Category Archives: True story

Confessions of an Eight-Year-Old Criminal

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            This is an embarrassing, yet true story.

            When you’re a kid, a poor kid, it’s painful to walk through stores and see all the wonders on display, things you’d dearly love to have, but know that you can’t.

At young ages, you have little concept about money, what it takes to get it and how quickly it’s spent. You might have heard your parents arguing about the costs of things, or about bills, or about how they’re going to pay the rent.

It isn’t until you’re much older that you discover exactly how much money is needed to house and feed yourself, let alone buy thrills like a piece of costume jewelry of a new pair of jeans.

What you do understand is that there are things you can’t have.

            Even now, all these years later, I still recall how wide my eyes felt whenever I saw a stuffed animal I’d love to cuddle or a pretty dress with lace and ribbons that would have been perfect for church.

I remember being a little sneak. As soon as I knew my parents weren’t watching, I’d sneak in a touch. Sometimes that little bit would be satisfying enough until the next time.

When I started school, I realized there was a difference between my clothes and those of my peers: between my battered lunch box and the shiny ones my peers carried. Even between what was inside those boxes opened my eyes to the possibilities out there in the world.

It would never have crossed my mind to take something that wasn’t mine. In no way would I have reached into someone’s lunch box and helped myself to the chocolate chip cookies inside. Or taken my neighbor’s brand-new pencil.

I’d learned in catechism that stealing was a sin, as was jealousy and envy.

I never took toys from my siblings or raided my mother’s purse, in fact, I’d never even contemplated it. I understood that such behavior was unacceptable and if I did do those things, I’d be severely punished.

            There were times when I wanted something so badly that the yearning was all-consuming: it dominated my thinking, making concentrating on anything else nearly impossible.

            My mother’s favorite store, when we still lived in Ohio, was what she called the five-and-dime. It was an all-purpose store that sold everything from deodorant to fabrics to toys to books. It’s shelves were always stocked full, from top to bottom, with colorful doodads and whirligigs, wonderful to behold.

            My sister’s birthday was approaching. My mom wanted to decorate her cake in some special way. Off we went to the store, and quickly arrived in the cake decorating aisle. My eyes were drawn to the paper umbrellas. They were at my eye-level, arranged neatly in a bin. All were opened, showing off their beautiful pastel colors and wooden stick bodies.

They called to me, telling me to pick them up. To take at least one home. More than once my fingers reached out, but then I’d draw them back. I did this over and over, hoping my mother would see my desire and tell me to choose the one I wanted the most.

I grew bold, picked one out, held it up to my mother and asked her to buy it for me. I hoped for a “Why, yes, my darling daughter,” but half-expected a glower. What I should have seen coming was a sharp slap, a slap so hard that it sent my hand flying backwards.

            Normally that would have been enough to chase away that desire, but it only served to increase it to a fever pitch. I could not turn away even when I tried. I couldn’t fight off the feeling that the umbrella wanted me to take it home. All I wanted was one, just one, of any color.

            It was taking my mother a long time to select the things she needed, which meant I stood in front of that display for a long, long time.

When my mom denied my request, I told myself that the store owner would want me to have it. In fact, that if the owner knew how badly I wanted it and knew that there was no money to buy a little girl something so pretty, so tiny, the owner would walk over and tell me to choose my favorite to take home.

            I’d convinced myself that I deserved a treat, that it was meant to be mine. And so when my mother turned and walked away, I stuffed the pink umbrella in the pocket of my shorts, hoping that its tiny sticks didn’t break.

            I was so happy that it was hard not to skip through the store. But as time passed, the reality of what I’d done set in. My hands trembled, my eyes filled with tears and my heart beat thumpity-thump.

I reached into my pocket just to check that it was still there. I “willed” my mother to return to the cake decorating aisle so I could put it back, but she went straight to the cash register.

            The store owner looked at me and smiled. My eyes flew to the floor as heat blossomed on my cheeks. Even when he offered me a lollipop, I couldn’t look at him because I thought he’d be able to see the guilt in my eyes.

My mother chitchatted a bit while her purchases were rung up. They were put in a small brown bag, and then we went to the car.

            I’d seen enough television shows to expect alarm bells and police coming to arrest me. While none of that happened, a part of me wanted it to.

            Instead, I sat in the back seat of the car, waiting for the words of disapproval, but they didn’t come. Nothing was said when we got home and I didn’t even have to help unpack the bag.

It wasn’t until hours later, when my mom walked into my room and saw my playing with the umbrella, that anything was said.

            She didn’t spank me, but she did take the umbrella away with an angry look on her face.

            When my dad came home from work, my mom confronted him at the door, holding up the umbrella. She told him I was a thief. She was right, but it stung to hear the accusation.

He immediately removed his belt and repeatedly struck me on my backside. Over and over he hit me until I was sure that it must have turned bright red.

It hurt to sit down for many days.

            It was a long drive, so we normally only went when necessary. Therefor I was surprised when the very next day my mom drove into town, parked in front of the store, and escorted me to the counter. She stood there as I confessed, arms crossed over her chest and an indignant look on her face.

            The owner didn’t want the umbrella back, which made me happy and grateful. My mother, however, was not pleased. She begged the owner to take the umbrella, which was now a bit wrinkled, or, if he refused, to call the police.

The man smiled at me, shook his head, then asked us to leave. My mother pushed me out of the store, lecturing about how I had embarrassed her and that I was lucky that the owner was not going to press charges.

            You’d think that I’d learned an important lesson and that my life of crime had ended.

Not so.

When school resumed in September my mother signed me up for a Brownie Girl Scout troop that was meeting after school. This worked out for her as my brother was playing football for the first time.

I’d be busy doing Brownie things while my mother watched my brother’s practices.

I never understood why I was a Brownie for I’d never asked to be one. Only the popular girls belonged, all wearing the brown uniforms to school on meeting days.

Not a one of them ever spoke to me except to make fun of my old-fashioned faded blue jumper.

Years later I figured out why: they probably hoped I’d develop morals or that, since I was socially awkward, that I’d learn to belong.

            Things went fairly well the first few meetings. I’d do whatever the adults told me to, but always alone. When it was necessary to partner-up, an adult would have to be mine. If I needed help with a project, the mothers were too busy, as the other girls needed them more.

Week after week, I followed the Brownies to the meeting room, them in fancy uniforms, me in my school jumper. It was obvious I didn’t belong.

 I’d begged to quit, but my mother refused, saying it would be good for me.

I don’t recall why a leader brought out a huge bag of brightly colored rubber bands. Even now, I have no idea what kind of project would involve decorating with different colors of bands. What I did know was that I wanted them. Not just the two we were supposed to use, but the entire bag.

            I was transfixed by the myriad of colors inside that bag, each one calling my name. Over and over I heard the bands, begging me to take them home.

            I still remembered the umbrella incident, not so much the embarrassment of facing the store owner, but the pain of the beating. I moved a chair or two away, far enough that I couldn’t reach out and touch them.

Distance didn’t lesson the call. In fact, the opposite happened. There was an aching hollow in my chest, a hole that could only be filled by that bag of bands. All I could think about was what it would feel like to own them.

            My project wasn’t finished when it was time to clean up. The leader said I could take two bands home with me in case one of mine broke. I lingered around the table while the other girls put away the various things we’d used during the meeting.

Knowing that they were busy, that no one was looking at me, I reached for the bag, hoping someone would see me and stop me from doing what I knew I was going to do.

Because it didn’t happen, I saw it as a sign. A miracle. Those rubber bands were supposed to go be mine. I picked up the bag and walked toward the tub where all supplies were kept. But, the closer I got, the harder my heart beat until I was struggling to breathe.

            At the last minute, instead of dropping them into the container, I turned around and went to my school bag. I slid the package in with my homework, zipped it closed, then stood by the door waiting to leave.

            I knew I had done wrong and so I expected to be caught, by either my leader or by my mother. Neither happened and so I got the rubber bands all the way home and into my bedroom without notice.

            Time passed and the bag was never found, never discussed. Every time the phone rang, I expected it to be a leader, telling my mother what I had done.

The phone rang several times, but all I heard was me being uninvited, that I could never return to the Brownies.

Was it worth it? Well, yes and no. While I never derived any pleasure from the rubber bands, which had been my hope, I no longer had to share space with girls who despised me.

            Eventually I stuffed the bag in the huge garbage can outside.

            There were times when I wanted something as passionately as before, but the threat of being caught and disciplined was too much.

            Whenever something called my name, I forced myself to walk away.

I might not have been the best student academically, I wasn’t as intelligent as either of my siblings, but in this case, I learned my lesson so well that I never stole again.

Many Long Years

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My path wasn’t always paved with smooth stones.

The bumps and crags caused me to stumble,

To veer away from my God,

Thankfully not for long.

Life would be good for a while

I’d pass a difficult class,

Date a nice man

But then an obstacle would rise up

It’s not that I forgot how loving God could be,

Or that I lost faith in His love.

I’d get lost in my own drama

Thankfully not for long.

I’d forget to look up

And enjoy the blue sky above.

Be mesmerized by the clouds floating by

Instead, I’d plod along lost in my sadness

.

I thought I had no one to turn to.

No one who’d care if I bared my soul.

Not one single person who’d dry my tears.

Thankfully it didn’t last for long.

When my world fell apart, dragging me into the depths

I’d wallow in misery, tears washing my face,

Blocking my vision so completely

That no joy, no hope could penetrate.

But then something wonderful happened,

My husband-to-be entered my world

And everything changed.

Thankfully for a good, long time.

He was there to bolster me up when

Sadness weighed on my shoulders.

He was there when I felt incompetent,

Incapable of succeeding in whatever I chose to do.

He showed me the blue sky, the clouds drifting by.

He held my hand and made me feel loved.

Together we laughed and smiled.

Thankfully for a good, long time.

He brought God into my life.

Together we’d pray, attend Mass,

Take classes to be better parents.

Walk with me when the path got bumpy.

He changed my life in so many ways.

And still does, all these years later.

He’s shown me unconditional love.

Thankfully for a good, long time.

My Soul Doth Magnify the Lord

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I never believed those words,

From a psalm we sing at church,

Applied to me.

I was the outcast

The odd one out

The unlovable one, according to my parents.

I held onto hope

That something would happen

To change my life’s circumstances

But my thoughts

Barely made a dent

In where I was going.

All it took was a glimpse

Of a future filled with love

A future with the man who’d become my husband.

He taught me love

Love of family and home

Love of God who, does indeed, take care of my soul.

My eyes were opened

For the first time.

I saw a person deserving of love

A person who was intelligent

Capable, loving, and full of ideas

My vision was realigned.

I knew now that I didn’t have to see everything

That I didn’t have to have all the answers\

My God would be there, helping me along the way.

The Lord is greater than any worries I might have.

He’s louder than negative thoughts that fill my brain

He’s so strong that my weaknesses fall away.

He brings me hope, love, faith in myself

Amplified through Him and my husband.

My soul, does indeed, magnify the Lord.

Stripping Away the Old

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Some women keep their maiden name when they marry. The reasons are varied, but deeply personal. Meanwhile, some hyphenate the combination of last names, which is another way to hang onto the maiden name.

Me, no. I hated my name because it identified me as a member of a dysfunctional family. A family in which I was ridiculed, harassed, tormented and belittled. As long as that name was mine, I couldn’t shed myself of that identity.

If I’d lived somewhere far away from my family, I might have felt differently, but when I returned home after college, everywhere I went someone knew my dad. And he was not a nice person.

My dad had a viscous temper and never forgot or forgave a perceived wrong. He’d been let go from a variety of jobs once typesetting jobs disappeared. He claimed each time that it wasn’t his fault, that so-and-so had done….something that he got blamed for.

You can believe it the first time, but not the second or third.

My family was big into bowling. We’d travel down the peninsula bowling in every alley, collecting Green Stamps, which was huge in the early 1970s.

If my dad’s score was high, he’d brag to everyone and anyone. When it was low, he’d complain loudly, blaming the slickness of the lanes, the “grease” that accumulated on his ball, the pin setting machine, anything but his own lack of skill that day.

In other words, my dad’s reputation got the entire family banned.

Being a Haack, carrying that easily remembered last name, caused me no amount of regret. Whenever I had to identify myself, I’d garner evil looks, threats to behave, or face an ouster from the facility.

Needless to say, I hated my name.

I was fairly naïve when still in my early twenties, so I knew nothing about the legal way to change names. I’d dreamt about it, but I didn’t know how to do it. I also feared my family’s wrath if I did so.

So when I fell in love, I knew that I’d take on my husband’s last name. Connelly is a million times better than Haack.

I wish I had also changed my first name.

Teresa was a dolt, a stupid kid who didn’t know anything when she started school. Teresa was a shy, easily humiliated kid who carried her family’s torments on her shoulders. Teresa was an unlikable, obese little girl who hid in her desk, even up to and throughout high school.

My friends called me Terry, but there were few of them. I wasn’t allowed to go to other kids’ houses and no one could come to mine. I never invited anyone over, and for good reason.

First, I knew my mother wouldn’t approve. Second, my family was an embarrassment. Temper explosions happened regularly, with no rhyme or reason. If I did have a friend over, there was an excellent possibility that she’d witness a scene that would soon be all over the school.

I discovered that I could be both Teresa and Terry. Teresa was my formal identity: used for signing checks and legal documents. It was how I was known at work, which, in my mind, gave me a sense of authority when I knocked on doors collecting delinquent federal taxes.

Terry was my real identity. Terry went backpacking. Terry went skiing, camping, on car rides with her one friend. Terry attended concerts and dressed in the casual clothes she loved.

Marriage gave me permission to carve out a new identity. I could be Terry Connelly, an interesting wife and mother, a person who returned to college to pursue her teaching credential, a dream she’d held for years.

Terry Connelly was the treasurer for the Parent’s Club at her kids’ school, a mistake as she hated finances, but she kept accurate books. She was an officer in the Womens’ Guild, eventually being elected President.

She was a preschool teacher, then taught elementary. She returned to college to get a degree in Physical Education, then switched to Special Education.

Teresa could never have done that. Once she was in a program, she stayed for fear of failure.

It’s amazing the difference a name makes.

Where one holds you down, the other can set you free.

Shedding a hated name was the most wonderful thing I’d ever done.

“Brain Fog” While Writing

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Those who has suffered COVID-19 often experience what scientists refer to as “Brain fog”. It’s not a medical condition, but rather a set of symptoms that, according to WebMd, affect your ability to think, cause a sense of confusion and make it difficult to focus or put thoughts into words.

Harvard Health describes it as a feeling of being sluggish, fuzzy or generally not sharp.

            Brain Fog covers a wide range of symptoms, including poor concentration, feeling confused, thinking more slowly than usual, being forgetful, and suffering mental fatigue. According to the NHS, it can feel similar to sleep deprivation or even stress, but is not the same as dementia.

            I recently contracted COVID after a trip to Arizona to spend time with a good friend.

            I’d had difficulty breathing when I boarded the plane to fly home, so was unable to keep my mask on. I understood the risk I was taking, but I was fully vaccinated, with all but the most recent booster in my arm.

            Four days later I joined friends for a wonderful lunch. I felt perfectly fine or I wouldn’t have gone. I enjoyed lunch, eating every bite of my Napa Cabbage salad. It tasted as delicious as usual.

            After lunch, we strolled through beautiful Benecia, enjoying our time together.

            On the drive home, within about twenty minutes of saying goodbye, congestion began. By the time I got home an hour later, it hurt to breathe, my head was completed stuffed and I wasn’t thinking clearly.

            I’d had COVID once before, so I knew the symptoms. I gave myself the test: it came back positive.

            I alerted my friends, emailed my doctor, then collapsed on the couch under a nice, warm blanket.

            I lived there for several days.

            I am not a patient person. I don’t like to sit still for too long unless I am deep in the writing process. I go to the gym nearly every day, working out for close to an hour each time. Once a week I hike up and down steep hills with a friend and on Fridays I walk the neighborhood with my husband.

            Late mornings and early afternoons I write. Every day.

            That’s my routine.

            But when COVID hits, my only thought is to bundle up. For a while. Then I have to get up and check out the symptoms, to see if there’s been improvement.

            This bout of the virus was particularly devastating. I experience a ton of symptoms, from the expected fatigue, slight fever, loss of taste and smell. But the meds they gave me to fight the virus caused a bad taste in my mouth that lasted for the length of the treatment.

            There was sleeplessness and an intense physical fatigue that still plagues me. I’m good for about thirty minutes of slow walking, and that’s it.

            I love working jigsaw puzzles, but found I couldn’t concentrate on putting together pieces.

            I had photos from a recent cruise to upload: I accidentally deleted four that there’s no way to borrow from the Internet.

            Most devastating was my ability to write.

I’ve been in the process of editing a novel that an agent requested. I’d made it to the halfway mark and was feeling quite positive about the changes I’d made.

COVID hit, and I could barely read the words through my blurred vision. My eyes burned and stung like a bad allergic reaction, causing pain whenever I tried to read.

The worst part was Brain Fog.

I could read a sentence, but not remember what I’d read. I could see what needed to be changed, but would make stupid typos that ruined the piece.

Incomplete sentences, missing letters, dialogue that made no sense.

I’d work on a few pages when I was strong enough to sit, then the next day have to edit those same pages. And then the next day repeat. And so on.

The fog is beginning to lift. After all, I am writing this, right? But does it make sense? Is my grammar okay? Did I use sentences and correct word endings?

I’ve made a conscious decision to leave this piece as it is, in the hopes that someone will read it and understand.

I know people who’ve made a choice not to get vaccinated. That’s fine as long as their circle of friends doesn’t mind.

As long as they confine themselves to a like minded circle of acquaintances that feel the same.

But…as soon as that person walks into my world, the world of an older woman who has chronic asthma, then that person’s decision impacts my health, my life.

And that’s not right.

Our decisions shouldn’t cause adverse harm to others.

Choosing to not vaccinate against a virus that’s killed over a million Americans affects me, children with lowered immune systems, those struggling against diseases such as cancer, and anyone over a certain age.

Brain Fog is very real.

For someone who loves words, having them stolen from you because of someone’s callous disregard to vaccination, seems almost criminal.

And then there’s the fact that my breathing infected air had on my friend!

There’s a circle of contacts that each of us has. Our closest friends and family are most impacted by viruses and diseases we contract.

As the layers of circles expand, there is less and less possibility of us infecting those in the outer rings.

But, that day I spent time in a tiny local bookstore. I spoke with the waitress. I used the restaurant’s utensils. I strolled through several cute stores, looking at merchandise. I bought two unique cookies at a tiny bakery. And before hitting the freeway, I used the restroom at McDonald’s where I then ordered a soda.

Although I felt fine, I was spreading germs like crazy.

I wonder how many I infected? Is the owner of the book store okay? What about the nice clerk at McDonald’s?

I can’t spend time worrying about them: all I can do is take care of me.

The Fog is slowly dissipating, but the effects, according to the sources I checked, might linger for several weeks. And if I get long-term COVID, they might persist for months or even years.

Please, for the sake of those you might not know, toss off your resistance to vaccination. Get the boosters. Don’t go out if you have a cough. Test yourself often. Be kind to yourself, but most importantly to those you might not know.

A Different Kind of Bravery

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By nature I am not a brave person. Put me in a room with unfamiliar people and I cannot speak. I don’t embrace change and am incredibly happy living my life.

Yet when I think back over the years, a number of events arise in which I had to fight against my nature and be brave.

As a young child I preferred my own company, so going to school was a frightening experience. As the years passed I did not get braver, but I did learn how to function within the system. And I did it on my own. No teacher, no school counselor helped me negotiate the ins and outs of school. Because I kept to myself, I did so without the benefit of friends.

So going off to college required a tremendous amount of bravery.  This was a new experience in a foreign environment. I was terrified. But as time passed I made a few friends.

Finding a job scared me. It meant entering unfamiliar places, approaching unfamiliar and often cold people, and facing repeated rejection. Once I did get hired, there was the problem of working in a new environment with strange people.

I would like to think that age has brought me confidence, but it hasn’t. What it has given me is the understanding of myself and the ability to move into new places despite the terror that such things create.

It also helps that I am blessed with a husband who encourages me to step outside my box and go out into the world. Because of him I travel, write, and sing. Because of him I get out of the house and join clubs, go to luncheons and meet up with friends.

Sometimes I wonder how different I might have been if there had been someone like him in my life from the first time I ever left the house as a child.

Because of my husband I am learning to be brave.

Solo Traveler

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            I hated traveling with my family. In fact, going anywhere with them was grounds for potential disaster on the emotional scale.

            My mom would criticize everything my dad did, and that I did or did not do. She protected my siblings from my dad’s wrath, but would set me up for punishment, deserved or not.

            My first solo trip was a backpacking outing organized by the community college I was attending. I was ill-prepared with the wrong equipment, clothes and fitness level, but I didn’t know all that until we began climbing a never-ending hill.

            I was scared because I didn’t know anyone, even the young woman whose tent I shared. I talked to no one, but then, no one spoke to me either. What I did enjoy was freedom from criticism, endless arguments, and constant put-downs.

            That excursion taught me that I could, indeed, function on my own.

            When I left for college, I traveled with my brother as my parents wouldn’t let me go alone.

            What they didn’t know, couldn’t have predicted, was that once on university grounds, I cut the cord to my brother and struck out on my own. Without fear of reprisal, I made a few friends. I dated a black man who I really liked, but at around the same time we both realized that neither of us could bring the other home.

            After him, a handsome Hispanic man asked me out. Jorge was smart, easygoing, and pleasant. I did bring him home for one of the breaks, but that didn’t go over well. We remained friends even though my parents had treated him poorly.

            As I grew older, I began doing more and more things independently. I joined an on-campus religious group just so I could go on the retreat into the mountains. I found the eye clinic on campus and volunteered to try out new contacts. I loved how I looked without the thick glasses frames my parents made me wear!

            During summers, I found on-campus jobs that provided housing and meals. The independence was intoxicating.

            I traveled to Yosemite and Marin County with a date, spent a weekend at his parent’s home and even flew to Minnesota during winter break to see him!

            When I ran out of resources and jobs, I had no choice but to move back into the family home, placing me under the microscope once again. I saved and saved until I could buy a car (the dealership made me get my dad’s signature! God, I hated that.). After car, I began investigating apartments.

            Once again, I saved until I had the necessary deposit. When I locked that door behind me, I was able to breathe. I could stay up as late as I wanted, get up when I wanted, eat what I wanted, swim in the pool or sit out on my tiny balcony, whenever I wanted.

            You don’t understand how intoxicating it is to be free unless you’ve never lived under a microscope.

            My husband and I have been traveling for several years now. Most of the people we meet are couples of some kind, married or not, makes no difference. But we’ve also met solo travelers.

            I admire them so much! I doubt that I would have gone on a cruise by myself. Or hiked around Europe on my own. Or driven cross-county just because I could. My parent’s constant belittling had convinced me that I lacked the intelligence, wherewithal and basic knowledge to keep myself safe.

            As a teacher, back when there was money, I often traveled to attend conferences and on one occasion, to recruit potential teachers. I flew or drove by myself, arranged my own hotel, ate by myself and in the evenings, watched what I wanted!

            Each trip strengthened my ability to travel solo.

            While I missed my husband and would have loved someone to share ideas with, being on my own was incredibly intoxicating.

            As we get older, more and more of us will be on our own. We’ll be solo travelers, negotiating our way through life. We’ll need to understand finances, balancing budgets, logical planning, and how to get the most for our bucks.

            The thing is, we can do it. We can travel alone. We can make decisions. We can talk to total strangers or be content inside our own heads.

            Many of us will need practice to get there. I built my confidence by taking small trips, perhaps just over to San Francisco for a conference. Or driving down to Monterey or up to Sacramento. I navigated unfamiliar highways, slept in hotels chosen by the conference, ate by myself when meals weren’t part of the package.

            I learned not to fear aloneness. I now embrace it, enjoy it, lavish in it, even though I know that my husband is waiting for me back home.

            The thing is, I might outlive him. If that happens, I will be traveling alone. I won’t like having him gone, but I know that I can and will be okay as a solo traveler.

Revelation

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Little Emily’s nose crunched as she bent down to examine the deep red rose petals creating a carpet leading to the wedding arch. With her right hand, the toddler carefully arranged one petal after another until they were perfectly aligned. The gathered celebrants smiled as the wedding photographer knelt, then lay on the grass, snapping one shot after another, capturing that moment, when she should have been following the bride and groom.

Being Me

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            For the longest time, I really didn’t like myself. I knew, because I’d been told, that I wasn’t pretty or girlie. I wasn’t interested in dolls or fancy clothes, although, at the time, girls wore dresses pretty much everywhere.

Because I was deficient in many, many ways, I understood that I was not the child that my parents wanted. That’s a hard cross to bear. And bear it I did, until they died when I was a grown woman.

            My hair was a mousy brown that lacked body. It tangled easily, and since I was outside as much as possible, it fell out of its braids. I was fat, but I blame my mother for that. She insisted I eat lots and lots of food. I had to eat even when I was so stuffed that that extra bite made my stomach roil. I couldn’t get up from the table until I’d devoured everything she’d put on my plate. So I got fatter and fatter. So fat that it was hard to find school uniforms in my size.

And my classmates made fun of me, commenting of the width of my thighs, the roundness of my face, and even accusing me of smelling like urine.

Add to that a lack of female I talent. I had no interest or skill in cooking. When it was my turn to prepare a dinner meal, what I put on the table was declared inedible.

Supposedly I walked like a boy, taking long strides with shoulders back. It I was permitted to choose my clothes, I went for shirts, shorts and jeans. I hated hair ribbons. And the bulky glasses frames that my mom selected.

I was also called stupid because it took me a long time to learn things. My memory was not the best, so I was inclined to repeat the same mistakes even when punishment would be severe.

            I hated long hair. It took too much time to brush it, and then what I got older, it was difficult to style because I had no skill in that area. When I was a teen, teased hair was in vogue. It meant sleeping with uncomfortable rollers, wrapped in a roll of toilet paper. After creating a rat’s nest, then I’d smooth the outer layers out until they gleamed. Lastly, there was the mantle of hair spray. I looked terrible, but at least I was like other girls my age.

I wanted short hair cut in a “boy” style. When I finally did get it sheared off at shoulder length, it angered my father so much that he called me foul names and wouldn’t look at me for the longest period of time. That turned out to be a blessing.

            In terms of schoolwork, I was not brilliant like my brother. He excelled in science. I excelled in nothing. No, there was one thing that I could do better than him! I could write beautiful cursive. I was also a better athlete at a time when girls didn’t get to play sports.

            My teachers often yelled at me because I was slow to learn. Every teacher assigned me to tutorial during lunch, In their minds, it was a punishment, which it was when the evil sister was supervising. But, when the kind nun was in charge, which turned out to be more and more often, I loved it for she helped me understand what was expected of me. Because of her, I began to learn and do better in school. It also kept me off the playground, away from the taunts that plagued my days.

            In high school I discovered my talents in math and languages. I quickly soared to an A student in Latin, and then when we moved to California, Spanish. I was the best student in every math class I took. It was probably good that I graduated when I did, for there were no more Math classes for me to take.

            I was still awkward. I was still not pretty. I was still not girly. Because of changing norms, I could now wear shorts and jeans at home, but still had to wear dresses to school and church. I felt fat and dumpy. When I sat, the width of a single one of my thighs matched the width of both of anyone else’s combined.

            My brother and I spent endless hours in the backyard playing all kinds of sports. I beat him at badminton and then after my twelfth birthday when my semi-pro dad taught me how to bowl, I beat him there as well.

In fact, I was so good that I played on three high school teams: bowling, badminton, and Junior Varsity basketball. My family bowled game after game on weekends, trying to earn Green Stamps. I wasn’t as good as my dad, but I beat my brother and mom.

For the first time I had something to crow about. I held my head higher and walked prouder. Until the day my school enrolled me in a badminton tournament at the local community college. I was humiliated by my opponent’s lighting fast serves, which when combined with spins, made it impossible for me to return even one volley.

I quit playing badminton.

            I still remember Geoff. He was the other nerd in my eighth-grade class. He asked me out several times. I was embarrassed and declined several times. Until he suggested going roller-skating. I thought I would be pretty good at that.

At first, we skated side-by-side, but after quite a few turns going around the rink, when Geoff reached for my hand, I accepted. His hand was sweaty and disgusting.

I didn’t date again until we moved to California. Living in a duplex across the street from us was a man in his early twenties. I was sixteen when he asked me out. I’d hoped that my parents wouldn’t approve, but Andy owned his house, had a good job, and seemed to be a nice guy.

He was okay-looking. Dorky with thick-rimmed glasses. Sleeked back hair. Chunky, with no defined muscles. Not what I wanted, but my parents insisted.

If they’d known what Andy would do to me, they should have said no. At first, he was gentle and kind. But every date ended up in his house, on his couch. His kisses did nothing for me. Not the tingle in movies or TV shows. But I accepted his amorous fumblings because I had no other options.

Andy really, really liked me. He spoke of marriage, which terrified me. I wanted to go to college, to “be” something other than housewife and mother. But he taught me that I was capable of being loved, something my parents had said would never happen. I also began to understand that beauty is not defined by what you see in magazines, but how you see yourself.

            When I left for college, Andy stayed in touch, first by postcards and letters. After I’d been gone a few months, he drove down to Los Angeles to see me. We went to Disneyland and out to dinner, more than once. But whatever feelings I’d had for him had weakened.

When he proposed, I declined. I never saw him again.

I blossomed in college. My professors appreciated my skills in math and languages. I struggled in English, but nevertheless, my heart swelled with pride.

            I had been wearing the ugly glasses that mother had picked out for years. I looked like a dork. When contacts came on the market, I entered a trial program offered on my campus that gave them to me for free. I loved contacts!

Without my glasses I didn’t feel old-fashioned or clumsy. For the first time, I felt pretty. And bold, so bold that I dated several men at the same time! Wow! Imagine how it felt to be popular for the first time!

            I smiled when I walked about campus. I greeted casual acquaintances and sat with people I barely knew. I worked in the bookstore and found myself a valued employee. I was a good roommate and a good friend.

            As my circle of friends grew, so did my self-esteem. By the time I graduated, I must have had at least fifteen friends! A record number for me.

            After college I had no choice but to return home, back to the environment in which I was less-than my siblings. I was subjected to cooking lessons which I never mastered, forced to clean the entire house, including my sibling’s rooms, something I considered grossly unfair. I felt like a servant.

            To make matters worse, I couldn’t find a job. I applied wherever I could. I was rejected over and over because potential employers didn’t like that I was a college graduate with no office skills. I wasn’t even hired to distribute cards from store to store! What skills would that require?

            The longer unemployment went on, my self-esteem plummeted. At home I was that unhappy, unfeminine little girl. I was worthless because I lacked domestic skills and had no desire to learn. My activities were monitored, so I was not allowed to seek social possibilities. I could only go out when my activities were chaperoned by an adult. (I was twenty-one!)

I legally could drive and vote and drink.

When I finally got hired at a now defunct furniture store, I was out of the house forty hours a week. I bought a car. I rented a studio apartment. I was free! And once again I began to like myself.

From there I developed into the person I am today. It was not an easy road. I spent hours alone in my apartment, but I also went skiing with a friend from work, saw movies with an occasional date, and ate out with colleagues. A young man took me to see Joan Baez in concert.

I went camping with friends in the Santa Cruz mountains. I took a class in backpacking and went with the group. It was tough! My backpack was canvas on a metal frame. By the time it was on my shoulders, I fell over backwards! But I went.

The rest of my story, my story of learning to like myself, was like climbing a ladder. Each rung up taught me that I could do things, that I could succeed, that I had value.

When I look back and I realize how long I struggled to overcome those early years, it’s amazing that I emerged as me.

These are the lessons I learned:

No matter where you are in life, never give up on yourself. Fight against whatever forces hold you back. Find something that you do well. Anything. It doesn’t have to be academics. It doesn’t have to lead to career, but it could.

Believe in yourself. No matter how others treat you, no matter those who try to hold you back, know that in you, there is value. You have much to offer the world.

Like yourself. Be you.

Identity Crisis

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            Who was I way back when?

            I was baptized Teresa Louise Haack, but called Terry because they called my older brother Billy. So even my nickname wasn’t really my own, but rather a copy of someone else’s.

            When I did something wrong, which was often, I’d be summoned as Terry Lou, or if it was really, really bad, by my entire name. Since I could tell the severity of my offense by the name my mother (it was always her!) used, I knew, generally, what punishment to expect.

            At school, every teacher addressed me as Teresa. I preferred Terry, but didn’t have the guts to say anything. Back in the fifties you just didn’t do that.

            I had a friend in first grade who called me Terry. I really liked her, but when my parents discovered the little girl’s race, I wasn’t allowed to call her friend.

            There were two girls in the neighborhood who I was sometimes allowed to play with. Their parents called me Teresa; the girls did also. I hated it.

            Teresa sounds all girly and conjures a picture of someone wearing frilly dresses and Mary Jane shoes. That wasn’t me at all. I wore a uniform jumper to school until seventh grade. Back then we didn’t know to wear shorts underneath, so on a windy day, my whatevers could be seen clear across the playground. Granny panties. White or almost white. No slip.

I got teased about that! In fact, one time in fourth grade when I was called to the teacher’s desk for a poor grade (not the first or the last), a boy slid out of his seat and lay down on the floor. I froze. If I stepped around him, he could see up my jumper. But he was in the middle, making himself as large as he could. That meant I’d have to straddle his body, giving him the view.

The teacher, a num whose name is forgotten, clicked her wooden thing at me, waved me forward with her hand, and when I tried to explain, said something like “Teresa Lousie Haack, get up here now.”

I had no choice. The boy laughed hilariously, but didn’t get in trouble. He proceeded to tell everyone that he’d seen my panties.

Teresa Louise Haack was the school’s pariah. After that, no one wanted anything to do with me.

When I transferred to the public middle school, I told my teachers that I wanted to be called Terry. They refused, saying that my legal name was Teresa and that’s what they’d call me and what I’d better put on my papers.

At home I was Terry, the tomboy. I dressed in t-shirts, shorts and pedal-pushers when they became popular. I skated in our garage, around and around and around. I rode my bike for miles around our house. I played baseball with the boys when my brother needed a player.

We set up a badminton net in the backyard, as well as croquet and a wiffle ball diamond. My dad found a used swing set for free, which he installed in the backyard. Yes, we had a really huge yard!

Terry was an athlete. I could hit a baseball further than my brother. I ran faster than him as well. I was so good at badminton that after we moved to California, Teresa played on the high school team.

Terry also played basketball, better than my brother. I could throw and catch a football better than most boys. Unfortunately, girls weren’t allowed on the boys’ teams, so Teresa had to sit on the sidelines, knowing that Terry was better than almost every boy on the field.

Every college application was for Teresa, as was my scholarship and grants. Most of my professors called me Teresa, but my roommates (I had several over the years) all knew me as Terry.

By now girls could wear pants to school. No more stupid dresses or skirt for me! I made my own pants from bright, colorful patterns, none of which would be considered girlie.

Even though I seldom went home, I still heard my full name whenever I disappointed my parents. Thank goodness, Terry Lou had disappeared.

So at home I was the shy, reserved, isolated Teresa, but when away at college, I was learning how to be a fun-loving Terry.

My two distinct personalities often clashed. At home sometimes I’d forget to be invisible, while at college I’d fail to ask to be called Terry.

Teresa struggled with academics: Terry did not.

Teresa sometimes got poor grades and had to drop classes: Terry got straight As even though she had to study until early morning.

Teresa joined a sorority. Terry dropped out.

After college graduation, I couldn’t find work nearby, so I had to move back home. I was back to being Teresa/Terry.

Teresa wasn’t allowed to drive the car unless my brother didn’t need it. Terry took her younger sister on scenic drives through the countryside and to movies. Teresa applied to jobs and was rejected over and over. You see, Teresa was over-qualified due to her degree in Russian Languages and Literature.

Terry wasn’t dignified enough to work in an office filing papers (my only skill!)

Teresa got hired by the federal government. I was a field worker, so Teresa was the one who knocked on doors. After a while, I found that I liked having a formal “work” identity very different from the Terry who bowled in two different leagues.

The work person went by Terry in the office. The one who bought a car and rented her first apartment was Teresa.

The person who wrote checks and completed forms at work was Teresa. Terry went on her first backpacking trip (with ancient, heavy equipment that someone else had to carry up the mountain). She also went up to the mountains, supposedly on a college ski trip, but nearly gave herself frostbite because Terry didn’t buy warm enough boots.

Teresa was the careful, cautious part of my persona: Terry was the risktaker.

Throughout my teaching career, forms were signed by Teresa but my coworkers called me Terry. Teresa led meetings and gave presentations to the faculty of the combined middle school and high school teachers. Terry took her classes to the computer lab.

Teresa was the formal person, Terry the enthusiastic one.

Terry was what my husband-to-be called me, but during our wedding ceremony, the priest asked Teresa to recite her vows.

Even today, at my ripe old age, I carry both monikers. When querying agents for one of my books, I am Teresa. I want them to know that I am female writing about female issues. Yet when I participate in an in-person pitch session, I introduce myself as Terry.

Terry smiles and acts friendly. Terry speaks enthusiastically about her work. But my nametag always says Teresa. Oh, well.

Over the years I learned to accept my different persons, my different names. My kids know me as Terry, although they still call me Mom (they’re all over forty!)

Church friends only call me Terry. Same with my husband’s family. My brother, however, only addresses me as Teresa, no matter how many times I’ve corrected him (It’s a dominance thing, a power thing, for him.)

I am still haunted by the echoes of my past. When I am forced to state my complete name, I have no choice but to say Teresa Louise Connelly. It’s the same one I used to write checks and sign credit card charges. Oh, and tax documents.

I finally got Kaiser to call me Terry. When Teresa Connelly would be summoned to the doctor’s office, my skin would prickle and I’d want to look around for my parents. Terry is a strong, independent woman, something Teresa never became.

Everyone, or almost everyone, has carried multiple versions of themselves over the extent of their lives. But, I am willing to bet, that most don’t look over their shoulders, expecting a blow or a slap or a kick or a punch when their childhood name pops up.

I am Terry Connely. No Terry Lou or Teresa Louise, jut Terry.

And I like it that way.