Category Archives: Personal Essay

Bashfulness Explained

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I was a socially awkward child. There was a reason for it.

When you’ve been scolded for speaking in the presence of visitors, when you’ve been made fun of and teased mercilessly, you learn that no one cares what you feel about a given subject. When you are never asked which flavor of ice cream you prefer or what cereal you’d like, you realize that your preferences have no import within the family.

I was the invisible child. I appeared when it was demanded, but only in body. My mouth only opened when I was forced into speaking. It was a rough way to grow up.

By the time I was five, being invisible had become my salvation. It kept me safe from punishment for saying or doing the wrong thing. It also made me miserable. I was an unhappy child whose self-esteem was nonexistent.

For some reason that I’ll never understand, my parents decided to enroll me in Kindergarten. At that time K was not required, and so it cost money, of which my parents had very little.

It quickly became apparent that I was academically behind my peers. I could not name all of the colors, did not know shapes, knew no letters of the alphabet and could not write numbers. While this lack of knowledge placed me far beyond my classmates, and I recognized my ignorance even at that young age, it also placed me at a disadvantage whenever it became time to work with others, either on schoolwork or on the playground.

My teacher thought that I was just shy and that I’d overcome it. She was wrong.

Day after day I sat silent in my assigned chair. I did not speak when the teacher asked me a question. If cornered, I could manage a whisper, but only a word or two. Just enough to respond.

On the playground I was a loner. I loved to swing, but I refused to stand in line to have a turn. Instead I played in the sand, by myself, day after day. Even after a storm when the sand was damp, that’s where I’d be.

When Kindergarten ended, I knew a lot of things. I had learned colors, shapes, numbers and letters. I could hold a pencil correctly and write my name, the alphabet and numbers. I could draw shapes and color within the lines. But I could not speak and I had no friends.

It was a terrible way to begin one’s academic career.

As I grew older, I understood what was required to get the grades my parents expected, so I did all the things that my teachers demanded. I still sat silent, however, even when called upon to respond. No matter how hard I tried, I could not muster the strength to squeak. It was embarrassing.

Things improved somewhat in junior high. By then I had developed a voice, but it was a quiet one. I still had no friends. I could not approach someone and initiate conversations and had a hard time participating even when I had something to offer.

In high school I made one friend. She was a loner like me. Somehow we found each other. Together we could speak. It was an awesome feeling.

I don’t remember her name, but I do remember the hours we spent walking her neighborhood talking about all kinds of things.

For me, it was a revelation. Someone cared what I thought and really wanted to know and understand my opinions!

Can you understand how liberating that was?

By the time I enrolled in college I had overcome much of the paralyzing fear I had of speaking out in class. I could raise my hand and answer in front of others, as long as the class was small. I could voice an opinion. I could find others like me.

I’d like to report that I am no longer shy, but that is not true.

I am comfortable with those who know me, but uncomfortable in groups of people who do not. This makes it challenging when I go to conferences and workshops. I am with ten to fifteen total strangers who are going to critique my writing and I am expected to critique theirs. It’s painfully hard.

In a crowd of “family” which includes people who I either don’t know or barely know, I find a corner in which to plop down and hide there.

People who have known me for a long time don’t believe that I am shy. Around them I am confident that they truly want to know what I think, and so I can relax and be me. I love being with those friends as they recognize that I am a person of worth.

If only I had felt this growing up. Imagine how different I might have turned out!

 

 

Nighttime Imagination

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Unfortunately I have an excellent imagination. This can be a boon when I read books about people and places I’ve never known as I can place myself in their story. It is a curse, however, when I wake in the night and think I hear sounds of someone breaking in.

One time when I was visiting my parents during my college years, I thought I heard someone outside my window, clawing at the screen, trying to peel it off. I lay there with my heart palpitating for a long time as I pictured him slithering in through the window and killing my family.

I didn’t get out of bed to check as I was too afraid. What if he saw me? Would he shoot me?

I didn’t cry out for similar reasons. What if he heard and then  became desperate enough to through caution aside and rip off the screen?

At the time we were living in a grubby house in a low-income neighborhood. We had nothing of value. But a burglar wouldn’t know that, would he?

In the morning I walked the outside of the house looking for evidence. I found massive footprints under each window and places where the paint had been scraped off. With evidence to support my claim, I told my parents. They went outside with me and looked as I pointed out each piece of evidence. They laughed at me.

Shortly after that they moved from southern California back to the SF Bay Area. I was told i8t was due to my dad being unable to find full time work. I didn’t believe the excuse. I was always convinced that they moved out of fear.

On another visit home I discovered that my parents had moved out of the master bedroom in order to let my sister have it. That first night home, I awakened when  it was totally dark except for a slight glow from the room creeping in through the curtains.

I heard breathing. I opened my eyes. Not wide open, but only a slit. There, standing at the foot of my bed was a man dressed in flannel shirt and khakis. He stood there for the longest time, doing nothing but watch me. He did not move his arms or shuffle his feet. He was still. And spooky.

Eventually I grew sleepy and must have fallen asleep. When I woke up in the morning, there was no evidence that he had been there. I did check the clothes hanging on the back of the door,  but there was no plaid shirt or khakis.

I told my mom what I had seen but she blew it off as my imagination. I can’t blame her as I had proven myself to be an unreliable witness.

Later on I heard her ask both my brother and my dad it either one of them had been in the room. Both of them wore plaid and khakis. Both denied every stepping foot in my room.

There was another time at college when I was sitting at my desk looking out over the campus. It was dark, but the campus lights were on and the building directly across from my room was also lit from within.

Looking down, I became aware of a commotion. Police were moving about, shining flashlights into bushes and along the walls of the buildings. It was intriguing.

For some reason I looked up. On a floor parallel to mine was a man peering out a window. I could clearly see him, so I was certain that he could see me.

He also watched the goings-on down below.

Eventually the police entered that building. I wanted to tell them about the man in the window, but this was before cell phones.

Suddenly I became fearful. What if the man, knowing where I lived, escaped the police and entered my building?

I closed the curtains.

My first roommate was a bit of a character. She was a spoiled rich kid, used to doing whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She came and went at all hours of the night. Because she didn’t like carrying the room key, she demanded that the door be kept unlocked.

I hated her for that.

It came to a head one night when I woke up and felt something cold by my head. It lay against my arm. It felt like flesh. I held my breath and lay as still as I could. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting the invader to know that I was awake.

I stayed like this for a long, long time. Eventually I convinced myself that it was nothing but imagination. I never got up and turned on the lights.

The next time I saw my roommate, I told her that from then on, the room would be locked.

There are many more instances when my imagination worked overtime. A week ago I got up around two-thirty to use the restroom. When I returned to bed, I heard a noise in the front room. It sounded like someone was opening drawers.

I listened for a long time. I heard similar noises. Tried to convince myself that it was the cat.

Considering my age, I doubt that I will change anytime soon. I know that there will be other instances, other events in which I frighten myself that someone has invaded my territory.

I have learned to stay calm. I use rational talk and soothing words. I stay in bed and keep my breathing steady.

I can do all those things, but I cannot stop my imagination from wandering.

A Younger Me

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I was a fat baby. Earliest photos show fat lines around my wrists, knees, elbows, well, just about everywhere.

As I grew older, I did not lose that fat. Instead it grew with me. It’s not that I didn’t exercise. I was an active kid. I played kickball, softball, baseball, whiffle ball, croquet and more. I built snow forts in the winter. I hiked through the woods behind our house. I climbed trees and searched for maple leaves.

Even so, I remained fat.

When I was about ten years old my parents enrolled me in skating lessons at the local rink. This was not due to a request of mine, but rather something they decided I should do.

If they had asked, I would have declined.

I had roller skates at home. I did learn to skate and did so in the garage fairly regularly. I was capable of skating around and around in circles, encompassing the confines of the garage, but I could not do any fancy moves and had no inclination to learn any.

In fact, I was terrified of falling, so never went too fast.

Imagine my terror the first time I put on skates at the roller rink and walked out onto the floor. I was trembling and clearly shaken. I begged, cried, pleaded, to no avail.

So I grabbed the wall and moved. Slowly. Almost like walking. Eventually I worked up to rolling at a very slow speed, still holding tightly to the wall.

After completing the first circle, I got brave and let go. I still was not gliding, but rather stepping, but at least I was moving.

Then the instructor called us to the center of the rink. She demonstrated how to skate by putting one foot in front of the other and sent us off. I tried. I really did, but I was too scared to commit to lifting one foot in the air.

The other kids got it. I thought they were all professionals pretending to be ordinary kids. Most of them zipped around the rink. Most did this crossover maneuver when they hit the turns.

I walked.

Our next task was to learn the hokey pokey. Simple, right? Not if you’re afraid to lift a foot or turn your backside around. Which describes me perfectly.

While the others shook this and that, I stood still. The instructor tried to convince me to do it, but I refused. She cajoled. She demonstrated. She stood next to me and held my hand.

I stood still.

When the song was done, she sent us off to circle the rink again. While I was creeping along, the instructor spoke to my mom. I found out late that the instructor thought I could benefit from private lessons, but there was no money for that. My mom promised to bring me during free skate times so I could practice.

And she kept that promise despite my pleas to give up the idea.

I did not improve. I stayed terrified.

Week after week my mom forced me out onto the rink and watched while I did as little as possible.

Sometime during a lesson someone told my mom that I needed an outfit for an upcoming performance. It was to be a two-piece blue skirt and halter top. My belly would be sticking pout for all too see and the skirt was so short, that if it didn’t have built-in panties, my own would show.

I didn’t want the outfit. I didn’t want to be in the performance, but that didn’t stop my mom.

She took me to the fabric store and bought the pattern and the fabric. She sewed an outfit that would have pleased someone else, but when I put it on, all I felt was horror.

The day came. My mom drove my siblings and I to the rink so my family could see me out on the floor.

As soon as we arrived, she sent me into the restroom to change. I did. But I didn’t come out when I was finished. Instead I stood in front of the mirror, appalled at the fat that was so clearly obvious.

My mom came looking for me. She grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the room, into the spectator area of the rink.

The other kids were dressed and ready to go. Not a one of them looked like me. All had thin arms, thin legs, thin bellies. All looked awesome in their blue outfits. All stared at me as if a hippopotamus was in their midst.

I felt ill. I truly believed that I was going to throw up. I left my mom and walked into the bathroom where I locked myself in a stall.

When I heard the hokey pokey music, I cried. I knew I would get in trouble for wasting precious dollars. I knew that my father would be told. I knew that both parents would lecture and scold. I knew that I would be punished.

But I could not unlock that door. Could not return to the rink.

When it was all over, my mom brought me my clothes. When she said nothing, I knew I was in trouble.

She said nothing all the way home.

She did tell my father. He did punish me. I went to my room and cried.

Later on, I hid my skates in a dark corner of the garage and never used them again.

The sad part is that I never asked for lessons. Had never hinted that I wanted to learn to skate better. I was satisfied going in slow circles around the garage floor.

I felt like a failure. This feeling clung to me for so many years that I never wanted to try something new again.

 

Indian Lake

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When we lived in Ohio, summer vacation meant a week at Indian Lake. In the early morning hours, my brother and father snuck out of the cabin, fishing gear in hand. After a stop at the bait shop, they got into a rented boat and took off.

While they were participating in a male-bonding ritual, I stayed behind with my mother and younger sister. Times were different then, so I was allowed to roam the fields around our cabin. I went out early each morning, so as to listen to the songbirds talking about the weather. I picked the tops off thigh-high grass, and with God-like hands, scattered the seeds.

One tree had several low-slung branches that I could easily climb. Granted I only went up a few feet, but I was high enough to feel like a princess in a castle tower. When the winds blew, I imagined a retinue of admirers bowing in unison.

When my dad and brother returned, there was the cleaning of fish and gear. I loved carrying the rods and tackle boxes. Somehow it made me feel part of their exclusive club. Only once did I venture toward the fish-cleaning station. I never returned because the stench was nauseating.

In the afternoons my brother and I played outside. Whiffle ball was a favorite activity, as was badminton.  My dad set up the net behind our cabin, and left it up for the week. We played several games every day, most of which I lost.

After dinner the family got in the rented boat for a ride around the lake. I loved the smell of the fuel, the roar of the motor, and the feeling of flying across the surface of the water. Sometimes we rode past the expensive houses lining the shore, and when we did, I created stories about the families that lived there, always including myself as one of the children.

Other nights we went near to the town. If we were lucky, there was a carnival going on. We never docked the boat and walked among the celebrants, but we did drift with engine silent and listened to the music and the laughter.

On the weekend we drove around the lake and picnicked at the state park on the west side. From our chosen spot we watched boats going by. I loved the water skiers, even though I would never have been brave enough to don a jacket just to be yanked out of the lake.

Those were easy times in which my parents relaxed in each other’s presence. Each day offered some new adventure that became the source of storytelling at the evening meal. Even sitting in the large swing on the porch was a joy. It creaked one note going back and a different one going forward.

Nirvana, it was not. My parents did have occasional spats, and I was terribly jealous of my brother’s one-on-one time with my dad. My sister, seven years younger, did not join in my imaginary games, which didn’t bother me as I preferred a solitary life.

One day my father woke me up early to go with them to the bait shop. He bought me a Nehi orange soda, even though it was morning. Holding my hand, he took me across the road over to the dock. As he primed the motor, I handed the gear to my brother, all the while hoping that my dad would invite me to go along.

It was not to be. He put the motor into gear and off they went. My shoulders slumped and tears welled in my eyes. The further away they went, the more I cried.

When I realized that my dad would not change his mind, I turned around. Without looking, my right foot reached for the step that should have been there. Nothing but air greeted me, and so I toppled, comic-book fashion, into the water.

Down I went, into the shocking coolness. The air was stolen from my lungs, to be replaced by the fishy tasting water. I flailed my arms and kicked my feet to no avail, as I had never been interested in learning to swim.

It seemed as if a large fish pulled me down, down, to what felt like the bottom of the lake. No amount of struggle released its grip.

Just as I thought I was lost forever, I flew from the water. Blessed air greeted me with the song of life. My father’s arms pulled me to his chest, where he held me in a tight embrace.

He drove the boat next to the dock and grabbed it with one hand. “Get out,” he said.

I did.

“Go to the cabin and stay inside. Tell your mother what you did.”

As I took the first step, my father revved the motor. I didn’t need to turn around to know what was happening. My father, my hero, left.

For that one all-too-brief moment I felt a father’s love. How sad to think that an eight year old had never experienced that love before and never felt it after.

Indian Lake remained my favorite vacation spot for many years. Too bad that we moved to California and those wonderful, lazy days ended.

 

Scary Experience

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On Monday of this week I had a real scare.

I had eaten lunch and gone to the gym. Then I went to a local store to buy some things I needed. After picking out a nice birthday card, I ran into a friend that I had not seen for many years.

We fell into our old friend patterns, talking, sharing, asking questions. It was wonderful to see her! It reminded me of all the talking did while we played on the same soccer teams, the visits to each other’s houses, and all the good times.

All of a sudden it felt like all the blood was flooding out of my head, pouring down my neck and out of my body. I half expected to see a pool of blood at my feet. Thankfully there wasn’t, but it didn’t alter the fact that I suddenly felt quite woozy.

Most stores do not have chairs placed about, and this was so. I knew I needed to sit. The only thing nearby was a display. As I headed toward that, my friend started calling for help.

A young man came to my assistance. He just happened to be a nursing student and he knew exactly what to do. While he was tending me, my friend called my husband and told him to get over to the store. Someone else called 911.

The store employees also came to my assistance. One got a wheelchair. A couple of others blocked me off from all the lookie-loos that were stopping by to stare.

Somewhere along the way I actually lost consciousness. It was supposedly only for a few seconds, but when I came to, the young man was cradling my head.

Meanwhile several people helped move me to a wheelchair and out of the aisle so that things were a little more private.

My friend told me that employees helped guide the paramedics to me. One stood outside in the cold, without a jacket, until they arrived. Another stood just inside the door and walked them to me. Both of these employees oversaw my care while my friend kept watch for my husband.

The decision was made to transport me to the hospital because my blood pressure was quite low. I heard the numbers, but they mean nothing to me.

In the ambulance the first thing they did was run an EKG, then my blood pressure was monitored and an IV was begun. The paramedics were awesome. The one riding with me kept me calm by explaining everything that he was doing and by asking questions to keep me focused.

By the time we reached the hospital my blood pressure had improved, but was still low. I was taken to the ER. Tests were run. The only thing they could find was that my kidney function was a bit low, a sign of dehydration. I was given fluids. Lots of fluids.

Because of fainting, the ER doctor insisted that I spend the night. It was long and boring. I was not moved to a regular room, but kept in an observation part of the ER. Of course this means all kinds of noise and disruption.

I think I got about four hours sleep, but none of it was in a block.

After running an electrocardiogram on Tuesday and finding nothing, I was released. Actually, the electrocardiogram was the most exciting part of the whole affair. It was pretty neat watching the beating of my heart, from the inside!

The bad news is that I cannot drive until I’ve been cleared by my doctor.

Tuesday afternoon my husband drove me to the store so I could get the items I had intended to buy. While there I asked to speak to a manager. I thanked her and the employees for their care and assistance.

As I was about to leave, two employees who had been there came up to me and asked how I was. This was quite touching.

Today I contacted the store’s website and explained what had happened and how much I appreciate all that the employees did to help me.

I hope this helps the employees. They deserve all kinds of recognition. I just wish I knew their names.

Expectations

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Back in March I experienced the first of the most incredible pain I’ve felt, other than when I had my knees replaced. This pain was an intense squeezing of the chest. I thought for sure that I was having a heart attack and was soon to die. But I said nothing at the time.

In fact, I experienced several of these episodes over a period of months before I finally said something to my doctor about it. She immediately thought of spasms of the esophagus, something I’d never heard of.

I researched the condition, and lo and behold, those were my symptoms!

The spasms continued, sometimes with incredible intensity, sometimes to a lesser degree, but altogether painful.

My doctor ordered a barium X-ray which showed that there was a hole in my diaphragm. My stomach had moved upward, with a good one-third sticking through the hole.

I was referred to a surgeon who is going to fix everything, but his first requirement was that I lose a substantial amount of weight before he would fix a date.

Time has passed. I have lost 32 plus pounds. My surgery will be this coming Friday, March 2.

While the months passed, I didn’t concern myself with the details. It seemed so remote that there was no purpose served in thinking about it. My main concern was losing weight.

Now that I am down to days, it has become real. Last night I found myself thinking about it instead of sleeping. I assume that this will continue all week, until Thursday night when I won’t be able to sleep at all.

It’s odd that I am concerned. I trust the doctor. While the surgery details may seem complicated, he made it sound like a piece of cake. I am confident in his ability to perform the surgery with no complications.

But that does not mean that I don’t think about it.

I’ve taken care of the details. I’ve packed my personal items, including a book, for Mike to bring me after my surgery is complete. I’ve packed my clothes that I will wear home from the hospital. I’ve purchased the liquid diet drinks that I will consume for the 8-10 days after I come home.

I will clean my bird cages before the surgery even though it’s two days early. I will change the sheets so that I come home to a clean bed. I will make sure that all laundry is done, folded and put away.

I am as prepared as I possibly can be.

Please keep me in your prayers and thoughts.

 

The Best Day

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Sometimes writing prompts speak to me, giving me ideas of what to write about, but recently I read one which really has me in a quandary.

Of all the days in my life, which one is the best?

I’ve been thinking about this for over a week and I have to admit that I am stuck.

Could it have been the day I received my acceptance letter to USC? That was an awesome day. After all, it meant that I was going to go to college and learn something that forever would change my life. The problem is that I don’t recall exactly how I felt. After all, I was only 17 at the time and so much has happened since then.

After college graduation a series of years went by in which I accomplished a lot of firsts: my first car, my first real job, my first apartment. These all moved me along the path toward independence and all of them made me smile, but were any of them the best? No.

There was the day that I met Mike at the IRS office. I was intrigued by his blue eyes, ready smile and kind demeanor, but it took quite a while for us to jell, to become a unit. The day he proposed was an awesome one. The problem is that I don’t recall the details. I do remember that he asked my dad for permission to marry me, but that’s it.

The wedding day was a spectacular one. Talk about life-changing! Wow! I went from being daughter to wife in less than an hour. And I was so scared that I almost passed out at the altar. I remember smiling through the reception and being so excited about the honeymoon that I could hardly wait for it to begin. On that day my life changed forever, so I would rank it up there among the best days of my life.

The thing is, though, that from then on I achieved so much, changed so much, and reveled in so much, that there are many defining moments in my life.

I remember when I found out I was pregnant with each of our kids. Now those were special days! Each time I glowed with happiness and pride. And when they were born, I could hardly contain myself even though I was terrified of holding such tiny, frail little beings.

Each time a child accomplished something, even something as tiny as lifting a head, I could hardly wait to show Mike. Jump forward to swimming on a team, playing soccer or baseball or softball or learning gymnastics or working with clay or learning to play an instrument and the “best” days suddenly multiply into hundreds.

There were graduations from eighth grade, high school and college. There were the births of my many grandkids, each unique in their own way.

The purchasing of homes, beginning with ours. I beamed with happiness on the day we took possession! Our house! Which became a home for our kids. And then the joy I felt when each of our kids bought their homes! Wow!

Getting my first teaching job filled me with joy. Granted it was a tiny, part time job teaching preschool at minimum wage, but I was in a classroom. My classroom. Fulfilling a dream I’d had since first grade.

When I jumped to third grade, my heart skipped a beat. This was it! My goal had been reached. But I didn’t stop there. I kept exploring and reaching and trying out new things and learning new things and going from job to job, each time looking for the place where I truly belonged and then I found it at the high school. I became a Special Education teacher working with learning disabled students. A hard job, but rewarding.

My supervisor noticed my hard work and I got promoted to the equivalent of Department Chair. Wow! Think of the jump, from part time preschool to Dept. Chair! I walked around campus with a smile on my face. I had reached my pinnacle, the highest I could possibly go, and I was proud. That was another good day.

Time passed. I aged. I got tired and all I could think about was retiring. When that time arrived four years ago, that was another personal best. I counted off the days until the one when I turned in my keys and walked away. I left knowing that I had done the best job that I could have. That at no time had I failed to fulfill my job requirements, and that, in fact, I usually exceeded them.

As a retiree I continue to have “best” days. Each day spent with my husband is a great one. Each time we go for a walk around the neighborhood, I rejoice that we are capable of doing so. That we enjoy the simple act of being together.

We have traveled quite a bit since retirement. Those are all good days as well. I especially love visiting with my grown children and my grandchildren. Each of those trips is unique and filled with joy. Each is the “best” because of the time I get to spend with family.

What it boils down to is that I cannot single out one day that stands above all others. I have been blessed with so many awesome days, so many unique experiences that I cannot definitively state that this one, this day, is the best.

Instead I revel in the fact that each morning that I open my eyes, each breath that I breathe, each step that I take, counts as my best.

 

Resolutions

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I was quite small when I first learned of the New Year’s tradition of making resolutions, or setting goals for oneself for the upcoming year. The idea intrigued me. Just think, by choosing the right goals, and sticking to them, in one year I could be a better person!

While memory fails me, most likely my early resolutions had to do with keeping my mouth shut and staying out of trouble. I was not a bad kid, but I had a tendency to speak up and defend myself when falsely accused, and in my mind, I was frequently targeted by siblings and parents for things I had not done.

Unfortunately my determination to improve was weak and so my goals seldom survived more than a few hours.

I remember one particularly rocky period in my life when I was fourteen. I shared a room with my younger sister, who was a bit of a slob. I got angry when my parents informed me that it was my responsibility to keep her side of the room clean. I spouted off and got punished. When New Year’s rolled around, I was still smoldering, so I promised myself that I would sit in my room and keep quiet.

It didn’t work because instead of calming me down, my insides churned with barely suppressed rage. I told myself, over and over, to keep my mouth shut, but the words inflamed my feelings of being unjustly singled out to the point that when next lectured, I exploded and suffered the consequences.

I tried setting other goals for myself over the years. For example, to lose weight. This was during my late teen years and I was tired of being the fattest girl on campus. I chose carefully what I ate, walked as much as possible, but stayed the same. I quickly gave up, considering myself a failure yet again.

I learned, after repeated failure, that I was incapable of sticking to a resolution and so gave up setting any goals for myself. It was a self-fulling prophecy which I allowed to dictate my life for decades.

To this day I do not choose resolutions, even though there are many that would be good for me to master. I accept the fact that I am weak-willed, so rather than dooming myself to repeated failure, I avoid the tradition altogether.

Resolutions are just not for me.

Defying the Odds

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Neither of my parents went to college. In fact, my mother never attended one day of high school. None of my aunts or uncles or even not one cousin enrolled in college. It just wasn’t something that was done in my family.

I was fourteen when I began dreaming of going to college. Because of a lack of family history, I really had no idea what college was about. For me, it was a means of escape. If I could go to college, I could legally move out of the house without first being married. And I had no intentions of marrying as a teen.

My academic career was less than glorious. Kindergarten was not mandatory back then, but my parents sent me to a private school because of fears that I was backwards. They were right. Unlike my classmates, I did not know my colors or shapes, knew nothing about the alphabet and was weak in numbers.

I worked hard, though, because I wanted to please my teachers. I graduated and went to first grade, still a bit behind, but with enough skill to get into the Catholic elementary school.

I struggled, to say the least. By fourth grade I was still not a good reader. I was embarrassed to be the weakest student in my class, and so, when my reading group was called to the front, I hid at my desk. Stupid, yes. Logical, though, when considering the embarrassment factor.

At home, determined to improve my skills, I erased all the answers on my worksheets, lined up my dolls and made them do the work. I repeated this process over and over until I could get the correct answers every time.

I truly believed that working with my dolls is what turned me into a scholar. It was not the help of a teacher, for I cannot remember a single time when someone helped me. I also know that it was not due to anything my parents did as the only time they checked my work was to see if I was earning As. If not, then a spanking ensued.

I stayed in one Catholic school or another until seventh grade. I continued to be one of the weakest students, but thankfully, others were in worse shape than me. The one thing that I was really good at was penmanship. I loved the whorls of cursive. The flow of one letter blending into the next was a thing of beauty.

Once math started making sense, I excelled there as well. Numbers could be trusted to always mean what they represented.

Unlike letters, which changed sound on a whim. I did not know the difference between a long vowel and a short, could not explain why some words rhymed with cow and others, spelled similarly, did not. How would and wood sounded the same and that there were many versions of there, you’re and too.

I transferred to a public school for eighth grade and promptly fell in love with my teacher. He was the first male teacher I’d ever had. I would have done anything to please him. In fact, when he assigned a research report on a college, when I found a Bennington College (his last name), I chose it as the subject of my paper.

Once in high school, everything fell into place. My hard work paid off. I was no longer the bottom of the barrel, but sat comfortably at the top. I was repeatedly on the honor roll and earned certificates right and left. I excelled in Latin and math and got by in English and Science, even though in both of those subjects, I often felt I was reading in a different language than all the other students.

Toward the end of my freshman year, my parents made plans to move to California. I researched colleges there and was pleased to discover the existence of community colleges which were practically free. It meant that I would be able to go to college!

This was a dream come true. No more worries about being married off to a Neanderthal neighbor. I could focus on a dream that meant more to me than any other dream I’d held before.

In California, I found high school work incredibly easy. My grades were the highest I’d ever had and I excelled in Spanish, Math and PE. English was still a struggle, but with hard work Science and History were subjects I mastered.

I told myself that I had the skills to go to college, and believed it.

In my senior year I applied to a variety of colleges, including one in Ohio near where my grandmother lived. I was accepted in every one. All I needed was financial assistance, which came in the way of a full scholarship to any college in the state of California.

When the news of my scholarship reached my high school, my counselor called me to her office. She pulled up my records, then proceeded to tell me that I’d never succeed in college, that I should consider getting a job and getting married.

When I left her office I was seething. I swore that I would prove her wrong. I told myself that at the end of my first semester of college, I would bring her my grades and show her that I had the skills to succeed.

And I did.

Her response was one of surprised shock. She apologized for assuming that I would fail, and then praised me for my hard work.

To me, earning her praise was the first of many highlights in my academic career. No one had believed in me, but I did. I told myself I could do it, and I did.

 

Earthquake!

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When I was a senior in college I lived in an apartment suite with three other girls, one of them from Japan. Three of us were used to earthquakes as we all lived in northern California. The fourth girl, who was my roommate, had never experienced an earthquake and so had no idea what to expect.

I was quite seasoned in that department, for when I arrived in California in June of 1964 there was a rollicking earthquake that sent me sprawling on the floor. I watched in horrified amazement as telephone poles swayed back and forth, leaning so far as to give the impression that they were soon to fall. Nothing so dramatic happened, but that quake left a lasting impression.

Over the next several years as I lived in various houses around the Bay Area, I had felt many small quakes that made me a bit nervous, but not as terrified as the first one. In fact, it seemed that the more quakes I felt, the less they disturbed me.

In September of 1979 I transferred to the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. The first year I lived in a towering residence hall. From my seventh floor room, I often felt the building sway. Each time it upset me, thinking that at any moment the whole thing would crumble to the ground with me trapped inside. To defray some of my fears, I stood at my window and watched nearby buildings sway along with mine, thinking that if they didn’t fall, my building wouldn’t either. Afterward I never saw any evidence of destruction.

One beautiful spring day I was up on the roof sunbathing. I had lathered myself up and gotten comfortable with one of my textbooks. I grew sleepy and just as I began to drift away, a rolling quake hit that brought me to my feet. From my lofty perch, close to the railing, yet far enough that I wouldn’t fall off, I watched neighboring buildings sway. Sirens went off, fire engines zoomed past and a series of ambulances raced down the streets.

To the best of my knowledge, no one got seriously hurt, but a few older folks supposedly suffered heart attacks.

The following year I moved into a large multi-bedroom house that was sponsored by the Soroptimist Organization. All the girls in my building were low income like myself. The organization allowed us to live rent-free as long as we maintained excellent grades and were never in academic difficulty. We also had to keep the facility spotless and host the organization whenever they chose to hold fundraisers.

Over a period of several months earthquakes regularly shook the house. One time I was sitting on the toilet. I imagined myself being found in the ruble with my pants down. That frightened me so much that from then on I tried not to stay in the bathroom for any longer than absolutely necessary.

The number and intensity of the quakes intensified as the year went on. Because the building was old and shook in a frightening way, I was afraid to live there, so for the next school year I applied to the senior dorm across campus and was accepted.

I had not visited the building before move-in day, so I was surprised to find that it was about the same age as the Soroptimist House. It was also located near to train tracks which caused the building to shake and sway whenever a train went by.

I convinced myself that it didn’t matter the age of the building or the periodic shaking for I was happy to live with other seniors and to be free from the overarching demands of the Soroptimists.

Unfortunately that year was a particularly fertile one for earthquakes. We were shaken regularly, but seldom while we were in the dorm.

When one hit whenever I was in class we were evacuated into the quad, a grassy area in the center of campus. It became an expected ritual. Earthquake, evacuation, sitting under the shade of a tree. It was almost bucolic and definitely lured me into a false sense of security.

Early one February morning in 1971, around six, the building shook with such ferocity that my three suitemates were all awakened. At first we gathered in the kitchen which separated our rooms, when as the shaking intensified, we split apart so we could stand under a door frame, supposedly the safest place.

My roommate was so terrified that she fell at my feet, grabbed my ankles, and begged me to save her. I uttered as comforting words as I could, but I was scared that I was going to die. The shaking seemed to go on forever.

When it finally stopped, my roommates and I discovered huge cracks running down our walls and chunks of plaster that had fallen in our showers and on our beds. We were evacuated to the street, where we stood in our nightgowns, clustered in groups of equally frightened students.

When we were allowed inside, we dressed for class and headed off. Later on we heard on the news that the quake registered 6.5 and caused heavy damage to buildings, highways and bridges. It threatened a reservoir in the San Fernando Valley, which leaked a steady stream of water that, thankfully, did not flood low-lying valleys.

Our building survived. While we were at class, maintenance came in and cleaned up the mess. When we returned to our suite, fresh plaster covered the cracks.

For days afterward our building shook. There were a series of mini-quakes that hit at all times of the day and night, but even after they stopped, we were sure that each passing train was another quake.

Years went by when only periodic mild quakes rattled us in the San Francisco area. None of them rattled me like the one in 1971. Each time one hit, I’d stop what I was doing, look around for cracks, decide whether to get up and look for a safe place in which to be, but then when things stopped shaking, I continued doing whatever it was that I had been working on.

Things changed in October of 1989. I had just picked my kids up from a friend’s house when the sidewalk moved like waves. The surge was so strong that my friend and I were thrown to the ground. My eight-passenger van rocked and rolled. My kids, who were inside, looked at me through the back windows and screamed.

It was terrifying. Not only did the sidewalk buckle, but telephone poles swayed back and forth with such ferocity that it was surprising that they didn’t bend over and crack apart. We were all so shaken that we didn’t move for several minutes after things settled down.

My first thoughts were to call my husband, but I had to wait until I got home to do so.

Later we learned that it was a 6.9 quake that caused substantial damage and killed 67 people and over $5 billion in damages.

I am grateful that we have been blessed with calm years since then, but I am ever alert for the next one.

I’d also like to report that I have an emergency bag packed and ready to go, but that would be a lie. It’s almost as if I don’t prepare, it won’t happen, but that’s a stupid way of thinking.

Meanwhile I’ll think about that bag and hopefully, act on it soon.