Category Archives: Personal Essay

Freedom to Choose

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            When I was a kid, back in the mid-1950’s, my “path” was frequently laid out for me: wife, mother and caretaker of my parents once they turned elderly.

            I never saw myself that way.

            Home was not a happy place, so why would I want to be a homemaker? My parents were cruel taskmasters, so why would I want to be a parent? I was forced to babysit my younger sister who was a self-centered narcissist, so why would I want to have kids?

            My place of refuge was school, and even that wasn’t such a wonderful place. As a shy kid with low self-esteem, my academic goal was to be invisible. I trembled as I worked on every assignment, as my parents offered strict punishment for any grade below an A.

            My teachers weren’t always kind or patient. Most of them ignored me, allowing me to languish in my seat and so not receive the education I deserved. Some of them actively humiliated me, calling me stupid in front of my classmates, putting me in the corner with a dunce cap. Some sneered or snickered when they called my name, most likely because they knew I was too fearful to respond.

            As I grew older, I became more aware of the path my parents expected me to follow. My life experiences solidified that their desires weren’t mine. I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted or how I would get there, but I had to get away from that toxic environment.

            In eighth grade we were led into the church to hear speakers talk about the religious life. Priests, monks and nuns addressed our classes, explaining what that life meant to them. Monastic life appealed to me.

            Prayer came naturally, and although I’ve never been able to meditate, closing my eyes and reciting the prayers every kid learns, gave me a sorely needed sense of peace. Since I loved quiet, living in near silence seemed like a joy. I was a hard worker, so the thought of cleaning or gardening or even, heaven forbid cooking, felt like solace in a terrifying world.

            When it came time to sign up, I eagerly completed the forms. All I needed was a parental signature.

            Imagine my trepidation when I handed the papers to my mom.

            She tore the papers up into tiny pieces. She insisted I’d never be fulfilled in that life, that a woman’s job was to marry and have kids.

            When I declared that I didn’t want either, she walked away.

            My ability to choose my own path was taken away. I cried about it for days.

            As high school came to an end, I knew I wanted to go to college. I was comfortable in academic settings. I felt safe at school, even though I was often bullied by girls in the locker room or when teachers taunted me in front of the class.

            But at school, no one struck me, hit me with a belt, grabbed my arms and shook me until I saw stars or slapped me so hard my neck hurt for weeks.

            Because my brother was allowed to go to college, my parents allowed me to apply.

            After much research and consideration, I had limited my college choices to Ohio State and San Francisco State University, where I’d study math. I was also interested in the University of Redlands and the University of Southern California, both which offered degrees in Math and Russian.

            My brother thought he was brilliant. Why not? My mom told him over and over how smart he was, as opposed to telling me that I was a failure. He was an arrogant bully, much like my dad.

            He applied to the California Institute of Technology to study engineering.

            We drove from our home in San Bruno down to southern California supposedly so both my brother and I could look at colleges. Our first stop was CIT. We walked around the campus on our own, not part of a tour. It was a hot, windy day. The lawns were green, the buildings impressive.

            Redlands wasn’t too far away. I had begged to visit, so after spending two hours at CIT, my dad reluctantly drove to Redlands. I expected the same treatment: that we’d walk about the campus.

            I should have known better. I had never been considered an equal to my brother even though my grades were sometimes better than his.

            All we did was get off the freeway, travel down the long palm-tree lined road that led to the administrative building, then turn around and leave. I cried, begged, pleaded, but my dad refused to stop.

            My freedom to choose was taken away from me.

            The only college my parents would allow me to attend was the same college where my brother was going to go: USC.

            I spent three years there, living on campus. I chose my classes, ate when and what I wanted, and slowly made friends. I loved that life, dreaded the end of each school year when I was forced to return home and resume my life as a household slave.

            By this time, I had dated a bit, even found a young man that I seriously thought about marrying. Until he told friends that he liked me because I never had any opinions. That relationship ended within days of that comment.

            I knew enough that if I married, it would be on my terms, to someone who respected me as an equal. Who saw potential in me to do great things. Who didn’t put me in the motherhood box.

            I wanted the freedom to choose when and if I had kids. What I did with my life, in terms of career, continued education, hobbies and activities.

            My husband has given me all that.

            In today’s political world, women’s rights are being chipped away, piece by piece. All the things we fought for, reproductive freedom, the ability to vote, hold valued careers, be treated as equals in the workplace, are disappearing.

            Recently a professional football player gave the commencement speech at a Catholic university. He praised motherhood and being a wife. That’s his view of what a woman should aspire for.

            Didn’t he know that there would be highly educated women sitting there? Women who might have played college athletics, but who dreamt of something more than kicking a football?

            The college did send out a statement that his views didn’t represent the college’s philosophy, but the damage was done.

            The player’s view of women, that of the happy housewife with an apron around her waist and kids tugging at the strings, is what many want, the life as portrayed in old black-and-white TV shows where the little woman cleaned house in a dress and pearls.

            If today’s young women want what I did and continue to do, then they need the freedom to choose. If she wants to be wife and mother, then she can. If she wants to be President, then she can do that as well.

            The freedom to choose is a wondrous thing. Please don’t take away that right.

Unexpected Reunion

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            There’s something sweet about running into friends you haven’t seen in twenty years. A magnetic pull draws your eyes on each other, there’s the tilting of heads and wondering, is that…? And then you think about it some more, glancing at her face, looking for a tidbit of recognition.

            What’s incredible is the joy you feel when you remember Judy, how kindly she treated you, how she welcomed you into her group of friends.

            Going way back in time, I was hired to teach a Special Day Class at an elementary in Newark, California. This would be my first job as a special education instructor, with just six credits behind me. I’d been teaching for over a decade by then, but always with “regular” education students.

            I knew how to deliver instruction to them, but had only research and whatever I’d gleaned from the two college-level courses I’d taken.

            My students were fourth and fifth graders. All needy, all with severe learning disabilities that impacted academic work. But out on the playground, they were “normal” kids wanting to have “normal” friends.

            Think back to your school years. Nine and ten years olds can be mean. They target the weak and different. They exclude anyone who might impact their own social status. They won’t eat lunch with them, include them in playground games, and don’t like it when “those” kids enter their classroom for shared lessons.

            I could deal with that. I taught my students about bullies, taught them how to ask to join, taught them how to act in public.

            I integrated them into “regular” classrooms whenever possible, something every special education student has a right to do.

            What I didn’t expect was to be ostracized by my peers, those teaching the same age students that sat in my classroom.

            A very definite clique existed. There was a group of about five teachers who sat in the same seats during lunch and meetings. They spoke only to group members. They shared curriculum ideas only with group members.

            When gatherings evidence for a state-mandated review, they highlighted the achievements of their students, and even though I submitted my students’ work, none of it showed up in the finished binder.

            They planned fieldtrips for all fourth graders, but didn’t include mine. Same with the fifth graders. At the end of the school year their classes organized a picnic at the local park. As in every other way, my students weren’t included. In fact, if I hadn’t overheard them talking, I wouldn’t have known about it.

            I didn’t feel welcome.

            The lower grades were clustered on the east side of the campus. I could look out my classroom window and see them coming and going. I could hear the joyous sounds of the children and wish that my students could experience that same joy.

            Since I was an outcast during lunch and meetings, I often found myself seated near the lower-grade teachers. They were warm and welcoming. When I needed help, unlike the clique, they were there for me.

            They welcomed my students into their classes and treated them as equals.

            They became my friends.

            When our principal announced his retirement, at the same time, my Director of Special Education offered me a position at the high school, something I’d wanted for years.  I declined, not wanting to leave those lower-grade friends.

            A few weeks later, the new principal was introduced. She was a member of the clique, the one who refused to include my students’ work in the binder, the one who only looked at me with disdain, the one who didn’t want my students integrated with hers.

            I contacted the Director and accepted the transfer. But I told no one.

            I didn’t want a fake goodbye party or cards or a cake. I didn’t want to be treated to a lunch. Why should I? Only one of the upper grade teachers ever “saw” me or my students.

            So when the year ended, the last meetings had been held, when most teachers had cleaned up and gone home, I packed my things on a weekend, and left. Period.

            Today my friend Judy told me that my friends had wondered what had happened to me, why I left without saying goodbye.

            She was sad when I told her. She said that none of them knew what had happened, how my students were ostracized and how rudely I’d been treated.

            What’s wonderful is that we reconnected immediately. Before today’s lunch ended, we’d exchange phone numbers and promise to get together.

            As I was driving home, my eyes filled with tears. I am looking forward to seeing them, catching up and being included in a social circle that I thought had long ago forgotten who I was.

            What’s weird is that I know her husband through a writers’ group, but I had never connected his last name with someone from my past.

            Reunions can be sweet, and this one certainly was.

The End

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            I love music. Have loved it since I was quite young. I seldom sang where someone could here me, primarily because my family told me I couldn’t sing.

            My bedroom was the only place I felt comfortable singing, always in a soft voice. Unfortunately, I shared the room with my younger sister. That meant that I could only sing when she wasn’t in the room. And because she knew how to annoy me, she’d pop in whenever she heard the door close.

            We had a backyard, though. I started going outside whenever the dog was there, to keep her company (she was like a therapy dog long before there were such things). That worked only as long as it wasn’t raining or foggy, and since the house was up on Skyline Boulevard in San Bruno, it was often in fog.

            I took to walking the dog, carrying a small radio. I’d sing as we strolled up and down hills. One day, lost in song, I didn’t see the loose dog charging mine. I picked up Lady Coco and cradled her to my chest as the evil monster leapt up, over and over, trying to kill her.

            Because I was miserable at home, I had to get out of the house every day, usually at least twice a day, to give myself to calm down, to let the tears dry up, to settle my stomach. Even though Coco had been close to being killed, I wanted, no needed, to walk her.

            I left the radio behind and carried a wooden baseball bat. My music wasn’t with me, so I couldn’t sing.

            I traded my sanity for safety. I never regretted the choice.

            I didn’t sing again for many years. Well, until I bought my first car and found radio stations I liked. As long as I was alone (I frequently was forced to drive my sister places), I could sing.

            I never took a music class in high school or college. I never joined the church choir. I never sang on camping trips. And when my husband gave me a guitar for Christmas one year, I never accompanied myself.

            My first real teaching job was at a Catholic Elementary school. Teachers attended many workshops and seminars, dealing with a wide range of topics. Most were sort of okay. Not earth-shattering.

            Then we all went to the Cathedral in Oakland for three full days of music, services and workshops. Well known writers attended, singing tracks on their albums. Oh, how I loved those sessions!

            Music came back, full blast. I began singing, at church, with my students, to music in my car and at home. (I was now married, to a wonderful man who encouraged me to try everything.)

            Our church formed a small choir to sing at our Mass. I sat near the pianist, singing along. A friend convinced me to join. I did, but sang in a whisper, terrified that I’d hit a gazillion bad notes.

            The numbers of participants varied widely. Sometimes there might be six, others just two. Then one Mass it was just me. The time had come for me to raise my voice and sing.

            I’m not sure how I summoned the courage, but I did. Not just for that one Mass, but for many to come. I was often a soloist, leading the congregation in the psalm (standing up front at the podium).

            I did okay.

            Then that choir director was replaced with a very, very young overconfident, full of himself director. He did an excellent job encouraging people to join. He taught us how to really “read” music, to follow the symbols for dynamics, to blend voices.

            All was going well until we held a session at a choir member’s house. I was scheduled to be the cantor at Sunday’s Mass. During a break, I approached the director to go over the psalm. He informed me that I couldn’t sing, that I had to get rid of the vibration in my voice.

            I felt me cheeks get hot, packed my bag and left.

            I didn’t return to the choir until that director was replaced with a smiling, pleasant, encouraging young man.

            He made me feel welcomed and valued. I returned to cantoring the psalm and was often the only choir member (during the pandemic when we held Mass in the school parking lot.)

            He left for a new job.

            The new director brought a soloist with an incredible voice. She only seemed to know about four songs, the words were never projected for the congregation to see, and he made no attempt to form a choir.

            He left suddenly a few months ago. The new director, another young man, this one a graduate in Music, started a choir. I joined shortly after.

            A week ago he asked me to cantor the psalm. Just the thought of singing up there, in front of the congregation made my head hurt. He encouraged me, met me privately to go over the psalm.

            Sunday came. I practice out in the garage, going over and over the psalm. I knew I wasn’t ready, I knew I wasn’t hitting the right notes, and I knew I was too scared to do it.

            When I arrived at church, I should have said something, I should have declined (there were two seasoned cantors there who could have taken over) but I didn’t.

            Two of my friends recorded my “performance”. I didn’t have to listen as I knew every off-key note I’d hit.

            The humiliation was so great, so painful, that I could barely walk out of church.

            The intent was to add me to the rotating list of cantors. When rehearsal comes up Friday, I will announce boldly, clearly, without hesitation that I will never, ever cantor again.

            I will sing with the choir, where I feel both comfortable and confidant, but my days of being a cantor have come to an abrupt end.

Camera Malfunction

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            We were recently on a long-waited for cruise up the western coast of Norway. The goal was to enjoy the spectacular Northern Lights. The trip, hopefully, would give us night after night of colorful viewings.

            Our first port in Norway was Narvik, a hillside town surrounded by snow-covered mountains. The skies were clear, the weather freezing.

            We’d signed up for a nighttime outing to a Sami village where we’d learn about the people and their culture. We didn’t know that a shaman would be the leader. He spoke quite a bit about the prejudices they’d endured. He sang the songs of the Sami and that thanks to a recent law, all Sami children now learn their language at school.

            It was quite warm in the luvva (some would call it a yurt), so when I had to use the port-a-potty, I zipped up my coat, put on my ski cap and gloves. When I was finished and stepped outside, many of my fellow travelers were gathered around the luvva, staring at the sky.

            They said we were looking at the Northern Lights, but all we saw was a grey streak over the luvva that we thought was either smoke or the Milky Way. There was also a shimmering spot of grey off to one side.

            I tried taking pictures with my “big” camera, but because it was so dark, I couldn’t see anything in the view finder. I pointed the camera up and took a couple of shots.

            Almost everyone was using cell phones, so I got mine out. For some reason, there was a grid and wavering line that blocked whatever was up in the sky. I tied to see through the grid, but couldn’t. I was in tears.

            On the bus ride home, the women in front of us were looking at their photos. Their cameras “saw” the Lights! They both had amazing photos filled with color.

            That streak of gray was actually a colorful display that seemed to be hovering over the luvva.

            The women helped me get rid of the grid, but I feared that all hope was lost.

            Around midnight, back on the ship, our phone rang alerting us to the Lights. I stepped out on your balcony and caught a tiny streak of gray, which later on turned out to be a vibrant green.

            The was the last call we received.

            Our ship headed north, the skies were once again clear. We figured there’d be more sightings, but our phone never rang. The next morning we overheard passengers talking about how spectacular the Lights had been.

            When we returned to our cabin, I tried calling Guest Services to find out why we hadn’t received the call. Our phone had no service!

            The phone did get fixed, but from then on we sailed under a thick layer of clouds.

            Because I thought my camera couldn’t “see’ anything, because of the grid on my cell phone, I’d lost my chance to capture the Northern Lights.

            What I learned was to take pictures anyway. To keep shooting in case something wonderful pops up before the lens.

            While I was frustrated with what I “saw” as the failure of my camera, turned out to be a valuable learning experience.

My Own Coming of Age Story

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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.

Gratitude Comes in Small Packages

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            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.

Days when I feel like giving up

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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.

Fall from Grace

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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.

Mountains

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            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.

Thoughts on a Monday

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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.