Little Emily’s nose crunched as she bent down to examine the deep red rose petals creating a carpet leading to the wedding arch. With her right hand, the toddler carefully arranged one petal after another until they were perfectly aligned. The gathered celebrants smiled as the wedding photographer knelt, then lay on the grass, snapping one shot after another, capturing that moment, when she should have been following the bride and groom.
Most kids travel from childhood into the teen years after their thirteenth birthday.
Not me.
At that age I was still firmly under my mother’s control. If she thought she saw a zit of blackhead, I was treated to pinching and squeezing.
If I needed a new blouse, she bought it. Same with pants, shorts, shoes. Because she was old-fashioned and ultra-conservative, I dressed like an old lady.
If she said I had to attend Mass, I did. Take Communion or go to confession? Yep.
She was a terrible cook, but I had to eat everything she prepared in the amounts she deemed necessary. No wonder I was overweight.
My parents controlled everything I did, said, and perhaps even my thoughts until I got accepted to the University of Southern California and so would live on campus.
Imagine my ecstasy when I unpacked my belongings in my half of a dorm room! It was small, but it was mine.
From that moment on, I chose what time to get up and go to bed. What to wear, where to go, and thank goodness, what I ate. Those three years were the happiest, and at times, saddest, of my life.
On good days, when I hadn’t struggled with my classwork, I floated across campus. In my hip huggers, cowgirl hat and barefoot. Unless it was raining or cold. I decided when and where to study, who to share meals with, who I dated.
The sad days were the ones before I discovered lonely people like me, when I broke up with a boyfriend, when a class was harder than I expected. And yes, when my mother demanded I come home for the weekend.
My coming-of-age journey began at age eighteen and ended when I married at age 24.
It took that long because even though I was at college, my mother still tried to control my life. She used guilt to get me to call home, to come home. She cried when I didn’t call, saying I didn’t love her anymore.
It was about that time that I realized that, no, I didn’t love my parents. Probably never had. At first I blamed myself, thinking there was something wrong with me. Doesn’t everyone love their parents?
Around my senior year, I accepted the fact that most, likely, my parents never loved me. I was the disappointing daughter, the middle child, holding a spot between the cherished older brother and the spoiled younger sister.
Once you truly understand your place, you are instantly set free.
I no longer had to answer every beck and call. I no longer had to carry the guilt my mother tried to place on my back.
I could do what I wanted, wear modern-styled clothes (if I could afford them), and date even a young man who didn’t look like me, but who like me for who I was.
I love reading Young Adult stories in which the protagonist struggles to come of age. Mostly they are nothing like who I was at that age, but yet there are common themes that I could identify with.
Independence. Identity. Place in the World.
Coming of age isn’t easy, but once you’re on the other side, life is a million times better.
Briana stood in the middle of a huge field; her head ducked down to avoid detection. She’d been playing with the wheat tassels, brushing them with her hands when she heard the gravelly voices of Kobat warriors. Briana chanced a glance in their direction, poking her head up just enough so she could see.
There were four: each dressed in dark green woodsman robes and wearing helmets so shiny that the roiling clouds up above seemed to be streaming from their heads.
One of the men glanced in her direction, so Briana ducked down, practically burying her face in the dirt. She hoped she was safe: that the men, traveling on huge war-horses, wouldn’t spot her so far below.
Briana wasn’t the waiting kind. She’d been reminded over and over that there were things worth waiting for, but she didn’t care. She’d whine and pound her fists as huge tears streamed down her face.
This time, though, she’d hide as long as it took until the marauders moved on.
She practiced her shallow breathing, making as little noise as possible. And she counted. To ten. Twenty. Just as she got to thirty-one, the wind came up.
A gentle breeze at first. When she turned onto her back, it cooled her sweaty face. She opened her mouth to take in the blessed air, and the taste of fresh baked bread came to her. A fruit tart finishing up in a clay oven. The smell of clean clothes hanging out to dry.
When Briana no longer heard the warriors’ voices, she ventured a quick peek. They hadn’t left, but were now leaning from one side of their horses to the other, sweeping aside the stalks, moving nearer and nearer to where she still hid.
On hands and knees, Briana scuttled as quietly as she could, through the field, moving east, toward her hamlet where her family and friends would protect her. It took so long to travel such a small way and it was so hard, so hard to crawl over the lumpy dirt and roots.
The breeze turned into a wind that tossed the tops of the wheat back and forth, creating a vibration that she not only heard, but felt. It called to her, singing a song of safety, directing her to change course, to move toward the men, not away.
No, that can’t be right, she thought, but turned back anyway, remembering the lessons of her family. Listen to the voices, follow direction, do as your told.
Her da had taught her how to stalk prey. Her ma sang about ancients who escaped detection when murderers came to their little valley. Briana understood now, for the first time in her ten years of life, why her parents spoke of such things: they wanted her to be prepared. And she was.
Over the tops of the bending, waving wheat, Briana heard a high-pitched voice. She scrunched her eyes, tilted her head to hear better, but it didn’t belong to the warriors or to anyone she knew. It seemed to be saying, come here, come here and I will save you.
Briana stole a look and ducked back down when there was a man standing within arm’s reach of where she hid. She held her breath for as long as she could, and then only took in tiny bits of air: enough. Just enough.
When the man’s heavy boots stomped away, Briana crawled toward the beautiful voice, still calling her to come.
A burrow appeared. Made by rabbits or a fox, but a path. A path heading in the right direction. Briana dug in her fingers, pulled herself inside the cozy wheat-tent. And there she stayed, the only movement slowly, slowly, covering herself with dried out stalks and bits of debris.
When the sun moved, shadows deepened, darkened, her hiding place. She couldn’t see them, but she smiled when overhead the night birds sang, chirping happy songs. They wouldn’t do that if there was danger, she thought.
Reminding herself to be brave, that she herself came from a long line of warriors, Briana scooted back out of the tunnel and raised her head until she could look out over the field.
The men were gone.
She hadn’t heard them leave. Had she fallen asleep?
She stood with knees bent, high enough to catch the murmuration of tiny brown birds, diving, twisting, turning every which way in a mesmerizing pattern of dark and not-so-dark.
A tawny cat appeared out of the gloom, rubbed against her leg. Briana reached down to pet it, to scratch its chin, but the cat raised its tail and turned, and with only a glance over one shoulder, disappeared.
Briana followed as best she could. The cat helped, of course, by reappearing whenever Briana faltered or lost direction.
Soon, well, maybe not so soon as her knees began to ache, the cat stepped out into a dirt path. It didn’t seem wary: instead, it meowed, then trotted off toward the roundabout trail that led to the village.
The cat walked her home, which was good as Briana’s night vision had never been good. And within a heartbeat, her cozy cottage sprung from the dark, its windows aglow with candle light.
Briana scooped up the cat, opened the wooden door and stepped into the waiting arms of her ma and da.
I’m keeping the cat, she said. He saved my life.
Her parents hugged her, saying sure, sure, sure.
But then the cat jumped out of Briana’s arms, and before its four paws landed on the dirt floor, it morphed into a fairy: the most beautiful one Briana had ever seen.
It seemed to be a boy, which surprised Briana as she thought all fairies were girls. Its luminescent blue wings shimmered in the candlelight. Briana tried to touch a wing, but the fairy grumbled, I am not yours, but you are mine. And then he helped himself to the last bowl of lamb stew, the one that had been saved for the little girl.
If colors are magic, then fireflies would transport messages. Why not, I thought? But how to measure when it’s so darned hard to catch enough bugs to test my theory.
I decided to experiment with flashing colors into tanks of fireflies I’d paid little kids to catch. They had a wonderful time running around with the jars I’d given them, and the only cost to me was a few rainbow lollipops.
I must have a hundred: no, maybe only seventy. Fifty? Never mind. It was enough because it was all I had.
I set up photography reflectors, one on each side of the rectangular tank. Turned off the annoying overhead lights, then with a color wheel attached to my flashlight, began the experiment.
Red, no matter how dark or how faded, caused great agitation. The “flies” dashed and dated about, bouncing off the glass walls of the tank, careening into each other, even tearing off the wings of some. So I turned off the light.
Waited a good ten minutes.
Blue kept them calm lethargic almost. They’d fly about in slow zigzags, eyes half-open.
Yellow sent them to the top of the tank, clinging to the mesh lid and swaying their heads back and forth, back and forth as if drugged.
Green sent them off, looking up and down, up and down. I couldn’t decipher why until it came to me they were looking for food.
After that I played with color combinations. I shot bursts of light into the tank, using the Morse code. Imagine my surprise when the fireflies clustered close to the light source and began rhythmically blinking their eyes.
I wrote down the letters, or what I thought were letters. It wasn’t a language I knew, so I called in the School of Languages. Five professors showed up, looked at my recordings, watched the bugs, and argued. Was it Spanish? No. French? No. A form of ancient Egyptian? Still no.
Oh, the argument that ensued! All those experts yammering at each other, determined to prove the others wrong!
I shooed them away, filled out a grant request to create a language lab that only I would run. It was quickly approved: this was a novel idea! Something no one had ever explored before.
Applications came in. I hired two, a young man with knowledge of six Latin-based languages, and a teen from Illinois who was fluent in four Middle-Eastern tongues.
The students divided the fireflies into separate tanks. (This was a fresh supply as the durned bugs don’t live that long!)
Each student flashed in alphabets from a language. Waited. The bugs responded with the blinking of eyes and the flapping of wings.
Within a week, both students and bugs had mastered a form of communication that was part of this language and part of that.
Newly hatched fireflies knew the language so well, that we decided to release the more advanced ones into the university’s forest. We set up observation stations, night-vision cameras, sent up drones and attached homing boxes high up in the trees, on the tops of buildings.
Imagine how pleased I was when more and more of the bugs seemed to be communicating! Not just with each other, but with us!
I saw myself winning a Nobel Prize, writing an award-winning scientific study, jumping to professor status seemingly overnight!
Not content to stick with the whiteish light from our flashlights, we experiment with colors. Yellow made them land on branches. Purple seemed to put them to sleep (we had to stop right away when bats swept in and began eating our students!)
Red. I didn’t want to use red, but the boy, he disobeyed just to see what would happen.
An all-out war began. Bug eating bug, tearing off wings and legs. Biting off heads.
The boy thought it was great fun and wouldn’t stop until I tore the light from his hand.
By that time, not one bug was alive.
All that research wasted. My Prize and tenure gone.
Oh, well, I thought.
What would happen if I worked with cougars instead?
One September morning as my mom and I sat on our back porch steps, a group of children walked by, happily swinging colorful metal boxes. They laughed and giggled with huge smiles on their faces. I thought they were the luckiest kids on earth.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“To school.” Mom lit a cigarette, threw the used match into the dirt.
“What’s school?”
She inhaled and then blew out the smoke. “You’ll find out in a few years.” I coughed as her smoke filled my throat and nose.
Two more happy kids walked by, carrying those strange boxes.
“Why are all those kids carrying metal boxes?”
“Their lunches.” She inhaled again, this time, thankfully, turning her head to the side before blowing out the smoke.
“Can I have one?”
“It’s too early for lunch.”
“No, I mean,” as I nodded in the direction the kids had gone. “Can I have a box, too?”
“Not until you go to school.” Using her scuffed tennis shoe Mom ground the cigarette into a mashed-up blob.
“Can I go to school now?” I asked.
“Not until you’re five.”
I counted on my fingers. “So in two more years.”
“Yes. Your brother will go to school next year, then you the year after that.” My mother lit a new cigarette. She inhaled and then once again, her smoke drifted my way.
“What do you do at school?”
“Learn things.” This time she leaned her head back before sending her smoke into the sky. With her cigarette dangling from her fingers, she stood, brushed off her skirt, turned and opened the door. “It’s time to go inside.”
I followed her into the kitchen. “Why can’t I have a lunchbox now? Why do I have to wait two years?”
“There’s no money and you don’t need one.” My mother bent over and removed two pans from the cabinet. She opened doors and drawers, taking something from each. Lastly, she dug around in the refrigerator, emerging with something in each hand.
“I want a lunchbox now.”
She flung a hand toward the front room. “Go away and quit bothering me.”
I went into the bedroom that I shared with my brother. I climbed up on my bed so I could see out the window. A few more smiling kids went by, each of them swinging a lunchbox. I placed my right hand on the window glass, as if I was reaching out, wishing I could walk with them. I watched for a while longer, but saw no more kids.
When my dad came home, before he could hang his coat over the back of a kitchen chair, I asked him for a lunchbox. I thought he’d understand since he carried one. His was old and dented, not new like the ones the kids had, but he had one.
“Can I have a lunchbox?”
He looked over at my mom who was doing something in the kitchen. “Why does she want a lunchbox? Did you put that foolishness in her head?”
Mom shook her head, but didn’t turn around. “She saw kids carrying boxes like they do every morning and that’s all she can think about.” My mother scooped food into bowls and carried them the table. “Dinner’s ready.”
My brother was already seated in his chair.
I slid into mine and began swinging my legs. “I to be like those kids.”
“Let it go.” My mom glowered at me.
I knew that was the signal to shut up, but I didn’t want to shut up.
“Daddy, do I have to wait until I go to school? Can’t I have one now?”
“Shut up and eat,” he said.
I did the best that I could with tears in my eyes and dripping down my throat. It took me a long time to finish, long after Mom had washed the dishes and put them away.
I was still seated at the table when I heard Mom tell my brother than it was time for bed,
Knowing my dad was alone, I tiptoed into the front room. “Please, Daddy, can I have a lunchbox?”
“Go to bed,” he said without looking my way.
The next morning, I sat on the kitchen steps again, watching kids go by. “Mother, I’d take really good care of a lunchbox.”
“Shut up about it.” Her face looked angry, so I was quiet while my mother finished her cigarette and went inside.
I drew pictures of lunchboxes and kids and me, all walking together, smiles on our faces.
When my dad came home, I asked him again. He didn’t say no, but he didn’t say yes, either. I listened when he went into the kitchen where my mom was working on dinner. I tried to pick out words, but not even one came clear. We ate dinner and then my brother and I went to bed.
In the morning, I discovered a blue metal box sitting on the kitchen table. “What’s that?”
“Something your father brought home,” my mother said. There was a look on her face that I didn’t understand. She didn’t seem to be angry, but she wasn’t smiling, either.
My fingers carefully touched the sides of the box. It was bumpy in places and smooth in others. “Who’s this for?”
“Open it up.”
Inside I found a sandwich wrapped in paper and an apple. “Is this for Bill?”
“No. It’s yours.”
My eyes grew huge with surprise. And when my mom nodded, I picked it up by the handle. I walked all over the house swinging it just like those kids. “Does this mean I’m going to school?”
She shook her head.
“Did Bill get a lunchbox?”
“He doesn’t want one.”
“Oh.” I rocked back and forth, thinking. My brother didn’t get a box and he had to go to school first. “I get to keep it?”
“Yes. It’s for you.”
I carried my lunchbox into the front room and sat on the couch. I opened the lid. The sandwich and apple were still there. I picked each one up, turned them from side to side and then put them back inside. I closed the lid and flipped the latch. “When will it be lunchtime?”
“Find something to keep you busy,” my mother called from the kitchen.
I went into my room and retrieved a coloring book and crayons from under my bed. Sat on the floor with my lunchbox at my side. I colored several pictures, taking time to stay in the lines like my mother wanted.
My mother called from the front room, “Lunch time.”
I put my things away and carried my lunchbox into the kitchen. I placed it on the table and sat in my chair. I opened the lid and took out my sandwich.
“Is this what kids do at school?”
“Yes. They sit at tables to eat.” My mother opened the door and stepped outside. She lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke out into the air.
I took a bite of the sandwich. “Why do I have this if I can’t go to school?”
“Your father wanted you to have it.” She inhaled again. “Just be grateful.”
I was grateful.
That blue metal box was my most precious possession until it got lost during one of our many moves.
Education
Magic bullet
Gateway to stars
Door to continuous learning
Within easy reach
Requires some effort
Constantly yearning
When I so desperately needed to lose weight, it hurt inside to watch friends devour delicious looking restaurant food while I nurtured my cup of low-calorie soup and a bland garden salad. I drooled over the thought of taking just one bite of Thai curry, but I knew I couldn’t. I read the description of its flavorful sauce over and over until it was as if I was tasting the savory sauce. But I was obese and didn’t get to eat things like that. At least not in public.
Whenever I purchased a bag of candy guilt would taint my cheeks red, even if the candy was meant for my husband. I’d cringe when the clerk scanned the bag, feeling as if she’s wondering why a fatso would buy candy in the first place. It would make me so angry that I’d want to rip open the bag before her, unwrap a piece, stick it in my mouth and chew, daring her to say something because people like me aren’t supposed to eat candy. At least not in public.
Almost every public toilet stall is quite narrow and the seats are so low that it’s hard to turn around, lock the door, pull down my clothes and lower myself. I wondered if architects only envision skinny people using them, not the obese. To be comfortable, truly comfortable, I’d use the handicapped stall, expecting and often receiving the evil-eyed looks given by those waiting in line. And then guilt would wash over me, knowing that “normal” people fit in “normal” stalls, which meant that something was wrong with me.
Not all fat people like being fat. Not all choose to eat themselves to death. Most don’t sit in front of televisions stuffing their mouths with bonbons. The biggest hurt is that many believe that fat people choose to be fat.
If only the scoffers knew the hours I put in at the gym. All the laps I’ve swum and the miles I’ve done on the elliptical and bike. All the weights I’ve lifted and the trainers I’ve hired and the steps I’ve climbed.
If only they sat with me to witness what I put in my mouth. The fruits and veggies. The limited amounts of carbs and “bad” sugars. To look at the white space on my plate and see that I often don’t finish that one helping.
Buying good-fitting clothes is next to impossible. Designers don’t cater to fat people. Beautiful styles are for the emaciated. Fat people are supposed to wear frumpy looking old-lady sacks that bunch in all the wrong places. Most fat people want to look nice. To wear clothes that feel good, that hang just right and sport fabulous colors.
Dressing rooms are not designed to make fat people look decent. Most are so tiny that fat people have to turn sideways to open and close the door. Seldom is there a chair of bench designed for the larger woman. What they do have are mirrors hung on three walls so that a fat person can see their naked body from all angles, in glorious detail, a reminder that they don’t belong in a dressing room pretending that they’re going to find something that fits.
Cars, airplanes, theaters and restaurants are designed so that fat people feel unwelcome. Try squeezing a fat body between arm rests and sitting there for hours. Imagine holding your arms across your body for the entire voyage so as not to encroach on your neighbor’s space. Imagine what it feels like when you see the expressions on people’s faces, hoping, praying that you aren’t going to sit next to them.
I’ve known I was big since I was three and saw a picture of myself standing next to my ninety-pound mother. I was so puffed up that I had folds at my wrists, ankles and elbows. My tummy stuck out like a barrel. I didn’t know the word fat then, but I learned it in kindergarten when my classmates called me fatty. When the neighbor kids invited me to play games in which, no matter what they called it, I had to stick my butt up high enough so they could laugh about the size of it.
I attended a Catholic school that required uniforms. Because we were poor, I wore the hand-me-downs from give-away day. Very few fit someone my size. My mom had to sort through the pile, hoping to find at least one for me. Usually what she found was stained and faded. I was teased for wearing old-style uniforms and for being fat. Picture tears running down my face.
In fifth grade, sitting next to a classmate during a mandated church service, I became aware of laughing to my left. When I turned my head, every girl in the pew had tucked their skirts under their thighs, making it quite clear that both of their legs were thinner than just one of mine.
In high school I was the fattest kid. Imagine undressing in front of dozens of thin girls, day after day. Imagine lining up, buck naked, to shower, waiting for the teacher to hand me a postage-stamp sized towel. The snickers echoed in my ears.
It didn’t matter that I was an excellent athlete. I could play almost any sport better than my peers. But when I had to run laps, I came in dead last, every time. Before the beginning of my sophomore year I run the track, around and around, stopping when it hurt too much to continue. My hope was to lose weight, to run faster. Did I do either? No.
I can’t count how many diets I’ve tried. Each time I had limited success, losing a tad of weight. But each time I’d reach a plateau from which I couldn’t descend. I later learned it was called yo-yo dieting, because I’d lose, some, gain some, over and over, making only minimal change.
It reached a point when I considered giving up. I was tired of the fight. I could no longer pretend that someday my body would look like other’s. I was frustrated with weekly weigh-ins that showed a loss of a fraction of a pound.
There was always a part of me that understood that, if a health issue arose that required losing weight, I’d find a way.
That time came about four years ago when I needed major surgery to remove my stomach from a large hole in my diaphragm. The surgeon, a kind and smart man, insisted I had to lose thirty pounds before he’d operate.
Getting rid of the persistent pain motivated me like nothing else had. I recorded every bite. I upped my exercise regimen. I lost weight.
Why did it work this time when all previous attempts had failed?
I think it was because I finally understood the toll my weight was taking on my body.
After the surgery I lost more and more weight.
I now fit in regular clothes. I’m no longer embarrassed to walk out on the pool deck.
I still watch what I eat, but I also allow myself a treat here and there.
I’d like to report that I am no longer the little fat girl, but inside of me that image lingers on. It’s what keeps me from pigging out when I really, really want that bowl of ice cream. Or makes me choose the lowest calorie item on the menu.
I think about giving up, but then I remind myself that I lost that weight once and can do it again.
Come for a visit, Grandma, please.
I want to sit upon your knees
and feel your arms around me tight
all afternoon and into the night.
You don’t have to bring me anything
like dolls, ponies, a pretty ring,
books, finger-paints, or fancy clothes.
I don’t really need things like those.
All I want is to feel your love
tightly around me like a glove
and snuggle deep into your arms.
My own special lucky charms
When can you come to visit me?
I’ll pray today, my eyes to see
your smiling face and comfy knees.
Come for a visit, Grandma, please!
There have been many times in my life when I fell, completely embarrassing myself in the process.
Every little kid falls, scraping elbows and knees, but not all land in such a way that her skirt flies up to her hips, exposing panties. I did that too many times to count.
One of my worst falls as an adult was on a skiing trip.
To begin with, I knew nothing about the sport, and since I don’t like being cold, intentionally going to a ski resort was the last thing I thought I’d ever try. I’d seen skiing on television, but never pictured myself barreling down a snow-covered slope with boards strapped to my feet. And to get there? I’d have to swing on a questionable-looking chair as it steadily climbed up the mountain. Not for me with my fear of heights.
But when I was home during the summer, I was bored and signed up for a class at the local community college. The purpose was to learn about skiing, but also to plan a trip. At no point was proper clothing discussed. Perhaps the instructor thought all of us had the right clothes, or would buy the right clothes. (I didn’t know you could rent those things!)
Anyway, I owned nothing that would keep a person warm in freezing temperatures. Why should I? I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area where we think it’s cold if the temperature drops below sixty.
Using the list provided, I went shopping. I was a poor college student from a low-income family. My parents couldn’t help, and I had limited funds. As soon as I began searching, I realized I couldn’t purchase suitable anything. The one thing I could afford was a pair of supposedly insulated rubber boots. I would have to make do with what I had.
On the designated Saturday, just before sunrise, I climbed aboard a yellow school bus, excited, yet at the same time terrified. I knew no one on the trip, so while excited conversation swirled around me, I was all alone. My only occupation was allowing my mind to drift as I stared out the window.
Shortly after the bus began to climb, the temperature inside the bus changed. It had gotten colder. When snow appeared along the side of the highway, my feet started tingling and my fingers stiffened. I wriggled them as best I could, but nothing helped.
Somewhere along the road we stopped for a bathroom break. The rustic building had no heat, the wooden toilet “seat” was frozen, and even when given time to walk about, I only got colder. I was miserable.
It was then that I realized that nothing I wore was sufficient for the trip.
Our bus went straight to a ski slope. Many of the passengers headed inside a nice, warm building where they rented equipment. I lacked such funds: couldn’t even rent a toboggan.
Everyone else took off amid excited conversation.
While I left the warmth of the building to brave walking about one my own. I loved the pure white snow, reminiscent of my younger days in Ohio. I smiled when I saw footprints, wondering what animal had made them.
When I got too cold, I discovered a lodge. I wanted something warm, but had no money, so I spent my time drooling over the hot chocolate others were drinking.
It was such a lonely, miserable existence, that I thought I’d never try it again, So, why did I? Because young adults don’t often remember misery.
A year or so later, some work friends convinced me that I’d really like to learn to ski. By now I had enough money to buy appropriate clothing. Not high-end, but sufficient. I figured I’d rent the rest of my equipment.
The drive was uneventful. We talked and laughed and as the miles sped by. My friends excitedly talked about what a perfect day it was, how blue the sky would be, how there was plenty of snow and musing that it wasn’t too cold.
They were right about almost everything. The one exception: they knew how to ski and I didn’t.
They gave me some basic instructions, showing me how to grab the rope to go up the bunny slope. Once at the top, they made sure I let go. Then they demonstrated some basic moves, such as to put my skis in a V-shape in to turn, slow down, and stop.
They went down the slope with me, once. Then disappeared.
I did pretty well. I learn quickly, I’m coordinated, and thought I had mastered the basics.
After a few trips down the bunny slope, I moved to the easiest chair lift. Getting on a chair while wearing skis is not easy. There’s a lot of timing involved. You’ve got to get into position as soon as the chair gets to the post. Then look over your shoulder while reaching for the bar. Then scoot onto the seat while the chair is moving.
The first time my butt had barely touched the boards and I was trying to hold tight to the side bars, feeling as if I was just a second away from falling off the moving chair.
The next time I did better, and each time after that it was a little bit easier.
The major problem was that my friends had not explained how to get off at the top of the lift. The first time up, I watched what others did.
It seems as if the idea was, that while the chair is moving, and as it gets lower to the ground, you jump off and ski out of the way before the seat bumps you in the back. When my turn came, that first time up, I managed to get off, but felt the the chair brush the back of my legs.
Each time, I got a little better, learning to position my skis in the direction I needed to go in order to get out of the way of the passengers on the next chair.
Each time I made it down the slope, I felt pride growing inside. And as I glided toward the waiting line, slowing ever so slowly. I felt a degree of pride.
I went back up, over and over, handling getting on and off. Skiing down.
But this time, with my skis in the v-shape, something went wrong.
I didn’t slow down. I saw myself getting closer to the waiting line, and not slowing down. I dug in my edges, and I still kept going. I’m sure my eyes got wider when I realized I was going to crash into the back of the kid at the end of the line.
I dug in even harder. I slide forward. I was helpless and knew it. There was nothing I could do to prevent hitting the kid. I bumped into his back, nearly knocking him down. I fell backwards, landing on my tailbone, feeling an excruciatingly painful crack.
The kid turned to me, all eight years of him, and said as he put his skis into that elusive V, “Lady, you stop like this.”
I was both humiliated and in such deep pain that I couldn’t get up. I was ever so grateful when a woman reached down and pulled me up. She brushed the snow off my back and asked if I was okay.
I wasn’t. I hurt so bad that even breathing caused excruciating pain. I managed to slide over to a sideways log, thinking that if I just sat for a bit, all would be well.
Bad idea. It didn’t work. Somehow, I removed my skis and mincingly walked them back to the rental shop. Once the skis and boots were gone, I decided to get warm inside the lodge. There were steps! When I finally got inside and I found a chair, I gingerly allowed myself to lower into the sear, but, oh, the pain!
The drive home was terrible. My tailbone hurt so bad that I had to lay down in the backseat of a VW bug. Not comfortable.
That night I couldn’t sleep. Between the intense pain and the recalled embarrassment of crashing into the boy, there was no chance of sleep.
The next day I went to work, but saw a doctor at the end of my shift. Nothing was broken, but I was badly bruised. I was given a blow-up pillow to sit on until it healed.
Despite that disaster, I did eventually ski again. I was never a pro, but I also never crashed into anyone again.
The lesson that I learned through all this is that sometimes it’s better to fall before you think you are going to hit someone.
This applies to all facets of life. Fall while you still have the strength of character to pull yourself up, brush yourself off and try again.
So many times, obstacles arise in our lives that at first appearance, seem insurmountable. There’s a temptation to give up, to walk way with downcast shoulders. But after a few steps, we turn around and take another look.
A stronghold appears, low enough to give us a boost, just enough to get started. We rush back, reach and grab, pull ourselves up. And when we bend our heads back, we see another and another. Bit by tiny bit, the top gets closer.
When I was a young teen, my primary goal was to move away from my dysfunctional family. I’d dream up a plan, but then millions of obstacles filled my mind, all convincing me that escape was impossible.
Until my family moved to California.
You couldn’t go online to research thangs back in the mid-sixties, but my new high school showed me a way out. Prominently displayed outside the counselor’s office was a notice about state scholarships for deserving, low-income students.
That possibility opened my eyes, lightened my heart, and put a bounce in my steps. All I had to do was maintain my straight-A grade point average to qualify. I knew I could do that, and if faced with a challenging class or grumpy teacher, I’d double down, study harder.
Every night after finishing my many household chores, I’d remove myself to my room and study, as late as I could. It did disrupt my sleep, but the window for escape kept me energized throughout the school day.
When it was time to apply, my counselor, on my request, submitted the paperwork. She cautioned me that I most likely won’t get the scholarship, telling me that I wasn’t “college-material”.
When the letter came, congratulating me on being a recipient, imagine how thrilled I was! It would pay full tuition to any college in California. I would still need money for room and board, books and other necessities.
There was a complication, however. My parents would only let me attend whatever college my brother chose. He’d be there to protect me, watch over me. Considering our rocky relationship, that’s the last thing I needed or wanted.
Since neither of my parents had gone beyond high school, they had no concept of how large a college campus was, how easy it would be for me to avoid my brother.
A huge obstacle overcome.
Over my next fifty years of life, I’ve attacked every roadblock presented, with determination despite struggles. Each time I succeeded made me stronger, made me who I am today: wife, mother, published author and more.
I’m sure more mountains will arise before me, but I will fight, climb, crawl, claw my way up and over.
I’ve never been the attention-seeking kind of person. You’d find me in the back of a classroom or off to the side in a meeting. I dreaded having to stand up and deliver a speech.
The night before, I wouldn’t sleep and the day of, I’d be so terrified I’d be sick to my stomach and shaking so hard my entire body trembled.
Yet for some reason I dreamed of being a teacher.
I knew that teachers stood in front of the classroom, after all, I’d sat in many growing up.
I knew that teachers spoke publicly and led discussions.
I knew that teachers performed for their students, joking, sometimes bursting into song, all to garner interest in the subject.
Teachers showed compassion for students, taking care not to humiliate even one. Or so I thought. Or so I convinced myself. And so a classroom was the one place where I felt safe.
That was my reasoning.
Later in life I decided to be a reader at my church. About once a month I stood before our small congregation and read the assigned portion of the Bible. At first, I was terrified, but each time developed a little bit more confidence. In time, I grew to love reading, loved imparting whatever passage I’d been assigned.
After forty years of reading, I ma no longer terrified of standing up there, reading.
A few times now I’ve been brave enough to read a 3-minute selection of something I’ve written at a conference. I’ve been terrified each time. I don’t like the attention, but understand that reading before an audience is what authors do.
Many years ago, I joined the church choir. Not because I was a fantastic singer, but because I loved singing. Alone. In my car.
It was with great trepidation that I stood, with friends, at the microphone for the first time. It wasn’t so bad. So I returned Sunday after Sunday. And then it got down to me and a talented teacher from the parochial school. Worrisome, but still okay because of her powerful voice.
One rainy winter day I arrived at church prepared to sing. Found out she wasn’t coming. I figured I’d join my husband and sing from a pew. Nope. The choir director insisted I stay. I sang softly, but I sang.
I stayed with the choir for years after that, lasting longer then several directors. It was always me and others. And then one director asked if I’d like to cantor the Psalm. This meant going up to the ambo and singing a solo before the congregation.
I was terrified, but continued to cantor for quite some time. I didn’t even quit when the pianist played the intro to a completely different Psalm. I froze, feeling like that deer-caught-in-the-headlights, and not having the words to her version before me, shrugged and sang what I’d been assigned. Because she was an excellent pianist, she quickly switched to support me.
I quit cantoring when a different choir director chastised me publicly for singing a tad off-key. He was right, of course, but it hurt. I walked out of rehearsal and refused to return even when my friends tried to tell me he was joking.
That was twenty years ago.
I stayed with the choir through Christmas because I really wanted to sing the Halleluiah Chorus. As soon as the concert was over, I handed in my song binder and walked away.
***
Fast forward a whole bunch of years.
I’ve returned to college to complete my BA in English. I’d the oldest student in every class. All that youthful confidence is intimidating. They all think they know everything and try to outshine one another during class discussion.
I’ve changed since I earned my teaching credential at Holy Names College.
You see, I want to learn, to hear what the professor has to say, to easily see the white board, so now I sit in the front row. I don’t ask a lot of questions or wave my hand about looking for recognition, but I know that I am seen because when my papers are returned, the professors always give me a smile or a nod.
There are still some situations when I prefer to sit off to one side, or just to the left of the instructor. It’s not that I don’t want to be seen, but I want to have an exit strategy in case the material presented isn’t interesting.
At my age, I reserve the right to sneak away.
To blend into the walls and carpet and move stealthily to the door.
At my age, I don’t crave the limelight, but I do love it when friends and family congratulate me on something I’ve done or said.
My name will never be on a marquee, but I’ve rejoined the choir, since we now have one. It’s only been for two Sundays, but I love hearing how my voice soars above the men’s, the alto standing next to me.
I love singing songs in praise of our Lord, those mainstays of any Catholic Mass.
If asked, I will never be the soloist cantor. Too much pressure, too hard on my nerves. I don’t need the attention, the accolades. At my age, I get to choose where I sit, how I participate, what I do and don’t do.
Simple thoughts for a Monday.
Words and Thoughts 