Tag Archives: essay about a true experience

My Own Coming of Age Story

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Most kids travel from childhood into the teen years after their thirteenth birthday.

Not me.

At that age I was still firmly under my mother’s control. If she thought she saw a zit of blackhead, I was treated to pinching and squeezing.

If I needed a new blouse, she bought it. Same with pants, shorts, shoes. Because she was old-fashioned and ultra-conservative, I dressed like an old lady.

If she said I had to attend Mass, I did. Take Communion or go to confession? Yep.

She was a terrible cook, but I had to eat everything she prepared in the amounts she deemed necessary. No wonder I was overweight.

My parents controlled everything I did, said, and perhaps even my thoughts until I got accepted to the University of Southern California and so would live on campus.

Imagine my ecstasy when I unpacked my belongings in my half of a dorm room! It was small, but it was mine.

From that moment on, I chose what time to get up and go to bed. What to wear, where to go, and thank goodness, what I ate. Those three years were the happiest, and at times, saddest, of my life.

On good days, when I hadn’t struggled with my classwork, I floated across campus. In my hip huggers, cowgirl hat and barefoot. Unless it was raining or cold. I decided when and where to study, who to share meals with, who I dated.

The sad days were the ones before I discovered lonely people like me, when I broke up with a boyfriend, when a class was harder than I expected. And yes, when my mother demanded I come home for the weekend.

My coming-of-age journey began at age eighteen and ended when I married at age 24.

It took that long because even though I was at college, my mother still tried to control my life. She used guilt to get me to call home, to come home. She cried when I didn’t call, saying I didn’t love her anymore.

It was about that time that I realized that, no, I didn’t love my parents. Probably never had. At first I blamed myself, thinking there was something wrong with me. Doesn’t everyone love their parents?

Around my senior year, I accepted the fact that most, likely, my parents never loved me. I was the disappointing daughter, the middle child, holding a spot between the cherished older brother and the spoiled younger sister.

Once you truly understand your place, you are instantly set free.

I no longer had to answer every beck and call. I no longer had to carry the guilt my mother tried to place on my back.

I could do what I wanted, wear modern-styled clothes (if I could afford them), and date even a young man who didn’t look like me, but who like me for who I was.

I love reading Young Adult stories in which the protagonist struggles to come of age. Mostly they are nothing like who I was at that age, but yet there are common themes that I could identify with.

Independence. Identity. Place in the World.

Coming of age isn’t easy, but once you’re on the other side, life is a million times better.

Mountains

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            So many times, obstacles arise in our lives that at first appearance, seem insurmountable. There’s a temptation to give up, to walk way with downcast shoulders. But after a few steps, we turn around and take another look.

            A stronghold appears, low enough to give us a boost, just enough to get started. We rush back, reach and grab, pull ourselves up. And when we bend our heads back, we see another and another. Bit by tiny bit, the top gets closer.

            When I was a young teen, my primary goal was to move away from my dysfunctional family. I’d dream up a plan, but then millions of obstacles filled my mind, all convincing me that escape was impossible.

            Until my family moved to California.

            You couldn’t go online to research thangs back in the mid-sixties, but my new high school showed me a way out. Prominently displayed outside the counselor’s office was a notice about state scholarships for deserving, low-income students.

            That possibility opened my eyes, lightened my heart, and put a bounce in my steps. All I had to do was maintain my straight-A grade point average to qualify. I knew I could do that, and if faced with a challenging class or grumpy teacher, I’d double down, study harder.

            Every night after finishing my many household chores, I’d remove myself to my room and study, as late as I could. It did disrupt my sleep, but the window for escape kept me energized throughout the school day.

            When it was time to apply, my counselor, on my request, submitted the paperwork. She cautioned me that I most likely won’t get the scholarship, telling me that I wasn’t “college-material”.

            When the letter came, congratulating me on being a recipient, imagine how thrilled I was!  It would pay full tuition to any college in California. I would still need money for room and board, books and other necessities.

            There was a complication, however. My parents would only let me attend whatever college my brother chose. He’d be there to protect me, watch over me. Considering our rocky relationship, that’s the last thing I needed or wanted.

            Since neither of my parents had gone beyond high school, they had no concept of how large a college campus was, how easy it would be for me to avoid my brother.

            A huge obstacle overcome.

            Over my next fifty years of life, I’ve attacked every roadblock presented, with determination despite struggles. Each time I succeeded made me stronger, made me who I am today: wife, mother, published author and more.

            I’m sure more mountains will arise before me, but I will fight, climb, crawl, claw my way up and over.

Believing What Can’t be Seen

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            The early prophets tried to convince people that Jesus was not just a holy man, but God’s son. Jesus himself couldn’t do it, and his death on the cross changed very few minds.

            There was nothing marking him as special, no visible birthmark of God’s hand, no halo encircling his head, no rays of light surrounding his body. But He was God’s son even though many chose, and continue to choose, to disbelieve.

            Moving into the human condition, there ae many illnesses that are debilitating, that cannot be seen. People believe in cancer because they all know someone who’s contracted it. They’ve heard plenty about cancer in documentaries and news blurbs.

            Blindness ranges in degree, from limited impairment to complete inability to see. Wearing thick lenses is an outward sign as is walking with a white cane or a seeing eye dog. But what about those who can see, whose eyes appear “normal” and so observers question the diagnosis.

            Hearing impairments are often completely misunderstood and denied. Since the cause is inside the ear, the casual observer may doubt the loss, perhaps even going so far as to make fun of someone who’s speech is slurred due to an inability to hear consonants.

            During a child’s educational years, deafness substantially impacts learning. If a student can’t understand what the teacher is saying, then he is missing chunks of instruction that cannot be made up through reading books.

            There are probably many other “invisible” disabilities that people fail to take seriously, too many to detail in one tiny paper.

            The COVID virus is one such illness. Because it can’t be seen, because it presents itself differently in each individual, a good portion of Americans don’t believe it exists. They refuse to get vaccinated, refuse to wear masks, refuse to test when ill, and refuse to isolate when they have a “cold” and cough.

            It is because of these individuals that the virus is alive and well, constantly morphing into newer, more contagious versions of itself.

            When you have a cold, you stay home, avoiding family gatherings. Or you should out of courtesy for family members.

            If you’ve got the flu, you should stay in your bedroom so as to not give it to your immediate family.

            But…people who refuse to believe in COVID, who don’t wear masks or get vaccinated, then blithely go out in public even when they’ve got a dripping nose and a cough, spread the virus to innocent individuals.

            Perhaps they’re lucky to not suffer serious symptoms. Good for them. But what about their 80-year-old grandmother? What about the passenger sitting next to them on an airplane?  What about the asthmatic child who could die?

            If you don’t believe, then you don’t care.

            COVID, for most, can feel a lot like the flu combined with a cold. But there are people who contract COVID and suffer miserably.

            It cannot be seen. There are no pustules, no rash, no swelling that signals to others that a person is ill.

            Scientists are confounded by COVID, as it doesn’t act like most viruses. Most people recover fairly quickly, but there are those deemed “long haulers” who suffer for months or even years.

            The cause of that suffering cannot be seen, but it is there. Brain Fog, a symptom of COVID, impacts the ability to process words, both written and spoken. It affects retention as well as comprehension. Someone suffering from Brain Fog doesn’t look different from someone who isn’t. That doesn’t mean it’s a figment of the imagination: it’s very real. And debilitating.

            Muscle fatigue is another invisible symptom of COVID. Again, it cannot be seen, yet for those experiencing it, it is incredibly real.

            Taking a shower can be so taxing that the individual has to rest for hours. A walk around the block in a “flat” neighborhood can exhaust a sufferer for several days.

            Yet on a new day the individual can swim laps, hike hills, use the treadmill.

            Muscle fatigue can cause depression, especially among those who are normally quite active. Imagine being a marathon runner who gets tired walking in the house. Imagine swimming 30 laps one day and only being able to complete 10 the next.

            Imagine being too tired to hold a book when you’re an avid reader. Or not being able to stand long enough to cook your family dinner.

            Long COVID is as real as a hearing loss, cancer, the mumps or an upset stomach.

            The disbelievers need to believe. They could be the ones who give the virus to someone who then suffers for months or years.

            Is that the right attitude? To be so selfish as to not care about others? To be so deeply in denial that your lack of belief, lack of comprehension, lack of compassion can disrupt lives?

            Believe. It is real.

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.

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.

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.

The Crowd Around Me

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I transferred to USC at the end of my freshman year of college, completing a number of requisites at the local community college. I’d wanted to got to Ohio State where I’d live with my grandma. She needed help: I needed a place to stay. But my parents wouldn’t let me although I never understood why.

Even though we lived just south of San Francisco, they shook their heads when I asked to enroll at San Francisco State. At that time, freshmen had to live on campus. The university was in a safe neighborhood, but that didn’t matter. For some bizarre reason, my parents felt it was a hotbed of rape.

My brother and I had both applied to USC, both were accepted, and both got state scholarships that covered my entire tuition. Because he was going there, that was the only college my parents accepted.

At that time, back in 1970, the football team was a powerhouse, winning game after game, going to the Rose Bowl my first year there. Students got in free, or almost free. My brother’s friends invited me to tag along.

I was sued to Tommy Trojan riding in on his white horse, the song, the yell, the roar of the crowd, but everything was amplified in that stadium.

USC won, but I couldn’t tell you the score all these years later. I do recall my jubilation and the excited voices as we streamed out and headed toward the car.

My junior year the team, once again, made it to the Rose Bowl. This time I didn’t go with my brother’s friends, but with a young man I’d met in my dorm.

We didn’t have assigned seats that year, so we joined the crowd building outside the stadium.

Fencing had been installed, closing off all points of entry. As my friend and I walked from our car to where we’d wait, we were pulled by the flood of humanity. There was an electrical feel of excitement, almost as if someone had dropped live wires in our midst.

There was yelling, cheering, and pushing. And more pushing. At first, we didn’t mind as we were up against the fence, practically ensuring good seats.

We’d arrived hours before the game. Pasadena can get hot even in January, and it was that day. I stupidly hadn’t worn a hat, but I was still a teenager, likely to do stupid things.

It was also before people carried water bottles everywhere, so with the sun streaming and the suffocating crowds, I began feeling a bit off. There was nothing to be done except stand and wait.

The crowd got restless and began screaming to be let in. Police officers were deployed to where I was, on the opposite side of the fence. The protests grew louder, and profanities flew.

Around twelve-thirty, only thirty minutes began kickoff, a surge began behind me. Elbows pressed into my back as I was shoved against the fence.

I grabbed the metal wires, hoping to stay on my feet. My right cheek was smashed against the bars, forcing my head as far left as if could go.

My friend tried to shield me, but someone squeezed in between us. I could just make out the top of my friend’s head, but with my arms pressed against metal, I couldn’t reach out for his hand.

The crowd continued pushing, making it hard from me to breathe. I opened my mouth wide to try to take in air, but it didn’t help. I began feeling lightheaded and yelled my friend’s name, but he couldn’t hear.

A larger wave, a crush of people, surged, lifting me off my feet. I thought I was going to die, even though this was before we’d heard of people dying by stampede.

I let go when I felt the fence move. As it collapsed, the crowd forced me to step on the twisted metal.

As soon as I was on stadium grounds, the crowd roared past me. I found a bit of shelter close to the building. Tears poured down my face because I was frightened, I still couldn’t breathe, and I understood that I almost died.

My friend found me, thank goodness, and together we entered the stadium. The best seats were gone by now, but we didn’t care. From where we sat, we were able to see the game.

Most importantly, we realized what a terrifying experience that had been.

USC won.