Tag Archives: Personal Essay

Name Confusion

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            I taught for thirty-three years, everything from preschool to seniors in high school. When I worked with younger students, I often had close to forty students in a class. It might take me a few days to learn everyone’s name, but after that, I never made a mistake when calling on someone.

At times my high school classes were packed with thirty-four! I usually taught four sections per day; two AP ninth graders and two Resource Students. Thankfully my special education sections were smaller, perhaps ten or twelve.

That meant learning approximately eighty-eight names within the first week of school.

Now add in all the years I taught, and the numbers are in the hundreds.

When my own children were young, I coached soccer teams and volunteered as scorekeeper for baseball. Then there was swim team, with over 100 swimmers each summer.

One strategy I used to learn students’ names was to make a seating chart. I didn’t assign seats, but once students had settled, I didn’t let them move for at least one week.

The younger kids were cute, at that age, and then they’d move on, to be replaced by another thirty-four or more. I’d see former students out on the playground, a constant refresher, helping me recall names and personalities.

After they moved on to higher grades, I seldom interacted with them.

Years later I’d run into them shopping at the mall or grocery. Or maybe at a high school swim meet, or while out on a walk.

They always recognized me.

“Mrs. Connelly, how are you doing?”

“Do I know you?” I’d wonder silently as I tried to decipher where or when I had met the child, or now, adult.

While my mind ran through the various possibilities, I attempted to appear poised and confident in my knowledge of who they were. I’d engage in nondescript conversation, hoping they’d drop in a clue to help me recall their names.

It was with great relief when they’d say, “You were my favorite teacher,” or even better, “You taught me how to ….”

The most difficult to sort were kids I’d had in my preschool classes, or, as I moved up in grades, in third grade.

Those cute little baby-faces and tiny bodies now stood before me as teenagers, sometimes sporting facial hair. They resembled the adults they would soon become.

How badly I wanted to ask, “Do I know you?”

Instead I’d smile, nod, and look for an escape, a way to gracefully bow out of the uncomfortable situation.

Fire!

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We knew we would soon be moving from Ohio to California.

Our dad was an avid Cincinnati Reds fan, but had never attended a game in person. My brother played on a team, the worst team in the league. I was the better player, but back in the 60’s, girls weren’t permitted on boys’ teams, and there were no teams for girls. This irked me, to say the least.

Since my brother and I loved the sport, and we knew this was our last chance to see our beloved Reds play, we decided to earn enough money to take our family to a game.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Riddenhoure, had several fruit trees in her backyard that were overloaded with fruit. With our parent’s permission, Mrs. Riddenhoure allowed us to pick as much fruit as we could, knowing we intended to sell everything.

Our mother gave us a basket of tomatoes and another of green bell peppers.

We put everything in our rusty wagon and headed up the gravel road, knocking on doors. Each time we’d sold our load, we’d return home, pick more fruit, then head out once again.

This was hard work. Pulling a full wagon up hill was not easy. It bumped and rattled along, frequently coming to an abrupt halt when stones blocked the wheels. After we’d visited all the neighbors’ homes uphill, we headed downhill.

If you think going down was easy, you’re wrong. Imagine trying to keep a heavy load from crashing into the backs of your legs, or walking while bent over, gripping the and of the wagon, attempting to keep it from breaking loose and taking off, on its own.

We had no concept of how much tickets would cost, but after selling out, we’d return home and count the proceeds. After a couple of days doing this, our dad declared that there was enough to pay for both of my parents, plus my brother and I. Our sister stayed with another family, probably a good decision as she was only seven and held no interest in any sport.

Off we went to Cincinnati, a long drive from our rural home in Beavercreek. At first, we took single-lane country roads, then two-lane roads, then eventually a highway. (This was before freeways had been built.)

Since it took so long, I worried that we would miss the game, but, no, we arrived in plenty of time.

Our seats were on the second deck, along the third base side. I was in awe of the stadium. The lights, the signs, the excitement in the air stimulated me so much that I was trembling from joy.

I was intrigued by the perfectly mowed grass, the smooth infield dirt, the seemingly huge pitchers’ mound, and the umpires in their black uniforms.

On the ride home, my dad talked about our team, how well they played, the fact that they won. I couldn’t recall a single detail, other than the colors of the uniforms.

After we finally got back home, I went straight to bed. I couldn’t sleep because I was over stimulated.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened as I was only a naive fourteen-year-old, but a storm moved in. Later my mom told me that the weather person on the radio (which she had on in the car) had predicted a massive thunderstorm coming our way.

Anyway, as I was comfortable under my covers, a loud crack of thunder shook the house. I was used to thunderstorms as they happened frequently, but nevertheless, each one terrified me. Well, having this one so close, shook me to the core.

Minutes after the crack, my mom opened the bedroom door and told me to get up, get dressed, in that no-nonsense tone of voice. I changed quickly, for I sensed something had gone terribly wrong.

As I entered the front room, my mom handed me the leash, and told me to take the dog to Mrs. Riddenhoure’s house. The neighbor didn’t allow dogs inside, so I sat on the step to her kitchen, unaware of what was happening outside, until daybreak.

I smelled smoke, heard additional bursts of thunder and rain beating the roof of the garage.

My brother came for me, telling me it was okay to come outside.

By that time the excitement was nearly over. Later I learned that the volunteer firemen had arrived within minutes of my dad’s call. Hoses still snaked across our front lawn, now empty and useless. Steam arose from the ashes of our garage and across the fragments of roof still standing.

Before we’d gone to the game, my dad was in the process of installing a new, more powerful, TV antenna. It looked finished to me, but apparently, he had yet to complete the last step, the most important one in a thunderstorm-prone area: grounding the antenna.

Well after the firemen had left, a man from down the hill arrived with a photo he’d taken: an image of a ball of fire descending from the sky/

That’s what had hit the antenna. The firemen, when they saw this, returned. They attempted to follow the path the lightning had taken, as it traveled inside our house.

Every window had aluminum siding. The lightning was attracted to the metal, finding it in every room on the east side of the house. After setting the garage on fire, the lighting had erupted from one side of each window, then created a hole on the opposite side, so as to continue its journey north.

It burst free out of the north side of the house, sending the boards flying and leaving behind a gaping hole.

Now my bedroom was on the east side. If I had gotten out of bed to look out the window, the lightning would have hit me, setting me on fire. It was thanks to my mother that the four of us made it safely out of the house.

What remained was piles of ash and molten remnants of bicycles, tools, and all kinds of detritus stored there. Sifting through the ash, my mom discovered that most of her canned foods had survived. We depended upon them to get us through the winter, so that was a blessing.

The only other salvageable item was the manger from the nativity set.

How did that ceramic Jesus survive, intact, with no scorch marks?

When we moved to California, Baby Jesus rode with us in the car, wrapped carefully so as not to be damaged. Once we had a place to live (we were homeless for a bit), every Christmas, it was with awe that we held that manger, placed it inside the creche, and then told everyone why it was so precious to us.

I had two regrets: one, that I had missed all the excitement dur to my confinement in the garage, with the dog, and, two, that many years later, when my parents were both deceased, that my dad’s second wife disposed of the manger without consulting me.

Mindless Scrolling

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How did I manage before social media? I read the daily paper, watched the news on television and discussed topics with my husband and friends.

Then I got an iPad and discovered the joys of social media! At first, because I was working full time, I only checked it once, at night. Then it jumped to twice per night.

After I retired, however, I found myself looking more often. And since recent events, beginning with the campaign of the misogynist, the adulterer, the liar-in-chief, my obsession grew exponentially.

I absolutely had to know what he’d said, what he did, what he was pledging to do.

I survived the first four years with my sanity intact. Even so, every time I heard his voice, my heart sped up, my breathing became labored and I fell into a terrible panic.

When the Senate refused to impeach him, twice, I feared a comeback. After all, there was nothing to stop him, no rule that a convicted felon couldn’t become president. (I sure hope that’s changed whenever we get him out of office!)

When he ran a second time, against Joe, I shook my head. I like Joe. I felt he did a good job as president. He took care of people suffering from disasters. He signed Executive Orders to help college students plagued with debt. He visited factories, various communities, organizations and attended events that had nothing to do with him. Joe exhibited a caring heart.

Yes, he stumbled, physically and mentally. But he was smart enough to surround himself with individuals who knew, who understood, who offered advice that sometimes Joe might not have wanted to hear, but he listened nonetheless.

By the time elections season rolled around, Joe was four years older. It showed in his hesitant step (after breaking his foot), in his mumbling statements (due to fatigue and his speech impediment) and in his overall fitness to carry on another four years.

He obviously hadn’t read the negative comments. Folks asking who was really running the country. Folks questioning his mental acuity. Folks blaming him for things a president can’t control, such as the price of eggs.

He stepped down well into the primaries. The VP, Kamala Harris, took over the campaign, angering many.

Despite there being only 100 days before the election, other candidates should have been encouraged to run. If she came out on top, at least folks would have said that she wasn’t an heir apparent.

I personally might have voted for someone else.

We saw what happened to Hillary. She had years of experience in some of the highest offices in America. But…emails!  But…her husband. But…her pantsuits (which Kamala also wore). And…she’s a woman, an African-American woman who also has Indian descent.

I don’t believe that America is ready to elect a woman. My incessant scrolling on social media reinforces my belief. Women are often demeaned, ridiculed, humiliated. Many still see women as “less-than’ despite remarkable achievements in education, science, exploration and military service.

I see what’s happening under the felon’s second term. Women in positions of authority are called DEI hires, meaning they lack the capability to perform as a comparable male.

They are bullied by the felon, told they aren’t showing proper respect. They aren’t showing gratitude. That their states or colleges or law firms or companies will suffer economically unless they bow down and kiss the ring.

How do I know all these things? Because of endless scrolling on social media.

I try to restrict myself, but there’s a compulsion inside that demands I take another look, see what new has happened. That reinforces the belief that I might miss something, and so I scroll and read so more.

Endless scrolling is like a pandemic. Once it takes root, it’s hard to stop. There’s no medicine that can help, no bit of advice except for stopping cold turkey.

I’ve never been addicted to alcohol or drugs, but this feeling like I can’t go on unless I check, over and over, must be what it feels like.

I tell myself that I won’t look, and then I do.

I sit down to write, and then start scrolling as time flies by.

Endless scrolling. My personal addiction.

Faith Formation

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            I raised in a Catholic home. My dad was baptized as a baby, but he never spoke about attending church. He did receive the sacraments of Communion and Confirmation, but as far as I knew, if wasn’t that important to him.

            His father died when my dad was around five years of age. His mother remarried shortly after, and gave birth to a goodly number of half-siblings. My dad tormented his brother and sisters and aggravated his mom to the point that she’d chase him around the house, threatening to spank him with a wooden spoon.

            If a sibling was on the phone, my dad would disconnect the call, without warning, so he could call a friend. Not Christian-like behavior, that’s for sure.

            After he graduated from high school, his mom kicked him out of the house. My dad had a job setting pins in a bowling alley. After a player had knocked down whatever pins the ball happened to hit, my dad would jump over the wall, clear away the downed pins, then jump back before the next ball could be released.

            His salary wasn’t enough to support an independent lifestyle. By that time the United States had entered WWII, so my dad enlisted.

            I don’t believe he attended church during that time period. He met my mom at a USO dance in Dayton, Ohio. He convinced her to bring him home, a small apartment that my mom shared with an older sister. When there, he’d rummage through their cabinets and demand she fix whatever food he saw. At times, it was the only food my mom and her sister had.

            But, my mom loved him. He was handsome, with a rakish smile. She was petite, slim and gorgeous. They married in May, in a hastily arranged ceremony in a local Protestant church. Eight months later my brother was born.

            I followed along a year and a half later, my sister when I was seven.

            There came a time when my parents wanted my brother and I to attend the Catholic elementary school in Dayton. To enroll, however, my parents had to show that our family were practicing Catholics.

            That’s when I was Baptized and the family began attending Mass on a regular basis.

            I loved the atmosphere of the church. Instead of paying attention to the service, which was in Latin, a language I didn’t understand, I’d stare at the stained-glass windows, telling myself the stories depicted.

            The lives of the saints intrigued me. The maintained their devotion to God despite horrendous torments. They’d die rather than denounce their faith. They’d walk through deserts in search of God. They’d walk on water if God commanded, despite believing, rightfully so, that they’d sink.

            Such stories enthralled me, for my own life was a living hell.

            To think that I was growing up in a supposedly Catholic home, yet knowing that nothing my parents did or said was holy. I was spanked with hands or belt for doing stupid things, like farting in the family room or not eating creamed corn. My brother tormented me, kicking me, punching me, pinching me, treating me the way our dad treated him.

            My sister did the same, adding additional torments since we shared a room. She’d leave her side a mess, then tell our mom that I had rumpled her blankets or dumped her clothes on the floor.

            In terms of worship, we did attend Mass, except when it snowed. I understood that the drive could have been dangerous. We’d gather in the front room, missals in hand. Dad read the Mass. We responded appropriately.

            I hated it.

            There was nothing holy in it for me: I saw it as an excuse to pretend to pray. To imitate the Mass, but without reverence. How could people who seemed to hate me sit in a circle and recite passages of the Mass, a sacred worship service, after having tortured me the rest of the week?

            During my eighth-grade year, our class was led into the church, where various religious orders gave talks about what serving with them meant. I still remember the joy I felt when I learned about a monastic order of nuns that lived in silence, offering work as a prayer to God.

            I wanted to join. Imagine living in peace after years of being tormented by my siblings and parents. Imagine not being forced to talk out loud, imagine listening to the call of birds and the whisper of the wind. Imagine living in harmony with other women who sought out that life.

            My parents wouldn’t let me, saying that I’d regret not having children. Considering how often my mother reminded me that the only purpose for my existence was to serve her for the rest of my life, I didn’t relish the idea of marriage or childbirth.

            I’d dated, some. None of the boys interested me. I hated being touched by them, based upon the fact that the only touch I’d felt was in the form of punishment. I despised googling eyes and their breath on my skin. I hated holding sweaty hands and being forced to sit thigh-to-thigh.

            I didn’t see myself sharing a home with a man, let alone bearing his children.

            To join the convent, I needed my parents’ permission, until I turned eighteen. That opportunity never arose, as after my freshman year of high school, we sold the house and drove across country, eventually settling in South San Francisco, California.

            Because I was no longer attending Catholic School, my parents enrolled me in CCD, the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, a program that laid out what religious concepts were taught for each grade.

            The students in my class disobeyed the teacher. They talked when they should be quiet, refused to answer when called upon, chewed gum despite being told to throw it out, and wasted my time.

            By this time, I’d become somewhat jaded about faith. Catholicism had lost meaning for me ever since I wasn’t permitted to join the convent.

            After each time my dad beat me or my brother pinched me, I lay awake at night trying to come up with a way to approach a priest to ask for help. I was too afraid of what punishment would befall me if ai did such a thing, for I knew the priest would tell my parents everything I had said.

            Shortly after settling in South San Francisco, my dad began shopping around for the shortest Mass. The closest church to us was beautiful, built in the Hispanic style out of stucco and red tiles on the roof. Inside it was airy, with high ceilings coming to a point. The altar was a huge edifice, painted white with gold trim.

I loved attending services there. Something about the atmosphere enticed reverence and prayer.

However, my dad deemed the Mass too long, so he began driving us all over in search of the shortest Mass.. We attending services in Pacifica (where the priest preached fire and brimstone), Half Moon Bay, Daly City, and Burlingame. Most of the priests seemed indifferent to our presence and not one parishioner approached in greeting.

When the Mass in a San Bruno church only lasted thirty minutes, my dad declared that we would only attend service there. The church was a squat building, seeming more like an extension of the strip mall out on the El Camino Real. The inside was rather plain: it had the requisite statues of Jesus, Jospeh, and Mary, but the windows were ordinary glass. No colorful scenes depicting important stories from the Bible. No organ music swelling to a crescendo.

By now the Pope had declared that services were to be held in the vernacular of the people, so every word spoken, either by the priest or the congregation, was in English.

That part I liked. The time spent provided no respite, offered no consolation, didn’t fill my soul with a sense of awe of calm. It seemed to be a waste of thirty minutes of my life.

            By now I was seventeen, looking forward to going away to college.

            When I finally escaped my family after enrolling in the University of Southern California down in Los Angeles, I intentionally did not attend Mass.

            I told myself that I didn’t miss it, that it meant nothing, that Sunday was a time to study.

            One day I was walking back to my dorm room and heard beautiful music coming from a small, one-story building. Out front was a sign declaring it the Neumann Center. I didn’t know what purpose it served, but the familiar songs invited me inside.

            Toward the front of the building a folk group strummed guitars and pounded drums. They sang joyful songs, the entire congregation joining in. Everyone in attendance looked like me: college students of varying ages. I sat near the back, and soon found the joy returning.

            I went back the next Sunday, and then the next. A retreat was announced. I had no idea what that was, but a weekend in the woods sounded fantastic.

            On the assigned day, I boarded a bus with about thirty other people my age, plus a few adults as chaperones. The drive was joyous, with lots of singing and praying Halleluiahs. It didn’t feel artificial at all. My fellow travelers rejoiced in the Lord, in praising Him and speaking of the many ways He filled their souls.

            Our destination was a log cabin deep in the forest. When I got off the bus, my heart sang. When I looked up, the tips of the trees touched the sky, pointing to heaven. The bark was rough, an imitation of my life so far, but I felt warmth, the heat of life within.

            The needle-strewn path was soft underfoot. It comforted me, much like falling into a mother’s arms might have been, if one had such a mother.

            God came to me. He entered my very being. He made me feel loved, special, cherished.

            When time came to return to the chaos of Los Angeles and college, part of me cried inside. I wished I could have stayed in that forest, feeling the power of God’s love day after day.

            That weekend opened my eyes. I knew that I was loved, that I had a place in the church. I didn’t yet know in what shape my calling would arrive, but I knew it was out there, waiting for me to come home.

            People talk about having a come-to-Jesus moment. That weekend retreat was mine.

            I knew that I’d never be that frightened little girl ever again. That my life would turn out okay if only I was patient and let God direct my path.

            This is the story of my faith formation.

            How I went from being a child in awe of the material things of a church: the windows, the silence, the altar. How I discovered the pure joy of celebration. How it changed me forever.

A Background into Being Shy

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            There was a perfectly valid explanation for why I was a socially awkward child.

            When you’ve been scolded for speaking in the presence of others, when you’ve been made fun of and teased mercilessly by family, you learn to keep your mouth shut.

When you are never asked which flavor of ice cream you prefer or what cereal you’d like, or even what game you’d like to play, you realize that your preferences have no standing within the family.

            Let me explain.

I was the middle child, with a brother who was fourteen months older and a sister who was seven years younger. In my mother’s eyes, neither of them could do no wrong, while everything I did or didn’t do was mercilessly scrutinized.

They got to decide where we went, what we ate, what games we played. Their birthdays were celebrated with homemade cakes, candles, and ice cream, while mine passed without notice.

In essence, I was invisible. Except when they needed me to perform some household chore. One of my many duties was to clean my brother’s bedroom, something I despised. I was also expected to dust off every single leaf on every indoor plant, at least once a week. It was a tedious, time-consuming job.

When the family sat in the front room to watch television, or gathered for a meal, I appeared as demanded, but only in body. I was not permitted to speak unless commanded, even when my siblings were having a great discussion about something of interest.

It was a rough way to grow up.

            There were some benefits to being invisible.

By the time I was five years old, I had already learned that not being seen was a blessing. If they didn’t see or hear me, I was safe from punishment supposedly deserved for saying or doing the wrong thing.

On the other hand, my invisibility kept me miserable: an unhappy child whose self-esteem was nonexistent.

            For some reason that to this day I don’t understand, my parents decided to enroll me in a private school Kindergarten. Back in the 1950s, Kindergarten was not mandatory. My brother hadn’t gone: his school years began with first grade. Because I was in a private school, my parents had to pay tuition.

We were a low-income family, struggling to have food on the table. Paying my tuition must have had an impact on the rest of the family.

            On the first day of school, even at my young age, I realized that I was academically behind my peers. I could not name all the colors, did not know shapes, knew no letters of the alphabet, and had no understanding of numbers. My teachers gave me different work than my peers.

While they worked on learning basic words, I colored and cut out shapes. (I forgot to mention that they had to teach me how to cut!) I was so far behind, that when small groups were formed, I sat alone.

This marked me as being the dumbest kid in the class. During free play, no one wanted to have anything to do with me. I spent all my time in the sandbox, creating roads for the metals trucks and cars.

One time I decided I’d swing, but no one would get off so I could have a turn. Or if they did get off, they’d hold the swing for a friend.

            Day after day I sat silently in my assigned desk. I didn’t answer when the teacher asked me a question, if she did so in front of the class. If she cornered me when I was alone, I managed a whispered response, but only a word or two.

I still remember my teacher whispering that I would overcome being shy. She was wrong.

            When Kindergarten finally ended, I knew a lot of things that I hadn’t known before class began. I now knew colors, shapes, numbers, and letters. I could hold a pencil correctly and write my name, the alphabet and numbers. I could draw shapes and color within the lines. But I could not speak out loud and I had no friends.

            It was a terrible way to begin one’s academic career.

            As I grew older and moved from grade to grade, I understood what was required to score high enough to satisfy my parents. I did all the things that my teachers demanded and completed all assignments to the best of my ability.

When called upon to respond in front of my peers, something happened inside me: my mouth froze and no sounds were emitted. No matter how hard I tried, I could not muster the strength to squeak out a response. It was embarrassing.

            By junior high I had developed a voice, but it was a quiet one. I still had no friends. I could not approach someone and initiate a conversation. If I neared a group on the playground, I stood silent, even when I had something to offer.

            In high school I made my first real friend. She was a loner like me. I don’t remember her name, but I do recall the hours spent on the playground, talking about all kinds of things.

This was a revelation. Someone cared what I thought and really wanted to know and understand my opinions!

Imagine how liberating that was. This friendship allowed me to grow, so that by the

time college began, I had overcome some of the paralyzing fear I had of public speaking. I could answer in front of others, but only if the class was small. If I felt I truly knew something more than my peers, I could muster the strength to voice an opinion.

I’d like to report that even in my seventies, I am no longer shy, but that is not true.

I’m comfortable in small groups of close friends, but still nervous when emersed in groups of people who do not. I struggle when at writing conferences and workshops where I am with ten to fifteen strangers who will critique my writing and then express my critique of theirs.

It’s painfully hard.

If in a situation where there are lots of individuals who either I don’t know or barely know, I find a corner in which to plop down. And then there I remain until time to leave.

People who have known me for a long time don’t believe that I am shy. That’s because I feel safe with them. I believe that they want to know what I think, and so I can relax and be me.

I love being with those friends because they treat me as a person of worth.

If only I had felt this growing up. Imagine how different I might have turned out!

Born to Shine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly, ever so slowly the world would change.

Born to shine. Power.

Fascination with Trees

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

Day after day they change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fir trees, meanwhile, stay green throughout the year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Walk in Nature

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Take on Authority

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

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

            Examples:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            He asked what I was doing in his department.

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

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

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

            He told me to change majors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From then on I never rewrote a paper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another act of defiance.

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

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

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

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

Born to Shine

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

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

What a beautiful place the world would be!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly, ever so slowly the world would change.

Born to shine. Power.