From a very early age, I remember throwing temper tantrums when told to do something that I didn’t want to do. I’ve seen the pictures, with my lips in a pout, my head down turned, my fists pounding my thighs.

            I cried easily. Tears poured out nearly every day for I believed that I was a victim of a great injustice: my siblings were treated better than I.

            Examples:

            My brother could run around without a shirt on. When I tried it (I was about five), I was spanked and punished.

            My sister could do no wrong. While I was expected to keep my side of the room immaculately clean, neat and orderly, my sister’s half was a filthy mess. Around the age of twelve, my mother told me that I was now responsible for the entire room! Grossly unfair.

            No one asked about my sister’s grades while mine were closely monitored. She failed classes while I earned high B’s (which were unacceptable) and mostly A’s.

            My brother could play organized football and baseball while I could do was chase wayward balls even though I was the better athlete.

            One time I got angry with my high school Spanish teacher when he said my spoken language was terrible. In front of the entire class. So I stood up and chewed him out, in perfect Spanish. I was kicked out of class and spent the rest of the week sitting outside of the Assistant Principal’s office.

            When I was allowed back in class, my teacher was much nicer and my grade improved.

            Most of the time I held my feelings in check at home. My parents were strict disciplinarians, quite to use fist or belt. I’d carried my share of bruises, usually over something I hadn’t done. My siblings were quick to blame me for everything wrong.

            I wanted to yell back, to complain about my unjustified treatment, but I never did. I knew that if I spoke up, the retaliation would be swift and painful.

            Yet I watched time after time when my sister yelled and screamed about stupid stuff like not wanting baked beans on her plate, and she’d gone unpunished.

            If my dad was outside the house, my brother could throw things at me, kick me, hit me, slap me around and nothing happened. But, if my dad thought he’d heard my brother complain, the belt would come off and my brother’s behind felt the pain.

            In my junior year of college, I was happily mastering every required math course, even as they grew more and more difficult. Until the Dean of the Math Department called me into his office.

            I’d never met him before. He seemed quite large even as he sat behind his desk. He folded his hands into his lap and leaned forward to address me.

            He asked what I was doing in his department.

            I explained that I hoped to get a job as a statistician.

            He replied that no company would hire a woman as all we’d do was find a man, marry, have kids and quit.

            Well, I told him he was wrong. That I had no intention of getting married any time soon and that kids were off the table.

            He told me to change majors.

I was there thanks to a four-year scholarship from the State of California. I had one year left in which to complete my BA and graduate.

I had tons of math credits, but very little in any other department except for Russian. If I wanted to graduate on time, I’d have to switch my major to Russian Languages and Literature.

I’d had no intention of speaking Russian for a living, but if that was my only choice, I decided maybe I could become a translator for Russian visitors wanting to go to Disneyland (my college was in Southern California).

I wish I had defied the Dean and continued on in Math. I loved numbers. They made sense to me. Calculations came easy for me. In Math, there was a right answer, no matter who worked the problem.

That wasn’t true in other disciplines. Even in Russian, there wasn’t a single correct way to formulate a sentence. After all, there are tenses and verb constructions and varying types of sentence formulation.

My first shock was when I was invited to visit the University of Illinois for graduate work. I entered the office of Russian studies. A professor greeted me in Russian, of course, but my mind went blank. No matter how much he smiled, no Russian words left my mouth.

I finished my tour, loving the campus, all the while knowing that I’d never be accepted into the Russian Department.

After graduation I found an office near my parent’s home that hired translators. I got a ride from my brother (he had first dibs on the car). When I explained why I was there, a translator began speaking to me in every day Russian. I had no clue what she was saying.

You see, I knew literary Russian. I’d translated the works of Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and Chekov. One of my brother’s friends had taken me to see plays performed by my favorite Russian authors. I understood every word.

I could write perfectly good essays in Russian. My spoke Russian was nearly perfect as well. I aced every class I took, even the hardest ones.

But I couldn’t answer a single question in every day Russian.

I should have defied authority way back then. If I had, I would have been a high school Math teacher. Imagine the joy of teaching how to solve algebraic equations, explaining calculus to students who might need the class to get into the college of their choice. Day after day, year after year, I’d teach the same lessons.

On the other hand, I’m glad I wasn’t a Math teacher.

Even though English was my weakest subject, it turned out that I was the perfect teacher for my disadvantaged students.

I’d struggled in every English class I took. My first college level course made no sense to me. I wrote essays not understanding what the professor expected. My grades reflected my lack of comprehension. I dropped the course.

The next time I took an English course, my grades were better. One time the professor returned my paper with a note to come see him. I hesitated, but complied.

He gave me a chance to improve my grade. I didn’t tell him I was satisfied with a B. I should have. Once I rewrote the paper making all his suggested changes, my grade dropped. I was furious.

I stormed into his office, demanding answers. He just smiled.

From then on I never rewrote a paper.

The only authority that I defied on a regular basis was that of my parents. They didn’t want me to go to college: they saw me married and with kids at the age of sixteen. But I had the grades and had been accepted to several colleges, so my dad filled out the financial aide forms and let me go off, but only to the same college my brother had chosen.

I wasn’t engaged when I graduated. I also had no job so had to move back home. I was now under constant supervision, but I formulated an escape plan.

I saved money until I could afford to buy a car. That gave me an ability to go where I wanted to go without asking permission.

Next was getting my own apartment. I scoured the area until I found a studio apartment in a nice-looking building. My parents didn’t give me permission, but I was an adult. I signed the contract and happily moved in. I was now free of their constant supervision, of their constant denigration.

Yes, I had defied their authority, but I didn’t care.

Years late when I fell in love, they tried to stop me from marrying my husband. They didn’t like him, but couldn’t elaborate their reasoning.

He’s the kindest, most gentle man I’d ever met, from a family of welcoming and loving people.

I married him despite their protests, another act of defiance.

After our first child was born, a cute, sensitive little boy, they tried to get me to leave my husband and move back in with them. According to them, my husband wasn’t “manly” enough to raise a son, that my son was “feminine.”

Another act of defiance.

The stronger I grew as a person, the easier it became to speak up, ask questions and demand answers.

I still sit silent at times when I’m intimidated or overwhelmed, but I am much more likely to question authority.

It takes strength to speak up. It takes internal fortitude to question authority. It takes confidence to defy that same authority.

My advice is to never give up, to believe in yourself no matter what others say.