Category Archives: True story

Born to Shine

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Imagine how different the world would be if every child, no matter how rich or poor, heard how wonderful they were on a regular basis. Think about how they’d shine each night when their guardian tucked them in and spoke those three words.

Perhaps there’d be no bullies because, if you feel worthy, you have no need to belittle others. Consider how brave everyone would be, not afraid to try new things, no fear of being rejected, no worries about being pushed aside.

When I was young, I never felt special. In fact, I was repeatedly told how useless I was, how stupid I was, how inferior I was to my older brother. Never once did my parents praise me, even for something as small as cleaning my room.

I often wonder how different I might have been if, just once, my mom had said that I was born to shine. Would my attitude toward school have been different? My grades better?

When meeting people, would I have had confidence in my abilities?

I offered praise to my own children, when deserved. I gave smiled and spoke words that showed my pride in their accomplishments. I enrolled them in educational classes offered at the library and other organizations. They took numerous swim lessons and played a variety of sports.

I helped with schoolwork and volunteered at their schools. I was team mom in little league, a scorekeeper in baseball and as a soccer coach and referee.

I did these things because I wanted to share those experiences with them, but also it was my way of saying that I was proud of who they were.

Born to Shine. Powerful words. My children grew up to be wonderful adults. They all graduated from college and contribute to society in a variety of ways. They each, in some fashion, are helping future generations shine.

If I could go back in time, instead of reading aloud books as I cradled my kids in my lap, I would tell them that they were born to shine. As I watched them struggle in sports or academics, I’d say those words and then watch the effect they had.

I don’t recall receiving a single word of praise or encouragement from my parents, Nevertheless, I told myself that I was born to shine. Perhaps not in those exact words, but the message was the same.

I sometimes thought I was lying to myself, but I persevered nonetheless. Because my parents made me feel inferior to my siblings, when I was feeling down, I’d think of the things that I could do better than them.

For example, I was the better athlete during a time when girls played few sports. I learned languages quickly and read everything I could about different places and cultures. I was an excellent math student, my grades so strong that I got a full-ride scholarship to any college in California.

Despite telling myself that I was able to accomplish anything, I struggled with low self-esteem and even lower self-confidence. My brother was smarter and got better grades. My sister was prettier and loved to dress like a girl. They were both cherished by my mom, while I was just there, a slave to clean house and do laundry.

What if my parents had told me I was born to shine? Those words would have meant more to me than a bucket of gold. I would have known that they saw something valuable in me. My self-esteem would have risen. I would have liked myself better.

Born to shine. I wish that every parent would say those words to their kids, no matter how old. Over and over, look them in the eye and say born to shine. Pat them on the back, give them a hug, turn it into a song. Say the words weekly, daily, hour by hour.

Slowly, ever so slowly the world would change.

Born to shine. Power.

Fascination with Trees

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I can’t recall a time when I was not drawn to trees. They amaze me.

Day after day they change.

Imagine something that grows taller and wider at such an incrementally slow pace that it is invisible to the eye.

They change with the seasons. Some burst into new life when the sun begins to shine in spring. Tiny green buds sprout forth, signaling the wonders that are to come. Those buds become leaves. All kinds of leaves, in all shapes and sizes and colors.

When I was young, I collected leaves, especially the ones from maple trees. Such broad leaves! So green in spring and summer, but when fall arrived, they morphed into shades from red to orange to brown. I loved them all.

I miss maple trees. They grew in the woods behind our house in Ohio, but not here in California where I now live. I was disappointed to discover that I would most likely never see them again.

It wasn’t just their leaves that I loved, but also their seed pods. They were shaped like wings and if you tossed them as high above your head as you could manage, they would twirl down to the ground. I did this over and over, season after season, never growing tired of the display even well into my teen years when I should have moved on to other things.

In Ohio all trees shed their leaves in the fall and remain bare throughout the cold winters. Even when quite young I understood that winter was a time of rest, a time to store up energy to be ready to burst into action at the first sign of spring.

It was the same for me. In the winter I huddled inside where it was warm, venturing outside only when bundled from head to toe. Some days my breath froze, rising to rest on my eyebrows and hair. My teeth chattered and I thought my fingers and toes would crack and fall off.

We moved to California after my ninth grade year. The seasons here are not as differentiated as in Ohio. What we call winter is nothing to people who live in the Midwest, North or East, for there it snows and temperatures can drop well below freezing.

I’ve lived in California so long that now I think it’s cold if it’s below sixty.

Because our seasons are not as sharply delineated, not all trees go through the autumnal changes. Looking out my window right now, in mid-February, I some trees are just beginning to grow buds, some have sprouted their leaves.

Fir trees, meanwhile, stay green throughout the year.

Flowers have begun blooming, primarily roses, which seemed to never stop during the winter.

Trees that produce fruit amaze me. They are so generous, so thoughtful, even when their human caretakers are less then vigilant. Day after day apples and pears and oranges and other wonderful things ripen, all for our consumption.

Some fruits require a little work to get inside to the meat, while some don’t.

I love fruit that you can bite into and have your mouth filled with sweetness, the juice spilling onto your chin. Every time I eat an apple or pear, I am thankful that I am blessed with having such a marvelous thing to eat. On the other hand, I won’t eat peaches because I can’t stand the fuzzy outer wrapper. If someone is kind enough to peal them for me, then I’m happy. Same with mangoes.

Whenever when walking around my neighborhood,  and I see fruit growing on trees, I want to reach up, pull off just one and take a bite. But I don’t. I don’t know how needy the owners are. Perhaps that apple is their only sustenance of the day. Perhaps the orange is their only access to vitamin C. I would not want to steal that treasure from them. So I walk on.

In our neighborhood there are not as many trees as when we first moved in fifty years ago. Some have died. Some have been taken down by their owners. Some removed by the city because their roots were growing into the pipes or raising sidewalks to a dangerous level.

I miss all the once grand, sprawling trees that hung out over the road creating a marvelous canopy! So beautiful. Now gone. The young trees that were planted as replacements are just now beginning to grow taller and wider, reaching out over the street.

We have the pleasure of driving through forests on whenever we our way get into the mountains. I love to look at the trees, how magically they grow out of rock and cling to the sides of granite cliffs as if they were meant to be there. When the sun shines on them they are a wonderfully deep green.  They sing with life! And when you get close enough you can take in their rich aroma, like sticking your head in a cedar chest from long ago.

When they are covered with snow it is a picture straight from Christmas cards. I imagine myself riding on a horse-drawn sleigh under their boughs and having dollops of snow fall on my head as I lean back laughing. I have never done this, but nevertheless I can place myself in the scene.

When I was young I did not wear glasses. Trees frightened me because I thought each and every one would fall on my head, killing me. In fourth grade my teachers demanded that I get glasses. I remember the bus ride home, after getting my first pair of glasses, looking out the window and seeing that the leaning trees no longer leaned! It was a miracle.

Trees defy the passage of time as they remind us of all they have to offer.

I hope that I will never lose my ability to appreciate the wonderful gift that each tree is.

A Walk in Nature

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            This morning my friend and I met out near the Hayward Shoreline for an early morning walk. The temperature was a crisp 43 degrees, but there was no wind.

            The path was dry, thanks to several days with no rain.

            The sky was a bit overcast, a thin layer of clouds creating an overall appearance of grayness. Not doom, thank goodness, but a feeling of dread. Fitting for our conversation began with a rehashing of all the political damage being done by the administration’s lackeys.

            We shared our concerns about the environment, health, Medicare, and worries about all the government employees facing uncertain times. Imagine being told to resign via email when the job market is tight. When your particular skills might not translate into a public-sector job.

            Tiny birds flew away when the crunching of gravel startled them. They didn’t go far: just enough to keep an eye on us.

            Storm damage was visible here and there. Scattered gravel from the extremely high winds we’d had the week before. The trail washed out wherever it traversed flat land. Near the bay, driftwood lay as if thrown by a giant, lining the edges of the trail like a low-lying fence, narrowing the width of the trail to about a foot.

            The tide was out, but the usual shore birds were no where to be seen. We crossed the first of two wooden bridges, just in time to see a pair of ducks swim by. They seemed at peace, gliding along without a care in the world.

            We watched them for a bit, enjoying the waves that surrounded them as they swam, their reflections in the relatively still water.

            We’d been coming to this spot for several years now.

            When the pandemic hit in 2020, we’d been hiking in a local park. The trails were steep, going up and down rolling hills bordered by tall trees, that in spring and summer, gave needed relief from the sun. And because the paths were wide, at no time did we violate the “six-foot separation” recommendation.

            But we’re both five years older. Our bodies can no longer take the brutal climbs.

            So when my knee began giving me problems and my friend’s feet hurt as well, we switched to the shoreline park. The trail is completely flat, dirt and fine gravel the entire loop.

            It’s hard to hear the crunch of gravel as we walk, for we keep up a steady stream of conversation the entire time. We jump from topic to topic, sometimes sharing stories about family, then jumping back to politics, then moving on to pool happenings.

            I used to be able to walk the entire loop, about ninety minutes altogether, but since I injured my knee, on top of having long Covid, most days I can only make it to the end of the second bridge before turning back.

            How to tell that a person is a good friend? She’s supported me, walked with me, no matter how little I can do.

            At some point the sun broke through the clouds. Our shadows now preceded us, a small reminder of how insignificant we really are in the grand scheme of the universe. We might have big ideas, but only have the ability to tackle one small issue at a time.

            Sometimes we can smell the bay, a distinct fishy odor, but not today. Sometimes we feel a slight breeze caressing our cheeks and necks, but not today. It was almost as if nature was taking a break, giving us a chance to simply enjoy being together.

            Just before we reached the final turn, I spotted a large white bird, standing tall. It was the biggest egret I’ve ever seen. I wanted to take its photo, but a fence stood between us, a fitting reminder that nature also gets a bit of privacy.

My Take on Authority

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

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

            Examples:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            He asked what I was doing in his department.

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

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

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

            He told me to change majors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From then on I never rewrote a paper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another act of defiance.

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

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

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

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

Born to Shine

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Imagine how different the world would be if every child, no matter how rich or poor, heard those words on a regular basis. Think about how special they would feel after their guardian tucked them in at night and spoke those words.

There might be no bullies because, if you feel worthy, you have no need to belittle others. No one would be afraid of trying new things, of being rejected, of being pushed aside.

What a beautiful place the world would be!

As a child I never felt special in any positive way. What if my mom had told me that I was born to shine? Would I have been a different child? Would my attitude toward school have been different? My grades better?

When meeting people, would I have been more outgoing because that confidence sat on my shoulders?

I don’t recall having said those exact words to my children. I did praise them, when deserved. I did give smiles to show my pride in their accomplishments.

I supported them by enrolling them in educational classes and swim lessons and a variety of sports hoping they would discover something that they could enjoy for the rest of their lives.

I helped with schoolwork and met with many of their teachers. I volunteered at their schools, as well as being team mom in little league, scorekeeper in baseball and as a soccer coach and referee.

I did these things because I wanted to share those experiences with them, but also because I enjoyed it.

Born to Shine. Powerful words. My children grew up to be wonderful adults. They all graduated from college and contribute to society in a variety of ways. They each, in some fashion, are helping future generations shine.

If I could go back in time, instead of reading aloud books as I cradled my kids in my lap, I would tell them that they were born to shine. As I watched them struggle in sports or academics, I’d say those words and then watch the effect they had.

I don’t recall receiving a single word of praise or encouragement from my parents, Nevertheless, I told myself that I was born to shine. Perhaps not in those exact words, but the message was the same.

I sometimes thought I was lying to myself, but I persevered nonetheless. Because my parents made me feel inferior to my siblings, when I was feeling down, I’d think of the things that I could do better than them.

For example, I was the better athlete during a time when girls played few sports. I learned languages quickly and read everything I could about different places and cultures. I was an excellent math student, my grades so strong that I got a full-ride scholarship to any college in California.

Despite telling myself that I was able to accomplish anything, I struggled with low self-esteem and even lower self-confidence. My brother was smarter and got better grades. My sister was prettier and loved to dress like a girl. They were both cherished by my mom, while I was just there, a slave to clean house and do laundry.

What if my parents had told me I was born to shine? Those words would have meant more to me than a bucket of gold. I would have known that they saw something valuable in me. My self-esteem would have risen. I would have liked myself better.

Born to shine. I wish that every parent would say those words to their kids, no matter how old. Over and over, look them in the eye and say born to shine. Pat them on the back, give them a hug, turn it into a song. Say the words weekly, daily, hour by hour.

Slowly, ever so slowly the world would change.

Born to shine. Power.

Defying Expectations

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            From the time I was quite small, my mother made it perfectly clear that her main goal for me was to be her caretaker later on in life. I found this odd, since she insisted that my older brother would graduate from high school and go to college.

            Why the difference? Well, for one, she believed that he was much smarter than I was.

            There was some justification behind her belief. He taught himself how to read, so when he entered first grade, he was reading above grade level. Me, on the other hand, still couldn’t identify all the letters of the alphabet by name or by sound.

            He was doing basic math, which, again, he’d taught himself. I was the dunce who didn’t understand numbers.

            He was placed in the advanced groups in elementary school, without first attending kindergarten, which wasn’t mandatory back then. I was driven to kindergarten, where I was the lowest of the low. By the time the year was over, I knew the letters by name and sound, but couldn’t formulate words. I understood how numbers worked, but still couldn’t add or subtract, and got confused with time and money.

            When I entered first grade, I was immediately assigned to the nonreaders group. These kids were odd. Weird. None had friends. In fact, they weren’t even friends with each other. You’d think odd would bond with odd, but it was more like a magnetic pull in the opposite direction.

            Back then IQ tests were given every year. My brother had scored very high in first grade. No one expected me to be anywhere near his IQ. Imagine everyone’s surprise when my IQ turned out to be high, not as high as my brother’s, but higher than many of my classmates.

            I loved those IQ tests. My favorites were any having to do with manipulation of objects in space. I could see three-dimensional objects even on a flat piece of paper. When shapes had to be flipped or turned to fit a puzzle, I never got one wrong.

            I surprise a lot of people: my teacher, my parents, my brother (who was offended that my score was close to his) and especially me.

            Imagine being six years old, having repeatedly been told how stupid you are, then to find out that all those words were a bunch of lies! My head exploded! Well, not quite, but you get the picture.

            Now that I knew I wasn’t dumb, I concentrated harder and focused on my lessons. I’d take home papers with incorrect answers, erase the mistakes, and teach my stuffed animals the lesson. Then I’d complete the work again, this time every answer correct.

            For years I did this.

            At school, things began to change in terms of where I was seated (no longer in the dunce row at the back of the room), and how my teachers treated me. Before, it was with disdain, as if I didn’t warrant the attention of a slug. Now, however, the teacher dropped by my desk on a regular basis to see how I was doing.

            My paperwork was always returned at the bottom of the pile, meaning my scores were among the lowest. After teaching myself, my papers moved to the top! I was now among the smartest in the class.

            Unfortunately, my school success did not alter my mother’s expectations for me. She made me her housekeeper: every room had to be picked up, dusted and vacuumed every day before I could study. She attempted to make me her cook, but I had no talent or interest. Even easy things, like cornbread, I messed up.

            I was assigned to be her entertainment when she was ill, which was frequent. My mom suffered from “nervous disorders” which I understood to mean she was nuts. While she lay in bed, I was expected to sit in the room with her. I wasn’t allowed to read books or study during those long afternoons. But, there was no prohibition against coloring, drawing or building model cars.

            Because my spatial awareness was quite developed, I loved gluing those tiny pieces in place, using tweezers and toothpicks to get them situated just right. I also loved to paint, applying coat after coat until the model sparkled.

            I asked if I could get a paying job so as to be able to save for college. My brother was working, so I figured I should as well. My mom permitted me to work, as long as I kept the house tidy and never needed the car when my brother had to go to work.

            I tried working in a clothing store, not understanding how commission works. When I shop, I hate it when a storekeeper follows me around. Because I was on commission, I was instructed to tail every customer and show them interesting outfits. I lasted three days.

            My next job was at a deli, an odd choice since I didn’t know how to cook. The boss gave me ten minutes of instruction, then left. Seriously! He walked out the front door just as lunch was beginning. I had no idea what I was doing, even though pictures of finished products hung over the counter.

            I screwed up order after order. When the boss returned, I quit.

            I loved the smell of KFC. They must have blowers that send the aroma into the air, enticing in customers. I applied there. I was to be the counter clerk, no cooking involved. I took orders and made change. Piece of cake.

            When strawberry season arrived, crates of berries needed to be prepared into pies. That was something I knew how to do, for I’d been helping my mom for years. I was assigned that station for the remainder of the season as I was the best! The best! Me.

            The coleslaw back then arrived in giant ceramic tubs. I had to pour in the dressing, then sink my hands deep into the tub (no gloves!) and mix and mix until the dressing was evenly distributed. While it was a simple job, requiring no mental acuity, it froze my arms to the point that they’d turn blue.

            Meanwhile, I was excelling at school. Because of my work at KFC and at home, I couldn’t open the books until after dinner. I’d stay up past midnight, reading and rereading material until I had it memorized.

            My grades, in high school, were practically perfect. Every time I brought home a report card, my parents were shocked. This was not the dumb kid who barely passed elementary school. This was not the stupid girl who wouldn’t even have made a good wife.

            I was somebody. I knew this as I walked the halls, sat in classrooms, ate by myself during lunch. I was incredibly smart, smarter than my brother. Yes, my IQ scores surpassed his.

            There was no denying it: I had the ability to go to college.

            Imagine starting out as an idiot in the eyes of your parents, then seventeen years later being one of the smartest students in school, a scholarship recipient that would pay my entire tuition to any school in the state of California.

            Through my own hard work when I was six, I defied expectations.

            While my mother still halfheartedly said I was to be her caretaker later on in her life, she also understood my desire for a higher education.

            I loved the word grit. Grit is what I employed, grit is what helped me achieve, grit is what assisted in my defying expectations.

 The Great Divider

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From a very young age I became aware of how very different our family was to other’s.

In terms of size, we were about the same: three kids plus two parents. The oldest child was a boy, something that should have pleased our dad. Then eighteen months later, along came me, then seven years later, my younger sister.

The gap between my brother and I seemed “normal” as many of my cousins had been born one right after the other. But the seven-year difference between myself and my sister felt weird. By that time, I was somewhat aware of how babies were created, so to think of my parents doing something creeped me out. Especially after one time opening their bedroom door without knocking and seeing my dad’s naked butt moving on top of my mom, I began putting things together. But not really.

My cousins’ parents didn’t always get along, so the yelling and cursing and throwing of things wasn’t all that unusual. However, their house’s always felt more peaceful, more relaxed than mine.

My mom had all kinds of rules that didn’t make sense to me. We weren’t allowed to close our bedroom doors, for example: until my brother began hurting me, and then my mother found him doing so many years later. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. He never hurt me sexually, but brutally, enacting what he called giant squeezes on my upper arm until they were covered with bruises or kicking me in the abdomen whenever he thought no one was looking.

In a way I understood his violence because our father was violent. I never saw him hurt my mom, but he did hurt my bother and I (never our younger sister).

My mom clearly played favorites, up until the day she lost the ability to speak, which was when her mind failed.

She protected my brother from my dad, hiding any graded papers with less than stellar marks, calling my brother inside whenever my dad got a little too loud in his condemnations. She hovered over my sister, surrounding her in a shield-like protective vise, afraid that if someone, notably me, upset her, that my sister would have another petit-mal seizure. (Those stopped around age nine, just like the doctor had predicted, but it didn’t remove the shield).

Mom wouldn’t let us enter other kids’ houses and refused entry to those very same kids. On her good days, we were allowed to play with them outside, but as soon as they wanted to go inside, we had to return home. This lasted until I went away to college.

The one aspect of her parenting that I understood, in some deep-seated way, was her ability to divide us against each other.

My brother was smarter than me. True, but she didn’t have to remind me. My sister was the smartest of us all. Also true, but considering how she was allowed to waste all that brilliance when my brother and I were punished, severely, if our grades didn’t meet mom’s expectations, hurt.

My brother and I played high school sports. I, as short as I am, was on the basketball team and for a brief time, on softball as well. I was great at stealing the basketball from rival teams, but was too short to score baskets. Softball scared me. It was much bigger than a hardball, which I could throw and catch and hit with ease.

When I stood at the plate, with a confident air, I expected to send the softball well into the outfield, but time after time, it never made it even to second base. I quit when I realized I’d never make the team.

My dad had taught my brother and I to bowl when we each turned twelve. By the time we were in high school, we were quite good. Both of us tried out for and made it on the same bowling team. We played against all the high schools in our area, and generally won, depending upon how well our other two teammates did.

My sister joined her elementary track team, for one season. I attended one of her meets, in an attempt to show interest. She did pretty well. She didn’t come in first, but she was always near the top.

One thing that was the same for all three of us: our parents never came to see any of us play.

Later on, when my brother and I both had kids, my parents went to see my brother’s girls swim for their respective teams, then would brag about how well they did.

My kids swam, played baseball, soccer and softball. We lived just a few miles away from my parents, yet they couldn’t be bothered to support our kids. (My brother, for a time, lived in southern California, then moved out to San Ramon.)

One year, when it was time to return to college, my brother had bought an old convertible which he intended to drive to Los Angeles. My dad felt my brother needed his support, so took turns driving. That was the only time one of our parents visited our college, not even for graduation. (One reason, among many, why I didn’t attend the ceremony, something I still regret many years later.)

It was once grandchildren arrived that my mom resumed her Great Divider role.

My brother’s daughters were smarter, more talented, better all around, than my kids. His potty-trained faster, walked earlier, talked in complete sentences sooner, and so on. Everything they did was bigger and better.

My sister never had any kids, but her dogs were cuter, better trained, sweeter, than any of our dogs.

My brother’s many houses were in better neighborhoods than ours. True, if better meant more hoity-toity than ours. They only lived in upscale neighborhoods, on hills in reclusive areas, while we live in the flatlands.

My brother’s furniture was better than ours. Also true, for we couldn’t afford brand new. Instead, we bought slightly used or relied on hand-me-downs.

 My sister-in-law was a better decorator. True. I had no sense of style and no money to coordinate colors and designs.

My sister, now, there was the decorator in the family! When you have neo kids, you can furnish your house with white everything complimented by off-white others.

When I was ushering kids off to school or sports or events, my sister was gardening. She even spent time chasing spiders back into her neighbor’s yards. When caught, she condemned the neighbor for secretly planting spiders on her side of the fence. (My mom believed my sister!)

My sister was the better cook, serving fancy things she’d learned from cookbooks. That’s true. I relied on the Campbell’s cookbook, in which all recipes were made from….Campbell’s soup! Basic, but edible.

My brother could BBQ better than my husband. I beg to differ on that one, for my husband is a darn good cook.

These comparisons made me dread seeing my siblings. I didn’t truly believe they were better in all ways, than I was, but deep in my soul, a part of me thought there might be a smidgin of truth. That they were, truly better than I in all the various ways in which we had been compared.

It made the requisite family gatherings painful. Because of my mom’s watchful eyes, I never got to truly know my nieces. Not when they were young, and still not today when they are in their forties.

I don’t really know my sister’s husband. The few times we were together, he seemed like a really good guy. He’s patient and forgiving. He stayed with my sister through drug and alcohol addiction and is supporting her obsession with cross training. He seems like the kind of person I’d like to know.

As my mom’s mind began to fail, she wrote things down. When I called and how long we talked. What we talked about. What I served when they came for dinner. How long they were in our house.

She never asked how our kids were doing, never attended a wedding, never gave gifts to them and never called them.

She attended all three of my brother’s daughter’s weddings, gave them gifts and called them regularly.

My sister was married three times. My mom attended all three.

When I spoke with my mom, she only spoke about my siblings. She didn’t want to hear what I was doing, what my kids were doing, what my husband was doing. I once tried telling her about what it was like to finally become a teacher, and she didn’t want to hear about it.

She told me all about my sibling’s different jobs, in great detail.

When my mom passed away, if felt as if the anchor had been removed from around my neck. I no longer had to hear about my inferiorities, my failures as wife and mother, my inability to decorate properly (when my mom was dirt poor most of her life, she learned “decorating” from women’s magazines.)

I no longer dreaded the ringing of the phone or the unexpected opening of the kitchen door.

My dad lived several years more. He married within two years of my mother’s passing to a sweet, caring woman. She was easy to be with. As an excellent listener, she was eager to hear about my family. She wasn’t a very good cook, so she loved coming to our house. She never criticized the food I put on the table.

In many ways, she was more of a mother to me than my real mom ever was.

When my dad died, all hell broke loose.

I never knew how much my siblings disliked my dad’s wife. It was way beyond dislike. They hated her, believed she had married my dad for his wealth (which was a joke as my dad only had the “mobile” home in which they lived and an old truck.)

My phone rang constantly, mostly my sister, condemning me for loving my dad’s wife. It was as if my mother had been resurrected, now in the body of my sister. All the old hates and envies and jealousies sprang forth anew, but more cutting, more vicious, more targeted toward me.

It reached a point when I refused to answer the phone.

Now the caller pops up on our television and on our phones.  If my sister’s number appeared, I wouldn’t answer.

She did post something on my daughter’s Fb, all cheery and wanting to reconnect. I disregarded the request.

My brother had gone out of his way to mend broken fences. He calls regularly. He’s been sharing photos of the ghetto in which we first lived and the houses we subsequently moved into.

He asks questions about my family and my health.

While he shares little, very private, like our mom had been, just hearing the tone of his voice feels good.

I’ve begun reminding him of things we did in our younger years. What seemed hurtful then, is now something we can chuckle over.

The Great Divider had been gone a good, long time, but the effects of her manipulations carry on.

Winter Memories

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            My family moved to Beavercreek, Ohio just before the beginning of my fourth-grade year of elementary school. We used to live in the city, but now we were out in the country, far from everything.

            In order to drive my brother and I to school, which was in Dayton, my mother had to learn how to drive. She was a nervous wreck, which I could understand considering my dad’s short fuse. But, she pushed on, despite what I assumed were many terrifying hours in the car, being yelled at by my dad. Eventually she passed the test and got her license.

            My dad purchased a beat-up Ford business coupe for her to drive. It had no back seat, no heat. When it was hot, only the two front windows opened and little air made it back to where we sat atop piles of cushions and blankets. We felt every bump, every pot hole.

            When winter came along, my mom still had to drive us to school, despite roads covered in slippery snow. She must have driven with hands tightly clenched on the steering wheel, hoping not to slide into another vehicle or off the road.

            One plus about where we now lived was that the houses were terraced: The one to our north sat slightly higher than our house, while the one to the south was a short hill below.

            Ohio can be incredibly cold in the winter. I recall one such winter when it snowed so much that our boots sank so deeply through the crust that our knees got soaked.

            The crust froze, making a slick surface perfect for running and sliding downhill. It also seemed perfect for building an igloo.

            My brother used a shovel to chop out blocks of snow. Working together, we piled them on top of each other, one by one, forming an igloo. We were incredibly proud of our accomplishment and could hardly wait to go inside.

            The next morning, before the sun could melt our construction, my brother and I got down on hands and knees and crept through the opening. Our gloves and pants were drenched, but initially we didn’t mind.

            It was quiet inside. Sunlight filtered through the upper blocks, creating a mystical glow reminiscent of fantasy stories my brother had been reading.

            I’d just learned to read (yes, I was slow to catch on), but thanks to a kind librarian who walked me to the nonfiction section where a series of books about Indigenous tribes of North America. I read them all, thanks to the help of black-and-white illustrations, and memorized minute details about their cultures, foods, dress, ceremonies, housing and all tiny details that enriched my understanding.

            One of my favorite books was about the Eskimos, now the Inuit. I was intrigued by the seal-skin clothing they wore, their kayaks, their methods of hunting, and their igloos. I read into the descriptions, imagining families seated on furs, cooking over fires, and huddling together sharing stories.

            As my brother and I sat inside our creation, I spoke of all I’d learned. It was the first time in my life where I knew more than my older brother.

            Some winters were light on snow, but thanks to freezing nighttime temperatures, the yard was quite slippery. While I’d never seen an ice-skating rink except on television, in my mind, our yard was just as slick.

            We had an old Red Flyer sled that someone had given us. Our dad rubbed the rust off the runners until he was sure it would glide smoothly.

            My brother and I would pull the sled up the hill and well into our neighbor’s yard. We’d run together, my brother in the lead, and once we were going pretty fast, he’d jump on, leaving enough space for me behind him.

            On a good day, we’d fly down that hill, sail across our yard, then down the hill into the next. We’d do this over and over until the quality of the snow changed.

            On the last winter before we moved to California, very little snow fell despite it being incredibly cold. When I stood at the bus stop waiting for the school but to arrive, the scarf around my face became encrusted with ice, my fingers and toes burned and I shivered from head to toe.

            One night a brisk wind came up and the temperature dropped drastically. We stayed warm, thanks to many blankets and cups of hot chocolate.

            The next morning, to our surprise, icicles hung from power lines, roofs, and even door handles. Most of them were quite long, perhaps a foot or two, with sharp points. They’d break off with a resounding crack, then fall to the ground where they’d shatter into millions of pieces.

            Even though I was fourteen and supposedly knew better, I was convinced that if one struck the top of my head, it would cleave my skull in half.

            There was one very weird thing about what snow did fall: on the north side of the house it stood higher than the peak of the roof, while on the other side, dirt showed through the sparse cover.

            While I cherish these memories, I am grateful to be living in California, in a part of the state where it doesn’t snow.

Yearning to be Popular

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            My mom was an isolationist. Even though I didn’t know the term when I was little, I still felt the effects. No one was allowed inside the family home, and when I was old enough to have friends, I wasn’t permitted inside anyone else’s/

            When I was in college, I finally understood her reasoning. My family had moved while I was away at school. My dad ventured, almost daily, up and down the street, talking to anyone he found outside. This rankled my mom. She believed that the only reason people wanted to befriend either of my parents was so they’d have gossip material.

            So, back to when I was a kid. When we moved to a house in Dayton, a couple of little girls lived across the street. They played outside nearly every day, riding bikes, playing with dolls, or just sitting on the porch talking. I’d watch them through our front windows, yearning to be part of their group.

            When my mom finally grew tired of my whining, she let me go over to speak with them. The girls were hesitant to let me join in, but after they had a side conversation, they agreed. I told them I wasn’t allowed inside their house and that they couldn’t come in mine.

            They tormented me, teased me, belittled me, until after laughing about my supposedly torn shorts, I gave up on trying to be a part of their group.

            When I went to Kindergarten, I had no idea what to expect. My mom had told me I was stupid and so needed extra schooling (that my older, smarter brother didn’t need).

            It turned out she was right, for while I worked on preschool skills, my classmates were learning to sound out letters and to do basic math. When playground time came around, no one would play with me, so I made tracks in the sandbox, over and over, day after day.

            First grade my parents enrolled me in a Catholic school, a good long walk downhill in the morning, uphill in the afternoon. It didn’t take my teacher long to figure out that I was far behind my peers. My seat was changed to be in the first row, and I was assigned the lowest reading group, which was too advanced for me.

            Outside in the playground, my classmates called me all the expected names: retard, dummy, idiot and so forth. I walked the perimeter of the playground, day after day. Until one little girl joined me. We quickly became good friends. We’d walk together, and eat our lunches sitting side-by-side on a bench.

            One morning when my mom was brushing my hair, I told her I wanted braids like my friend’s. She was willing, until I explained that they were all over her head, with cute plastic barrettes at the end of each.

            The next day at school, my friend didn’t play with me. I didn’t understand what had changed, and she wouldn’t tell me. She went off to her side of the playground, leaving me to my side.

            When I got home, I cried as I told my mom what had happened. She told me she’d called the principal and told her that I was not to have a “N….” as a friend.

            I went through the next several years without a friend, my eyes following the popular girls, wishing I was included. There were many reasons, in my mind, why I stood out. My uniforms were hand-me-downs, faded and baggy. I was painfully shy and if one of them did speak to me, I couldn’t answer. I was still at the bottom of my class, in the lowest reading group, which marked me as being stupid.

            One time, I think I was in fourth grade, I really had to use the restroom during recess. When I entered, the popular girls were in there. They laughed when they saw me. Once I was inside the stall, they made comments about how I smelled of urine, that all fat people smelled, that they could smell me even in the classroom.

            I leaned over and smelled my panties, but didn’t find an odor. I didn’t understand why they’d say such lies, but it hurt my feelings. I stayed in the stall, listening to their taunts, until the bell rang.

            That same year I got invited to a slumber party. I don’t know why as I wasn’t part of that group, or any group. My mom insisted I go. She drove me into downtown Dayton and bought me brand new pajamas and underwear. I knew we had little money and understood this would be a burden on the family.

            On the day of the party, I feigned illness, but my mom didn’t believe me and so made me go.

            The girls were already in the bedroom, gathered on the bed, looking at a magazine. They made me sit at the foot, far from them. They shared an article about how to tell if someone was a lesbian. I’d never heard that term before, so had no clue what they were talking about.

            One of the hints was hairy arms and legs. They examined mine and declared I was a lesbian. For the rest of the night, they treated me as if I had cuties. I begged to go home, and eventually the parent called mine. On the way home I was lectured about overreacting.

            Well, I wasn’t. The next day at school, those girls told everyone I was a lesbian. When in line, everyone gave me a wide berth. When eating lunch, no one would sit near me. I church, they’d leave a huge space in between us.

            Fortunately, I was “punished” by being sent to lunchtime detention. You’d think I would have been miserable, but sitting in the upstairs classroom with a kind sister who helped me with my schoolwork, turned out to be the medicine I needed.

            Because of her kind attention, I made slow but steady academic progress. For the rest of the school year, I climbed those stairs.

            I still kept an eye on the popular girls, dreaming of being one of them, despite knowing how cruelly they’d treated me.

            The next school year I transferred to the public middle school where I knew no one. Being thrust into this strange environment was terrifying. Just like I’d done all my life thus far, I sat by myself during recesses and lunch, worked alone even on those few times when the teacher assigned group work (no one wanted me in their group).

            I knew who the popular kids were in this school. It’s easy to spot them. They walk in groups with heads held high. They wear the nicest clothes, the most fashionable shoes and jackets, and speak and laugh loudly. They stare at the outcasts, point fingers, make rude comments and do anything that makes them feel better about themselves.

            By this time, as I entered high school, I gave up all dreams of being popular. I kept my head down, did my schoolwork, and found quiet places on the playground where no one could find me.

            Thanks to the kind sister back in the Catholic school, I was no longer behind academically. In fact, my grades were now the best in the class. When a math teacher needed someone to work a complex problem on the board, I was chosen.

            We moved to California after I completed my freshman year.

            I hoped that a new school, in a new state, would be the fresh start I needed on the road to popularity.

            It wasn’t. Nothing had changed except that I excelled academically. I completed high school with no friends.

In the play “Wicked” one of the songs is about being popular. Elphaba, who has been ostracized by her family and her classmates for being green, is assigned to share a room with the ditsy Galinda. Galinda decides to remake Elphaba in her image, guaranteeing popularity.

We know the end of the story, that it doesn’t work because nothing can change that Elphaba is green.

In my case, nothing could change the fact that I was shy, convinced that I was lacking in many ways, that despite my academic success that I was a failure. My parents reminded me of this whenever I was home from college.

As a teacher, I was well aware of how these groups form and how they close out anyone who doesn’t fit their definition of popularity. I tried to keep those divisions out of the classroom, but it takes constant monitoring which changes nothing.

We see it in our daily lives. The popular adults win elections despite not having a platform, they get the promotions even though others did the work. They are put in charge of committees and assign others to do the grunt work, but when the task is complete, they take credit.

Popular adults are invited to parties, to go to the theater, to go out for lunch, to join even more groups where their popularity is enhanced.

At my age I no longer to be one of the popular ones. I’ve learned how very shallow they are, how they value idol worship and ring-kissing about all else. How they only want sycophants around them, how they yearn for more and more accolades not caring who they hurt on the way up.

I wish there was a way to go back in time and show the little me that popularity is not a value to strive for. Imagine how different my life might have been!

Overwhelmed

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            Things keep happening that distract me from writing. Health issues are at the top.

I’m still struggling with long Covid, which makes me lethargic, makes my body ache, makes my limbs feel as if they are being sucked down into the earth. It freezes my brain, stealing written words before they can be written. Before they are even fully developed into thoughts.

There’s nothing that can be done that my doctor hasn’t tried. She’s constantly searching for new ideas, but no one really knows what to do to help people like me.

Then there’s my big toe. The nail decided to crumble, then had to be removed. Once the anesthetic wore off, the pain was incredible. Worse than before. It made sleep difficult. With a fuzzy brain, I had another excuse for not being able to write.

On to my knee. Getting out of my car, there was an audible pop, followed by intense pain. I’d partially torn my MCL and quad on my right knee. Once again, throbbing, while the big toe on the other foot still hurt.

Next came the pinkie on my left foot. It decided to swell up so much so that it couldn’t bend. Try walking when your toe won’t bend!

Once the toes settled down and the tears began to heal, the “hitch” I’d had in my right knee worsened. Whenever I want to straighten my leg, I have to hook my left foot under my calf and pull up.

There’s an audible pop, followed by pain. I’ve had this for a couple of years, but after the tears, things worsened. It’s now excruciatingly painful, so much so that I cry out.

This week I learned that the knee will have to be replaced, for a third time!

Then there are the pleasures.

My husband and I love going to the theater for live performances as well as to see a movie. It seems like all of our reservations popped up within the same two weeks! I’m not complaining as I got to see three amazing plays and two fantastic movies, but when I’m sitting in the theater, I’m not even thinking about writing.

Well, that’s not exactly true, but close.

Anyway, those are my excuses for falling behind on my posts!