Tag Archives: Essay about decision making

My Take on Authority

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

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

            Examples:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            He asked what I was doing in his department.

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

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

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

            He told me to change majors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From then on I never rewrote a paper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another act of defiance.

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

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

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

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

Seeing the Real Person

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            I recently saw a musical in which the teen suffers from an aging disease. It’s impacted the entire family, with the parents afraid to have another child in case he is born with the same genetic abnormality. As the character nears the end of her life, her parents decide the time has come to try again, in a way, replacing the teen.

            Toward the end, the teen sings about shucking off the ghost of the girl you wanted to really “SEE” the one before you. To appreciate their daughter for who she is, not for who she is not.

            The song struck me deep in my gut.

            I was not the daughter my parents had in mind. Even when quite young, I wanted to run and play with the boys. I was a pretty good athlete: not always on the varsity teams, but still wearing a uniform and competing.

            I hated dresses, but that’s what all girls wore to school in my town. At home I always wore shorts or jeans, t-shirts and sweaters. I didn’t “walk” like a girl, as my mom told me many times. I had no skills or interest in painting my nails, wearing makeup or styling my hair. I had no interest in learning to cook, something that annoyed my mother, as she claimed to have given birth to me only so I’d take over household chores. And be around to watch her when she grew older.

            I did have assigned chores. One that I hated the most was cleaning my older brother’s bedroom. Why did I have to pick up his dirty underwear? Change his sheets? Clean his bathroom?

            My mother’s excuse was that he needed to spend his time studying so as to go to college.

            I wanted to go to college as well, but that wasn’t important to her. She wanted me married as a teen and producing grandchildren, one after another.

            I wanted out: out of the house, out of her life, out of the family. The only way I could see to make that happen was by getting into college, earning a degree, and then being able to support myself.

            My brother was allowed to study from the moment he came home from school. I couldn’t study until all my chores were done. He finished his schoolwork by dinnertime: I began mine around nine o’clock, or later.

            Because I graduated from high school without a boyfriend in tow, I was a lost cause. I hated dating. All the sweaty hand-holding and sloppy kissing and front seat make-out sessions. I had been told repeatedly that I wasn’t pretty, that I was unlovable and so I couldn’t be picky,

            I was picky. If I married, I would choose a man who respected me for who I was, not who my mom wanted me to be. Therefor in college I dated a series of men. One, George, I thought I loved. Until he insisted that I change faith once we got married. End of that relationship.

            By the time I graduated from college, marriage became an actual thought. I dated a guy I met at the bowling alley, a too handsome guy who probably only took me out expecting something in return. He didn’t get it, therefor, no more dates.

            A couple of years later I walked into my new office to see a tall, smiling man who immediately warmed my heart. We worked a few cases together and had time to get to know one another.

            In time, we began dating. Then I enlisted in the Army Reserves because I wanted to go to the Monterey Institute of Languages, run by the military. I was sent to Alabama at the end of August, where the humidity was miserable and the constant drilling oppressive.

            I was only there two weeks, and was allowed only one phone call. I didn’t call home, which angered my parents. I called my beau, who met me at the airport with a hug and a kiss.

            Our relationship was sealed.

            We’ve been together 50 years. He’s always “seen” the real me. He’s never tried to make me into someone I didn’t want to be. He encouraged me to return to college to get my teaching credential, even though it was a financial strain and it meant he had to put the kids to bed.

            He’s my best friend, my partner, my fan club, my everything.

            If years ago my parents had seen the real me, I wonder if things might have been different. If our relationship would have been more amicable. If I wouldn’t have been a disappointment to them.

            Although I wasn’t the perfect parent as I made plenty of mistakes, I always tried to encourage our kids to be the person they wanted to be. As long as they kept their grades up.

            So this is a cautionary message to all soon-to-be parents out there: give your kids room to grow, to explore, to discover who they are supposed to be.

Being a Teacher

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            When I was placed in Kindergarten, I didn’t much care for my teachers. They seldom helped me, instead giving me very simple tasks such as coloring shapes with the correct crayon, cutting on dotted lines or tracing letters and numbers. Granted, those were the skills I most needed, but it was humiliating when I saw what my classmates were doing: learning to read and do math.

            What I did like about school was that it was a safe environment. No adult ever spanked me, shook me, threatened me with anything more serious than losing playground time. For the most part, until high school, most teachers acted as if I wasn’t in the room. I could sit in my desk all day without the teacher ever looking over my shoulder.

            When asked what I wanted to be, clear up into high school, my response was always, teacher. Teachers were sort of like heroes to me. They gave off an air of authority without, for the most part, threatening violence. There was an occasional crack of a ruler on my desk when I wasn’t paying attention, and I think only once, being sent to stand in the corner.

            Only one high school teacher seemed to care about me, Mr. K, my math teacher. He was kind, patient, and saw my innate mathematical skills. In other classes I feared going to the chalk board, but in Mr. K’s classes, it seemed like an honor. Why? He normally only asked me up there after several of my classmates had tried to solve an equation and failed.

            When I applied to college, I did so as a potential math major. Not to teach, however, but to be a statistician.  I liked working with numbers, but not with people. It seemed like an ideal job for me.

            All that changed during my junior year when the Department Chair called me to his office. He asked what I was doing there, and accused me of only choosing a major in math so I could find a husband. He insisted that I change my major.

            Since I was on a full scholarship that only covered four years, I didn’t have time to switch to a new major. Unless I chose one based on the number of completed credits I already had. That’s how I got a degree in Russian Languages and Literature. I didn’t see myself as a college professor or writing the new Russian novel. The only possibility that came to mind was working as a translator.

            When that fell through, and I had to find a job, quickly, I applied for anything that didn’t require impressive typing skills. I finally got hired by the IRS and made a nice career out of it, even though I hated every minute of every work day.

            When our first child was born, I knew nothing about little kids. I found a Parent-Child Education class being offered by the local Recreation Department. I learned music, art, dance, singing and activities of all kinds. It was fun, but intimidating when my turn to lead the class came on the rotation.

            I decided to apply to the community college to earn an AA degree in Childhood Education. I complete the program, got a job in the Rec. Dept. teaching Tot Time. There were ups and downs. Ups happened when the kids did what I asked and seemed to be having fun while they learned. Downs were when a snaked invaded my classroom or when a kid soiled themselves or threw up on themselves or on the equipment.

            The job became boring after just a few years.

            I then decided to earn an Elementary Teaching Credential. My sister-in-law paid my tuition, at the college where she worked. Some of the classes were fun, such as teaching PE or designing bulletin boards. Some were incredibly boring, such as the pedagogy of learning, phonics and writing lesson plans.

            After graduation I got hired at a Catholic Elementary where I taught for four years. This was my dream job, something I’d wanted since I graduated with my BA in Russian.

            The first three years were amazing. The fourth, the principal decided she wanted to push out all the older teachers, so she made my life miserable. I left.

            The next several years were ones of fruitless search. I discovered that all the PE teachers in my district were aging. I began work on a PE credential, but got bogged down when it was mandatory to referee a college-level soccer game.

            I kept getting sub jobs in Special Education classes as there was a chronic shortage of qualified teachers. I knew nothing about Spec Ed, but there was a need and I felt I could fill it.

            Back to college I went and after completing only six credits, I was hired.

            I experienced some difficult kids, but obnoxious parents. My Director of Special Education supported me, listened to me, stood by me. There was no established curriculum, so I had to devise my own, a combination of 4th and 5th grade subject-matter.

            I went to conferences, workshops and all types of sessions, learned something at each.

            At the end of those four years, I wanted something more.

            Back when I entered university to get my first credential, I weighed the differences between elementary and secondary curriculums. I felt as if I had no strengths in any of the subject taught at the high school level, but I could be the teacher of this and that. That’s why I chose elementary.

            A position opened up at the high school. My elementary school was getting a new principal, someone who had no idea what I had been doing and didn’t care as long as I kept my students out of her office. It was time to go.

            Little did I know that teaching high school Special Education students was the career I should have been pursuing.

            For 23 years I taught ninth and tenth grade English and an occasional Social Studies class.

            I loved those teenagers, offered them respect, treated them with dignity and challenged them to push themselves academically. Some did improve their reading and writing skills quite a bit over the two years they sat in my classes. Most improved somewhat, and very few made no progress whatsoever.

            In a rather roundabout way, I pursued my dream job. I did become a teacher. I did love what I was doing. I did enjoy going to work.

            Many of my high school students had unrealistic dreams, such as becoming a famous actor when they were too shy to speak in class. Or playing professional football when they didn’t get much field time during games. I even had one who wanted to be an airplane pilot when he had no control of his legs.

            We all need dreams. Dreams are what motivate us to move forward. Realistic dreams can become true, leading us to fulfilling lives.

            I learned to pursue, to never give up even when faced with challenges, to be open to change and to accept opportunities that had never popped into my brain!

The End

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            I did okay.

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

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

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

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

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

            He left for a new job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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