Tag Archives: essay about life

Ebb and Flow of Life

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            Just as the sun rises and sets, things in our lives ebb and flow as well.

            When I was young, I had become painfully aware of my mom’s constantly changing emotional state. She might get up happy, but an hour later be yelling and threatening physical punishment. Without provocation on my part.

            I never knew what would set her off. It could be a blouse I’d put on after school or shorts that were too short. I might not be allowed the blouse on a Monday, but it was fine Friday. If I mentioned I needed new shorts, my mom might agree and plan a shopping trip. Or she might chastise me for being indecent.

            When I went away to college and got out from under my mother’s irrational behaviors. For a time. When I returned in the summer, she resumed her on again, off again ranting. I tried to stay away from home. I had daytime jobs that kept me away for much of the day, but at night, I was under here watchful eye.

            It was a huge relief when, after I’d graduated, I was hired by the federal government, making enough money to first buy my own car, then rent a studio apartment. The relief of being able to go wherever and whenever I wanted was immeasurable. Sitting around my apartment listening to MY music filled my soul. When I bought a small television, I could now watch anything that I desired.

            Being wife takes mastery of that ebb and flow. Excitement when we went camping, boring when I had to fix dinner and clean up after. Laundry. Ironing. Driving kids to doctors’ appointments was boring, but coaching the soccer teams was exciting. Keeping score during little league baseball games, exciting. Folding laundry. Boring.

            As an older adult nothing has changed. Book club meetings? Exciting, unless it’s a book I didn’t like. Writer’s club? Exciting when we do our monthly write-ins and when we meet for a meal. The monthly membership meetings are usually boring as the same individuals say the same things every time.

            My writing critique group? Exciting. I learn so much from my friends as they help me improve my writing.

            Writing prompts? Boring. Writing personal essays like this one? In-between.

            After my first bout with COVID I developed long Covid. I had no energy to do anything. Brain Fog stole my ability to process words, making it impossible to write and to read novels.

            I forced myself to maintain my routines, going to the gym when I was too weak to stretch rubber bands. I stopped using the elliptical because it required too much effort.

            I have a fantastic doctor. She listened to my concerns, believed that I was indeed suffering, then put me on the one medication I have since learned offers some relief.

            Last week I was able to focus on my writing for several hours each day. This was exciting! I accomplished so much and felt quite happy with myself.

            I increased activity at the gym, returning to the elliptical. I use more weight machines and have joined a kickbox aerobic class. And I swim one day a week.

            And then the ebb hit. After being so productive for almost a week, my body collapsed. I couldn’t do anything except sit on the couch. Reading was, once again, impossible.

            I can hardly wait for the flow to return!

            Today it dawned on me that all of life is one big ebb and flow. I just have to be patient and wait for this to pass.

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!

Freedom to Choose

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

            I never saw myself that way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            My freedom to choose was taken away from me.

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

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

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

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

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

            My husband has given me all that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Thoughts on a Monday

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I’ve never been the attention-seeking kind of person. You’d find me in the back of a classroom or off to the side in a meeting. I dreaded having to stand up and deliver a speech.

The night before, I wouldn’t sleep and the day of, I’d be so terrified I’d be sick to my stomach and shaking so hard my entire body trembled.

Yet for some reason I dreamed of being a teacher.

I knew that teachers stood in front of the classroom, after all, I’d sat in many growing up.

I knew that teachers spoke publicly and led discussions.

I knew that teachers performed for their students, joking, sometimes bursting into song, all to garner interest in the subject.

Teachers showed compassion for students, taking care not to humiliate even one. Or so I thought. Or so I convinced myself. And so a classroom was the one place where I felt safe.

That was my reasoning.

Later in life I decided to be a reader at my church. About once a month I stood before our small congregation and read the assigned portion of the Bible. At first, I was terrified, but each time developed a little bit more confidence. In time, I grew to love reading, loved imparting whatever passage I’d been assigned.

 After forty years of reading, I ma no longer terrified of standing up there, reading.

A few times now I’ve been brave enough to read a 3-minute selection of something I’ve written at a conference. I’ve been terrified each time. I don’t like the attention, but understand that reading before an audience is what authors do.

Many years ago, I joined the church choir. Not because I was a fantastic singer, but because I loved singing. Alone. In my car.

It was with great trepidation that I stood, with friends, at the microphone for the first time. It wasn’t so bad. So I returned Sunday after Sunday. And then it got down to me and a talented teacher from the parochial school. Worrisome, but still okay because of her powerful voice.

One rainy winter day I arrived at church prepared to sing. Found out she wasn’t coming. I figured I’d join my husband and sing from a pew. Nope. The choir director insisted I stay. I sang softly, but I sang.

I stayed with the choir for years after that, lasting longer then several directors. It was always me and others. And then one director asked if I’d like to cantor the Psalm. This meant going up to the ambo and singing a solo before the congregation.

I was terrified, but continued to cantor for quite some time. I didn’t even quit when the pianist played the intro to a completely different Psalm. I froze, feeling like that deer-caught-in-the-headlights, and not having the words to her version before me, shrugged and sang what I’d been assigned. Because she was an excellent pianist, she quickly switched to support me.

I quit cantoring when a different choir director chastised me publicly for singing a tad off-key. He was right, of course, but it hurt. I walked out of rehearsal and refused to return even when my friends tried to tell me he was joking.

That was twenty years ago.

I stayed with the choir through Christmas because I really wanted to sing the Halleluiah Chorus. As soon as the concert was over, I handed in my song binder and walked away.

***

Fast forward a whole bunch of years.

I’ve returned to college to complete my BA in English. I’d the oldest student in every class. All that youthful confidence is intimidating. They all think they know everything and try to outshine one another during class discussion.

I’ve changed since I earned my teaching credential at Holy Names College.

You see, I want to learn, to hear what the professor has to say, to easily see the white board, so now I sit in the front row. I don’t ask a lot of questions or wave my hand about looking for recognition, but I know that I am seen because when my papers are returned, the professors always give me a smile or a nod.

There are still some situations when I prefer to sit off to one side, or just to the left of the instructor. It’s not that I don’t want to be seen, but I want to have an exit strategy in case the material presented isn’t interesting.

At my age, I reserve the right to sneak away.

To blend into the walls and carpet and move stealthily to the door.

At my age, I don’t crave the limelight, but I do love it when friends and family congratulate me on something I’ve done or said.

My name will never be on a marquee, but I’ve rejoined the choir, since we now have one. It’s only been for two Sundays, but I love hearing how my voice soars above the men’s, the alto standing next to me.

I love singing songs in praise of our Lord, those mainstays of any Catholic Mass.

If asked, I will never be the soloist cantor. Too much pressure, too hard on my nerves. I don’t need the attention, the accolades. At my age, I get to choose where I sit, how I participate, what I do and don’t do.

Simple thoughts for a Monday.

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.

No Regrets

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            When my mother slipped into the depths of dementia to never return to her former self, I didn’t cry. In fact, I struggled to control my glee, to hold it inside whenever I spoke to my siblings or was around my dad.

            Finally, after years and years of manipulation and emotional abuse, her voice was silent, her disapproving glare gone. Never again would I hear all the ways in which I had disappointed her, how I was not the daughter she wanted. How she never cried when I left for college or when I got my first apartment, never moving back into her house.

            I’d never be chastised for not cleaning my brother’s room, for not wiping down each leaf of every houseplant, for not standing by her side and learning how to cook. For not dressing in the girlie clothes she’d sewn for me. For looking and acting like a boy. For being uppity because I loved learning, reading books. Real books, not the household tips magazines she skimmed through and kept piled up next to her chair.

            She’d never be able to guilt me into calling, having her over for dinner, for taking her “shopping” which was really an excuse to pawn through discount racks while she lectured me about my faults.

            I didn’t cry at her funeral Mass. A friend, sitting near me, commented about that. I shrugged. How do you explain how wonderful it felt to have the black clouds not just lifted, but blown away? How do you tell someone how freeing it is to no longer have to listen to her tales of woe, of all the injustices done to her over the years, of course, by me. Not by my siblings.

            Never by them, for they were perfect and I was not.

            When the Mass ended, my sister yelled at me, accusing me, in front of the few who were in attendance of never loving our mother. I walked away.

            There was a time when I wanted to love my mother, when I yearned to feel her arms around me. A hug. A nice, warm hug to greet me in the morning and to put me to sleep at night.

            My sister knew that love. So did my brother.

            That’s why they cried.

            While my mother was disappearing, my father became a kinder man. He smiled more. Laughed more. Was easier to be around.

            One day as I was leaving after visiting my mother’s body, lying in a hospital bed in their front room, my dad opened his arms wide. I froze, not knowing whether it was some sort of trick.

            I couldn’t tell by his face what his intentions were. Was it a real invitation for a hug? Was it a trap? Since I became a teen and my body changed, he’d looked at me with what I later learned was lust.

            He’d touch me, inappropriately, when I got near. I’d learned to sidestep, to take roundabout ways, to hide in my room until he was somewhere, anywhere else.

            It creeped me out. And it only got worse after I married. By then he knew I had become a sexual being. His looks became more suggestive, his comments more lewd.

            So, when I didn’t want his hug, he asked why. I couldn’t say the words. My feet felt glued to the floor, my brain stopped functioning and my heart thumped so loudly I thought I was going to drop dead right there.

            Only when his arms dropped and a despondent look came on his face did I have room to scoot past and escape.

            I wish I could have told him why. But I’ve never been one to confront others. I was an emotionally and physically abused child. I’d worn the bruises of confrontation. Why would I want to do that to others?

            Not too many years after my mom died, my dad remarried. And then he had a stroke. I visited him in the hospital, out of duty, not of love. I never sat by his bedside. I never touched him. If he was awake, I’d talk to him from the other side of the hospital room. When I left, I’d simply walk out.

            This “new” dad was jovial. He laughed and smiled. He nodded a lot, as if he understood and agreed. His wife placed him in a home, then asked me to visit.

            Once a week I steeled myself and walk into the home, pretending that I really wanted to be there. I only went when I knew his wife would be there. My dad had his own room. Even though he couldn’t use his hands, I still feared his touch. Even though he couldn’t remember what he’d just eaten when the empty dishes sat in front of him, I still worried that he’d hurt me with words.

            His condition worsened. He had more strokes, leaving him more and more disabled. He still terrified me. I was in my fifties, but still impacted by how he’d treated me throughout my childhood and into my twenties.  

            At some point his wife called for a family meeting at the hospital. The Hospice contact was there. She explained that he was near death. Might go that day or in a few months.

            When the meeting ended, she told us to go to Dad’s room and say goodbye.

            I went into the room. I stood by his bed.

            My right hand rose. It neared his arm. It got close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin.

            And then I started trembling.

            I walked away.

            And I’ve never regretted not telling either of my parents that I loved them, for that would have been a lie.

            I’ve never regretted not crying, for having them truly gone, was such a tremendous relief that there are no words to adequately describe.

            Both have been gone for many years, but what they did to me has never left me. I still carry it in my heart. Writing about it helps.

            So it is with no regrets that I put into words, once more, why I am the way I am. A person who refuses to regret the feelings that I hold even though I’ve tried to excise them from my heart.

            There’s nothing wrong with having no regrets.

Self-Made Image

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            A song on the radio made a huge impact recently. The premise is that we remake ourselves as we grow, learn and explore. I have definitely done that.

            I was an abused child. Both of my parents beat me, humiliated me, isolated me from my peers. My older brother pinched me, kicked me and called me names. My younger sister mocked me, taunted me and regularly lied to my parents, accusing me of hurting her and then smirking as severe punishment was inflicted upon me.

            If I had been asked to measure my self-esteem, it would have been a big, fat zero. I believed myself to be not just stupid, but an idiot. I was told that I was incapable of succeeding in anything, I am believed it.

            Nevertheless, I was expected to receive the highest marks on all my work. Or be punished.

            It didn’t make sense: if I was stupid, how was I going to get those grades?

            Fear of punishment motivated me to study, study, study.

            Despite being the invisible student in the room, I somehow pleased my teachers. I couldn’t speak in a loud enough voice to be heard, but when called to go up to the board, I excelled.

            I set goals for myself at a young age, goals that my family said were impossible for me to achieve.

            The only place where I felt safe was at school. I was scared of my teachers, afraid I’d disappoint them, but I revered them so much that I yearned to be them.

In high school I tried out for badminton, bowling, basketball and softball. I was the top badminton player in the school. I was good enough to be on the best bowling team.

Despite my short stature, I was a great defender in basketball, primarily due to my sharp eyes and quick hands. Softball was the exception: I was terrified of the huge ball, and even though I could easily send a hardball soaring, I couldn’t get the softball too much beyond the pitcher’s mound.

I had begun changing my self-image from the incapable idiot to a surprisingly good athlete.

My grades were good enough to earn a state scholarship that paid 100% of tuition at any college in California.

This surprised my counselor. She had called me into her office before the scholarships were announced to tell me that I’d never graduate from college and that I should be looking for a job.

I was determined to prove her wrong. At the end of my first semester at the community college, I made an appointment with the counselor to show her my grades. I was gloating. I love watching the surprise on her face.

When I was finally allowed to leave home for college, I now had the opportunity to take charge of my life. I shared a room in the dorm, which was my only restriction. I could eat whenever and whatever I wanted.

I chose my classes and professors. I stayed up late studying. I found people like me who welcomed me.

I dated. Tried to join a sorority, but didn’t like the wealthy, stuck-up girls.

I got contacts at the university’s vision clinic. They hurt and I was terrible at sticking them in my eyes, but for the first time since I got glasses in fourth grade, I didn’t feel like a freak.

I made my skirts and pants in modern lengths and styles.

As best as I could despite being poor, I tried to look like my peers.

I went to football games, I got an on-campus jog watching the desk at a residence hall. I was in charge of others for the first time in my life.

On a walk across campus, I heard music that drew me in. It came from the Neumann Center, during a Catholic Mass. Something about the guitars, drums, piano and other instruments, plus the joyous music spoke to me. I began spending more and more time there, even going on several retreats with them. Religion took on a new meaning. It was no longer about fear and punishment, but love.

The most difficult part of my journey was when I had to return home after graduation. Once again, I was subjected to the emotional and physical abuse of parents and siblings. I was a young woman who was treated as if she was a not-very-bright child.

My goal was freedom.

First I had to get a job. That wasn’t easy. Back in the late 1970s, women were expected to work in offices, teach or be a nurse. I had no office skills and couldn’t stand being around sick people.

I wanted to teach, but had no money to pay for college. And, there was a glut of teachers looking for jobs.

I got a good job with the federal government doing something that I had no interest in and no skills at knocking on doors and demanding back taxes. But, I made a career out of it in order to first, buy my own car.

Having transportation meant that I could escape. As soon as I had enough money, I wanted to buy a car. But…I had no credit history so my dad had to cosign. He wouldn’t let me buy the car I wanted, instead insisting I get a Ford Pinto. I rebelled by choosing the ugliest one on the lot.

Next was an apartment. As I drove about as part of my job, I kept an eye out for available apartments. I visited rental offices. In time, I narrowed down my search to a nice complex in San Bruno. It was close to the freeway, a requirement so that I could drive into San Francisco for work.

Moving into my tiny studio allowed me to be free! My parents no longer had any say over my life. If I did see them and they became abusive, I could leave.

I had reinvented myself as a self-supporting woman, one who was successful enough to have her own car and apartment.

From then on, my self-image morphed almost continuously.

I was a successful government employee. I oved into the teaching component, where I led studies in tax collection.

I met the most marvelous man in the San Mateo office, who is still my husband 49 years later.

I added wife and then mother to my resume. I didn’t know how to mother, and especially didn’t want to be a replica of my own mother. The local recreation department offered classes in parenting. From them, I learned how to teach my own kids, how to come up with activities, how to offer support and encouragement.

It wasn’t always easy and I made mistakes, but I tried to learn from each.

When my kids got older, I returned to college to earn an AA degree in Early Childhood Education. I loved the coursework.

Then I transferred to Holy Names College where I completed an Elementary Teaching Certificate.

When I did get hired, I put in long hours on curriculum, bulletin boards, grading. I wanted to be an excellent teacher, for my students, yes, but also to prove to myself that I could.

By the ripe old age of forty, I was an entirely different person from the shy, frightened kid that started elementary school.

I have continued to work on my self-image, even as an older woman.

I do what I want to do when I want to do it. I am in charge of my life. I have a loving, supportive husband who had encouraged me to explore a variety of interests.

I am proud of who I am today.

Forgiveness

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            Being raised Catholic, I carried a load of guilt around for many years. There were the times I’d yelled back at my parents, fought with my siblings, talked back to my high school Spanish teacher.

            I disliked my family so much that I hated being around them. Even phone calls were painful.

            After years of physical and emotional abuse, I began to fight back, openly defying their orders.

            This was hard to do when you’ve been raised to be obedient to your elders. Granted my brother was only a year and a half older, but in our family, he was in a position of authority over me. What never made sense was why, since my sister was seven years younger, she could boss me around, blame me for her actions and make my life miserable.

            I went to confession regularly and offered up my sins of disobedience. I said my prayers of penance, then went right back to disobeying and arguing.

            Time didn’t lessen my guilt. I fought against my parents’ dislike of everything I had accomplished, their demeaning comments, their constantly comparing me negatively to my siblings.

            Despite graduating from college with honors, earning several teaching certificates and credentials, landing an important position of authority, I was a failure in their eyes.

            Despite having a gently loving husband and three wonderful children, I failed as wife and mother.

            My house wasn’t clean enough, my meals not good enough, my sewing clothes for myself and my kids not good enough.

            I didn’t call often enough, didn’t visit often enough, didn’t allow the kids to visit often enough.

            For many years I carried that guilt, so heavy that I imagined it bending my back in half.

            No matter that I begged God to forgive my sinfulness, to make my family love me, those prayers were never answered.

            Until I started listening to my husband.

            His love taught me that I was lovable. He showed me that I was an intelligent, capable wife and mother. He encouraged me to return to college, year after year, slowly completing coursework that qualified me to teach Special Needs students.

            I learned that I wasn’t responsible for how my family saw me, treated me. That I couldn’t stop their hate, their dismissal of my accomplishments.

            Most importantly, I understood that they would never apologize. And if they couldn’t do that, then I didn’t have to forgive them ever again.

            Forgiveness freed me to become who I am today.

            What a powerful lesson!