it with her."

I found Monique later that day. She was calmer by then, but still withdrawn.

"Monique," I said quietly. "Do you have your medication with you?"

She looked away. Then nodded. "Are you taking it?"

Silence. "Monique."

"I stopped," she said finally. "I thought I didn't need it anymore."

There it was. She had the medication. She just wasn't taking it. Now what?

I had her medication. But I couldn't force her to take it—I had no legal authority for that. I couldn't send her home alone—she wasn't stable enough. I couldn't hospitalize her in China—I didn't know the system, didn't know if it was safe.

I had to get her through the rest of the trip. And I had to convince her to start taking her medication again.

So I managed it the only way I could. I kept her close. I watched her constantly. I made sure she was never alone with the cook. I kept the other students away from her when she started acting erratic. I stayed calm when she did the finger thing again, and again, and again.

"I'm smashing your head." "Okay, Monique."

I didn't sleep much those last few days. I kept my door open at night, listening. During the day, I did a headcount every hour. I kept her in my line of sight. I talked to her in a low, steady voice, the way you'd talk to someone standing on a ledge.

The other students didn't know. I didn't tell them. They just thought Monique was being difficult, maybe homesick. I let them think that.

But I knew. And the weight of it—the responsibility, the fear, the constant vigilance—was crushing.

When we finally got back to the States, and I watched Monique walk off the plane and into the terminal where her family was wait-ing, I felt something break loose in my chest.

She was safe. They were all safe. I'd brought twelve students to China, and I was bringing twelve students home.

But it was a reminder I would never forget: I wasn't just leading

a study abroad program. I was responsible for twelve lives in a foreign country. And when things went wrong—really wrong—there was no backup. No safety net. Just me, making decisions in real time, hoping I was doing the right thing.

That was leadership. Not the inspiring speeches or the vision casting. The quiet, terrifying weight of knowing that if something goes wrong, it's on you.

One of the most profound experiences was our visit to the Shaolin Temple.

It was quiet. That was the first thing I noticed.

Not silent—you could hear birds, wind moving through the trees, footsteps on old stone. But there was a stillness underneath everything that made you lower your voice without thinking about it.

The smell hit me next. Incense. Pine. Something earthy, like damp stone that had been there for a thousand years.

We walked through red gates into courtyards worn smooth by centuries of feet. Stone lions guarded the entrance, their faces weathered but still watching. The mountains rose up behind the temple, steep and protective.

The students got quieter as we went deeper.

In the training courtyards, we saw monks practicing kung fu. Young ones—kids, really, maybe ten or twelve years old. Their movements were precise, controlled, deliberate. Every strike had purpose. No wasted motion.

I understood their dedication immediately.

It reminded me of tennis. The hours I'd spent on the court at the Academy. The repetition. The discipline. The way your body learns something so completely that it becomes automatic. That's what I was seeing here—years of practice, built into muscle memory, refined until it looked effortless.

These kids had been training since they could walk. This was their life. Not a hobby. Not an extracurricular. Their entire existence was built around this discipline.

I got it. I'd lived a version of that.

We walked through the Pagoda Forest—stone towers marking where monks were buried. Each one different. Some tall, some short. Each one telling a story about rank, devotion, years of prac-tice. The students read the plaques, trying to understand what they were looking at.

By the time we left, they were walking differently. Slower. More aware of their own movements. Quieter.

The temple did that. It didn't lecture. It just existed. And you either understood or you didn't.

The demonstration by the Shaolin monks was unforgettable.

They started with forms—synchronized movements, bodies moving together. Every strike sharp. Every landing solid. The sound of their feet hitting stone echoed off the temple walls.

Then it got intense.

A monk stepped forward. Another monk picked up a wooden staff and struck him across the body. Hard. The crack was loud.

The monk didn't flinch.

Another monk broke stone slabs with his palm. Clean break. No hesitation. Just precision.

Then one demonstrated what they called iron body training. Spears and blades pressed against his throat, his torso. The metal bent. The monk's face stayed calm. His breathing was steady.

The students stood frozen.

But what really got them was the jumping.

The monks launched themselves into the air with almost no warning. Straight up. Forward. Sideways. And when they landed, there was barely any sound. Like their bodies absorbed the impact before it could echo.

One monk—and I swear he looked like he came straight out of central casting for a kung fu movie—did a vertical jump that seemed to hang in the air longer than it should have. Another did a flying kick that cleared several feet, then landed so smoothly into a low stance that it looked choreographed.

The students couldn't believe it. "How did he do that?"

"Did you see how high he jumped?"

These weren't big, muscular guys. They were lean. Compact. Efficient. Their power came from training—legs conditioned through endless stances, tendons strengthened over years, breath timed perfectly with movement.

It broke every assumption the students had about strength and speed.

After it was over, the monks bowed slightly and stepped back. No celebration. No acknowledgment of how impressive it was. Just calm. Controlled. Back to stillness.

The students were quiet for a long time after that. In Xi'an, we visited the Terracotta Warriors.

When you walk into the viewing hall, the ground drops away. Thousands of soldiers standing in formation. Row after row. Each one life-sized. Each face different.

They've been standing there for over two thousand years. The students went quiet.

I stood there exhausted. Still counting heads in my mind. Still thinking about Monique and the kid who almost died from drinking and the two who got lost on the Great Wall. I'd spent two weeks keeping twelve people safe, fed, accounted for, educated. The weight of it hadn't lifted.

And here was an emperor who'd commanded tens of thousands of people to be sculpted, arranged, buried—all to serve him in death.

At Shaolin, the monks chose discipline. They dedicated their lives to it willingly.

Here, discipline was imposed. Absolute. Commanded from above.

I understood both now.

I'd been living somewhere in between—given authority I hadn't asked for, responsible for people I couldn't fully control, improvising my way through chaos while trying to execute someone else's vision. The students were still staring down into the pits. Looking at the faces. Each one unique. Each one a person who'd been commanded

to create this.

I did a silent countdown in my head. Everyone was there.

After the Terracotta Warriors, we went for dumplings.

Xi'an is famous for its dumplings—not the frozen kind you get in American supermarkets, but hand-folded, steamed fresh, filled with pork, lamb, vegetables, shrimp, each one a small work of art.

They brought them out on bamboo steamers, stacked three high, the wrappers translucent and delicate. When you bit into one, the filling was hot and juicy, the wrapper just thick enough to hold together but thin enough to almost dissolve on your tongue.

The students learned to dip them in black vinegar and chili oil. Some were cautious at first—"What's in this one?"—but after the first bite, they stopped asking and just ate.

We ordered more. And more. Pork and cabbage. Lamb and cumin. Shrimp and chive. Soup dumplings that exploded hot broth when you bit into them if you weren't careful.

The students were laughing, talking, passing steamers around the table. They'd stopped being polite and started eating like they were hungry—which they were. We'd been walking all day.

"This is the best thing I've ever eaten," one of them said, reaching for another dumpling.

And honestly, it might have been. Fresh ingredients. Made to order. No shortcuts.

This was what food could be when it wasn't industrialized.

When it was just: good ingredients, skilled hands, heat, and time.

The students understood that now—not from a textbook, but from taste.

While we were in China, we were trying to learn Chinese and also trying to teach some English to the local staff.

Three of the students were always late. Always. Every single day.

Morning departure: late. Afternoon meeting point: late. Dinner: late.

I'd stand there doing countdown—"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine... where's ten? Where's eleven?"—and the same three would come running five minutes later, breathless, apolo-

getic, completely unbothered by the fact that twelve other people had been standing there waiting.

"Next time you're late," I told them, "we're leaving you here."

They nodded. They promised. They were late again the next day.

I was losing my mind.

One night, I was on a conference call back to the college—reporting on the campus, the partnerships, the logistics—and I could hear myself talking but inside my head I was screaming: I am never doing this again. I am never having kids. This is insane. What did I get myself into?

Donald had said, "Lisa will go," and I'd said yes without thinking it through. Without realizing that "checking out the campus" meant being responsible for twelve adults who'd never left the country, who didn't speak the language, who thought they could just wander off whenever they felt like it.

I was exhausted. Bone-tired. The kind of tired where you forget what day it is.

And yet.

I could see them changing.

The shy girl who barely spoke in New York was now chatting with the kitchen staff, laughing, trying out her broken Chinese while they tried out their broken English. The kid who almost died from drinking too much that first night was now asking thoughtful ques-tions about acupuncture meridians. Even the three who were always late were starting to understand that the world didn't revolve around their schedule.

They were learning. Growing. Becoming different versions of themselves.

So I kept counting. I kept threatening. I kept standing at meeting points doing silent roll calls in my head, making sure no one got left behind.

Because this mattered.

Even when it felt impossible, even when I wanted to scream, even when I was on a conference call at midnight thinking never again—this mattered.

These kids were seeing the world for the first time. And I was the one making sure they came back alive, educated, and transformed.

That was worth it.

Even if I never wanted to do it again.

At one point during the trip, Donald called to check in.

I answered, relieved to hear his voice, and immediately started venting.

"OMG, I am never going to have children—this is insane!" There was a pause. Then laughter. Multiple voices.

I froze.

"Lisa," Donald said calmly, "you're on speakerphone. The board is here."

My face went hot. Great. Perfect. The entire board just heard me lose it.

And then—because the universe has a sense of humor—I looked up and saw the largest insect I had ever seen in my life crawling across the wall of my bedroom at the campus.

"Oh my God—what the hell is that?!"

I started cursing at it. Loudly. Creatively. In real time.

The board members were still on the line. I could hear them laughing harder now.

I didn't care. I was too busy trying to figure out how to kill this thing without getting near it.

Later, I realized what had happened. They'd heard everything—my frustration, my exhaustion, my cursing at bugs, my handling the chaos in real time.

But they'd also heard me lead through it. They'd heard me keep going.

We went back to Beijing for the final two days. The students practiced tai chi as part of their physical arts course. They attended lectures. They completed their coursework. It was academically legitimate—they wouldn't be behind when they returned for fall semester.

By the end of the trip, something had shifted.

Twelve students who had never left the United States were different. The shyest one—a young girl who barely spoke in class—

had blossomed. She took an interest in Chinese culture, started talking to local people, helping them learn English while they helped her learn Chinese. She didn't feel shy with them the way she did in America.

She ended up becoming an English interpreter. She went back to China on her own.

Half of the other students went back to China or started trav-eling to other countries. They realized there was more to life than Long Island. They saw other cultures, other ways of living, other possibilities.

The campus was vetted. It was safe. It was functional. The part-nerships were established. The classes had been conducted success-fully. Relationships had been built.

Everyone was safe, educated, and accounted for. Mission accomplished.

ACCREDITATION

The students returned from China exhilarated. They talked about Shaolin, Luoyang, the demonstrations, the hospitals—about seeing another system of discipline and learning entirely. Their excitement rippled outward. Other students wished they'd gone. Faculty stopped me in the halls, curious and energized, asking whether there would be another trip. For the first time in a while, there was a sense of forward motion inside the college.

King congratulated me on the program's success. He said it pointed toward an exciting direction for the institution.

But that optimism existed alongside a reality that had already been unfolding—quietly, and largely out of public view.

Before Don ever joined the board, the college had been placed on financial monitoring. This wasn't announced, but internally it was understood for what it was: heightened scrutiny and diminished margin for error. Accreditation, already secured, was no longer something that could be taken for granted.

Accreditation isn't a formality. It's existential.

What the college had at that point was programmatic accredita-

tion—approval granted to individual programs, not to the institu-tion as a whole. Massage therapy, acupuncture, and Traditional Chinese Medicine were accredited within their professional and licensing frameworks, which meant students could sit for boards and graduates could practice. But programmatic accreditation did not protect the college itself. It did not guarantee institutional stability, financial viability, or governance integrity. Those were evaluated separately—and far less forgivingly. In moments of stress, program-matic accreditation could coexist with institutional collapse.

After King stepped in as interim president the first time, the board had conducted a search for a permanent president. Someone to handle day-to-day operations while King provided continuity and strategic leadership as chancellor. A candidate was found. Creden-tials were strong. The hire was made.

Six weeks after the students returned from China, the problems surfaced.

To understand what happened, it helps to understand the differ-ence between the board and the president.

The board of trustees exists to protect the institution itself. It is responsible for governance, fiduciary oversight, long-term strategy, and, ultimately, for hiring and firing the president. The board does not run the college day to day, but it sets the boundaries within which the college operates. Its duty is not to any one individual, but to the institution, its students, and its future.

The president, by contrast, is responsible for operations. The president runs the institution on a daily basis—managing faculty, staff, budgets, and academic programs. The president executes the board's strategy. The board governs, the president administers.

That arrangement did not hold.

The president began pursuing a plan to relocate the college campus. This was not a minor operational adjustment—it was a decision with massive institutional, financial, and strategic implica-tions. The kind of decision that required board deliberation and approval.

The board wasn't consulted. The relocation was presented as an operational matter, not a governance one.

Then the conflict of interest came to light.

The president had a personal financial stake in the proposed relocation. He had not disclosed it.

The board acted immediately. The president was terminated.

The timing could not have been worse. The accreditation visit was approaching. The college was already under financial monitor-ing. Leadership instability—particularly involving an ethics violation

—could have been catastrophic.

King stepped in as interim president. Again.

This wasn't a power grab. It was damage control. The move restored clear governance lines: the board governing, the president executing—temporarily united in one person for the sake of conti-nuity and credibility.

It wasn't about personalities. It was about structure. And about ensuring that when the accreditors arrived, they would see an insti-tution that knew how to correct course—decisively, transparently, and in defense of its own integrity.

By fall 2002, the scrutiny became tangible. An accreditation visit was scheduled, and the Office of the President was required to submit a comprehensive self-study—an exhaustive review of the institution as it actually was.

The decision was made to submit it honestly. Warts and all.

The self-study documented the college's financial problems clearly and directly. It acknowledged instability caused by leadership transition, faculty departures in certain departments, and student dissatisfaction reflected in attrition data. These issues were not mini-mized or reframed.

But the report also showed something else.

Alongside the weaknesses, the self-study documented positive trends: renewed academic initiatives, improved curriculum align-ment, growing student engagement in certain programs, and early signs of stabilization. Programs with strong outcomes were identi-fied. New partnerships and experiential learning opportunities—like the China trip—were cited as evidence of forward momentum. Faculty commitment in core areas was highlighted, as were efforts to formalize governance and improve oversight.

The message was clear: the college was not denying its prob-lems, but it was not standing still either.

The accreditation visit itself was tense but measured. Accredi-tors didn't just review documents—they asked pointed questions. How were financial controls being strengthened? What steps were being taken to retain faculty? How were student concerns being addressed? What had changed since the founder-president's death?

There was no single dramatic confrontation. Instead, there was sustained pressure: interviews, follow-ups, requests for clarification. The sense that every answer mattered.

For years, the college had been guided by a single founder-presi-dent. When he passed away, informal systems that had once func-tioned through continuity were exposed. The accrediting agency wasn't interested in personalities. They were interested in structure, transparency, and accountability.

By the time Don became involved, the monitoring was already in place and the visit already scheduled. The issues were docu-mented. What remained was the work of response.

Don's role was not to rewrite the past, but to help demonstrate that the institution understood both its vulnerabilities and its strengths—and was capable of acting on that understanding. Together with King, the focus shifted toward documentation, gover-nance, and proof of corrective action.

The China trip represented vision—what the college could become.

The accreditation process represented survival—whether it would be allowed to continue.

The self-study showed both. And that balance—honest, difficult, but forward-looking—became the college's strongest argument at a moment when everything was on the line.

One of the most consequential sections of the self-study addressed outcomes—and here, the college was strong. Despite financial strain and organizational transition, licensing examination scores remained high. Students were passing. Graduates were quali-fying. The core academic mission was holding.

That mattered.

King and I flew to Florida to meet with the accreditation committee and respond to questions, if necessary, about the college's direction and its commitment to sustaining academic quality.

The meetings stretched over two days. There were formal sessions, informal conversations, and the quiet intervals in between where judgments were often formed. King was in his element—talking to everyone, networking, making connections. I tried to introduce myself to people, explain that I was the VP of Business Development, but I could see the confusion on their faces. They didn't know why I was there.

To be honest, I wasn't entirely sure either.

The re-accreditation committee had a time slot on the second day. 3 p.m.

We walked into the room.

The atmosphere had shifted. The day before, people had been cordial, professional. This was different. The conference room was standard Florida hotel setup—long table, stiff chairs, air condi-tioning humming in the background. But the energy felt like judge and jury.

King seemed very comfortable.

Before the meeting ended, King asked if he could say a few words.

He didn't need permission for long.

King's father had been a preacher, and long before King became president of Shaw University or Morgan State University, he had learned how to speak—to read a room, to pace a message, to land a point without force. What followed wasn't theatrical. It was precise.

He spoke about accountability. About facing problems directly rather than disguising them. About institutions being judged not by the absence of difficulty, but by their capacity to correct course. He spoke about students—real students—and the obligation a college has to protect their futures.

One of the members asked about what had happened previ-ously—the president who'd been terminated, the leadership instabil-ity, the problems that had led to monitoring in the first place.

King didn't deflect.

"You can't uncook an egg," he said.

The room went quiet. Not uncomfortable—thoughtful. He wasn't dismissing the question. He was acknowledging reality. The past had happened. The college couldn't undo it. What mattered now was what came next.

By the time King finished, the tension in the room had shifted. I remember thinking—only half joking—that the members of the agency might enroll themselves.

King had one behavioral objective: get the college re-accredited. And he did.

At the time, institutions could receive up to seven years of accreditation. Given the monitoring and scrutiny, we had hoped—quietly—for a shorter term. Three years would have been a relief.

The decision came back: five years.

It wasn't the maximum. But it was a vote of confidence. Proof that the agency believed the college had stability, direction, and leadership capable of sustaining it.

We left knowing something essential had been preserved. Not just accreditation—but the institution's right to continue, to grow, and to rebuild with intention rather than fear.

As soon as we left the room, I called Don. "He did it!" I said.

Don didn't need me to explain what that meant. Five years. The college had survived. King had done exactly what he'd been brought in to do.

Phoenix Rising

After we returned from the accreditation meeting in May, King and I took the train to Albany to meet with the director of the New York State Education Department's Office of Professions. She listened quietly as we described what had unfolded—the monitoring, the self-study, the visit, the decision. When we finished, she paused, smiled, and said it felt like watching a phoenix rise from the ashes.

It was the first time I allowed myself to breathe.

The students from the China trip wanted to have a small

reunion—nothing formal, just a chance to be together again. Sarah said she knew a place in Queens where we could get great Chinese food. A date was set, and we all met there around lunchtime.

When I walked in, I stopped short. It was a nightclub.

Music was blaring. There was nobody there yet, just flashing lights and a long stage that ran the entire length of the room. I stood there for a moment, slightly confused, when a few of the students jumped up onto the stage, laughing. Then I noticed the poles—tall metal poles at the ends of the stage.

The students immediately tried swinging around them. I burst out laughing—and joined them.

It was ridiculous. Completely harmless. We were laughing like kids, relieved, giddy, unguarded for the first time in months.

Then Sarah appeared and said the banquet room downstairs was ready.

Downstairs was an entirely different world—quiet, elegant, tables set for dim sum. We ate, talked, laughed, relived China. It felt like closure.

I went back to the college that afternoon and shared the story with Don and King.

Don stared at me. "What?" I said.

King was laughing so hard he was slapping his knee. "Lisa… on a stripper pole?" King said.

"What? No," I said. "It was a dance club."

Don leaned forward. "Lisa… think about what you just said.

You said there were poles. There were rooms upstairs." "Yes," I said. "But Sarah said those were for karaoke." Don turned to King. "I told you—she's from Indiana." The next morning, King called me into his office.

He asked, very calmly, what I thought about becoming the next president of the college.

I honestly thought he was joking. And I was still mortified about the day before.

"Sure," I said. "The dancing president."

He didn't laugh.

"Lisa," he said, "I am serious. I think you have what it takes." I froze.

"King," I said, "the only thing I know about college is cutting class."

He laughed then—pulled at his beard the way he always did when he was thinking.

"Lisa," he said, "I have seen your work. We all have. This college needs a young president to lead it."

I was speechless.

As I gathered my thoughts, something clicked. "Is this why I was with you in Florida?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Does Don know you're thinking about this?" I asked.

"Oh yes," King said. "We've been looking for a president for quite some time. We both think you're the person for the job."

Then King picked up the phone.

"Don," he said, laughing, "she doesn't believe me." He handed me the receiver.

I repeated what I had just said. "I don't know anything about running a college."

Don didn't hesitate. "King will stay on as your advisor," he said. "It's just like running another business. You've shown what you can do on the non-academic side of the college."

I paused. Then I said, "Okay. If you believe in me."

At the annual board meeting the first week of June, King—still serving as interim president—put forward the motion explaining why I should be named president. Don seconded it. The board voted unanimously.

The word came out before I'd fully processed what I was agreeing to. But it felt right.

Just like that, it was done.

I became the youngest female college president in the United States.

I was thirty-six.

Three years before, I had been in outpatient rehab in Los Ange-

les, trying to piece my life back together. Working to prove I was worth saving. Trying to redeem myself through sheer effort and focus.

Now I was standing here.

The director in Albany had said it felt like watching a phoenix rise from the ashes. She'd been talking about the college.

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