Tag Archives: relationships

A Bear of a Man

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            My mother had many siblings.

Her brother Joe scared me because he liked to pick me up, turn me upside down and paddle my bottom, long after such things would be done to someone my age. Tears never deterred him and my parents never intervened. One time he threatened to stuff me in my grandparent’s coal-burning stove. I kicked and screamed and cried for help, but not even my beloved grandmother stopped him. When I felt the heat on my face and thought my hair was on fire, Joe finally set me down. I scurried away as fast as I could.

Clarence was a backwoods man. He lived off-the-grid before it was popular to do so. He was moody, somber and seemed to have created a family different from any I knew. According to my mother, Clarence fathered children with several of the women sharing the house. It was possible because they all, from young to old, looked the same.

There were several sisters.

Rachel lived on a huge chunk of land, her house sitting high on a hill overlooking meadows of green grass. Not only was it a peaceful environment, she was a calming presence in my hectic life. I loved visiting her. Her youngest son was older than me but still liked to play little-kids games. Only later did I learn that Jimmy was learning disabled. One time my brother and I got to spend a weekend with Aunt Rachel. It was one of the best weekends in my life. I missed her when we moved to Ohio.

Virginia, or Ginny, was a fun-loving, easy-going parent to three girls, all close to my age. They lived in many different places over the years, from a tiny, rustic cabin near Lake Michigan to a crumbling southern-style home in Kentucky, to a farm in southern Ohio. I hated the cabin because the only toilet was a smelly outhouse. We didn’t have a flashlight, so going out there at night was terrifying. The Kentucky home had egg-laying chickens which was something new and unexpected. But there were insects that buried their heads in my arms and legs. The farm was my favorite as we ran all over, making up games. There was a dog who did tricks and chickens and an old horse.

One time my mother let me spend the weekend with Aunt Ginny. We watched TV, drank soda, ate popcorn and feasted on candy. There was no set bedtime. We fell asleep on the front room floor.

The uncle I knew the best was Rudy. He moved to California before we did and was established in Orange County by the time we drove from Ohio to Orange County. He had a house and a good-paying job, and better yet, his three sons and wife seemed happy. We stayed with them for several days. The sons were rough-and-tumble, but overall good kids. The wife was merry, easy to be around, and a good cook. Rudy was a quiet, respectful guy, quick to hug and laugh. He told great stories and enjoyed athletic pursuits. He was also an alcoholic.

When Rudy drank his personality changed. He growled with anger at perceived insults, was argumentative and disagreeable. He grabbed me whenever I passed nearby and held my arms so tight that he left bruises. He pulled me to his chest and kissed my head, over and over, stroking my hair. It gave me the creeps.

He threatened my brother, called him names and made fun of him for being an intellectual. Rudy respected only his type of intelligence: mechanical skills. He could fix any engine, appliance, television or radio. When he was sober. Drunk he was useless, which is probably why he moved so often.

My family first lived near Sacramento, then down in South San Francisco a few miles away from Rudy. Our house was a tiny three-bedroom affair that had seen better days. It was all we could afford because my dad struggled to find full-time work. Rudy came over one evening and after quite a few drinks convinced my dad to be his courier. My dad was to go to a mail pick up spot, open the box, remove whatever was inside and deliver it to a different address each time. He was not to open the envelope or ask the name of the person receiving the package. For this my dad would be given several hundred dollars, an amount that would feed us and keep us sheltered.

I think my dad knew there was something shady about this business. One time after Rudy left, my parents huddled together in their bedroom for a long time, the murmur of voices the only sounds we could hear. The need for money won so my dad made a few runs.

Each time he was handed a bundle of cash. The money was a wonderful gift at a time when we were desperate. But then something happened that frightened my dad and he was not easily frightened. A man standing outside the box pickup spot followed my dad to his car, knocked on his window and demanded the package. Dad sped away, but later noticed a car following him. A chase ensued. Eventually my dad shook the tail and delivered the envelope.

When he got home he called Rudy and told him he would never do that again.

Within minutes Rudy stormed into our house. He threw his barrel chest out, bumped it into my dad and pushed Dad up against a wall. I believe that punches were thrown, because I heard thumps and bumps from my hiding spot behind the couch.

My uncle’s bass voice reverberated against the walls. He threatened to turn my dad into the police for laundering money. He promised jail time and a long conviction. His verbal abuse continued for a long, long time.

When my dad did not give in, Rudy demanded a beer, which my mom delivered. He parked himself in our rocking chair and sat there, downing beer after beer until his words were slurred. Throughout it all, he ranged from being abusive, threatening, intimidating, and finally as the alcohol set in, he fell into uncontrollable sobs.

Shortly after that incident we moved. My dad found work and things were going well. We were in school and finding our way.

Rudy reemerged, this time as the warm, loving bear of a man that I knew and loved. He was once again jovial, telling jokes and stories that brought guffaws. But I knew, I remembered the evil version, the threatening grizzly bear who intimidated my rock-solid dad.

If Rudy could intimidate Dad, then what could he do to me?

Even when Rudy moved back to Ohio I never forgot his temper, his strength, his posturing. The teddy bear when sober was a man-killer when drunk. I was glad that I never saw him again.

I had some interesting cousins that I seldom saw. There were three teens, all older than me. They lived in a tiny house on the side of a hill, in a home with no electricity or indoor plumbing. They dressed alike in cotton dresses, did their hair in the same curly styles, and even sounded the same when they spoke. Which they seldom did.

My mother’s family harkened back to their Appalachian roots. My mother never lost her eight-grade dialect which included vocabulary that identified my mother as being poor. Only one brother completed high school.  Her other siblings finished eighth grade. Except for Clarence.

Only one had a good-paying job. The rest worked as itinerant laborers. None of her sisters worked.

My cousins married young. Fourteen for girls. Sixteen for boys. None of them went beyond high school. None traveled. None moved away from Appalachia.

We don’t get to choose family, but we can choose to not be influenced by them or to follow their ways. I wanted more in life. I wasn’t sure what that was until older, I just knew it wasn’t marrying at fourteen.

Forgiveness is Tough

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            My mother epitomized the grudge-bearing harpy found in fables. While she couldn’t fly, she had an unnatural ability to sweep in when you really, really didn’t want her around. She’d rush in, her cheeks flushed with anger, accuse me of some sin, then threaten to have my father beat me.

            I knew she didn’t love me. I witnessed her love for my older brother and younger sister, but never me. Sometimes I yearned for love, but as I grew older, my heart became encased in steel. That protective barrier helped me stand alone, helped me resist the self-hate that threatened to pull me under.

            It’s one thing to feel unloved: it’s another when you hear the words, that not only are you not loved, but you are also unlovable.

            I tried not to hate my family. Sometimes my older brother was a friend, but sometimes he physically hurt me. I never knew which version of him would present itself. My younger sister was a different kind of challenge.

I didn’t love her, even when she was quite small. I blamed my mother for that, as she foisted the care of my sister off on me, a seven-year-old, insecure child. I was expected to play with her, even when, after she could talk, she hurt me. She’d kick me and then tell our parents that I’d kicked her. She’d smile when I was beaten.

When I left for college, I enrolled in the same university as my brother. That wasn’t my choice, but the only one permitted. It turned out okay. He joined a fraternity, and so did I! The boys began a Little Sister chapter, just for me. I did everything with them, including trips to Disneyland and parties. I dated one of the guys.

When my brother’s best friend expressed an interest in me, my brother forced me to spend time with Joe. Joe wasn’t nice. Joe wanted to feel my breasts. Joe tried to “bed” me, but I silently fought him off. And then later, Joe raped me.

Because my father had accused me of being a whore at fourteen, when I’d shortened my hair, I knew what whoring was. I’d never kissed a boy, or held hands with a boy, or wanted to, so that label felt like a condemnation.

When I told my family that Joe had raped me, I thought they’d sympathize, hate Joe, ban Joe from our family. They didn’t. Instead, they accused me of imagining that a boy would ever want me that way.

I’ve never forgiven Joe. If I saw him, recognized him, I’d run away rather than throw darts. I admire women who confront their abusers. The problem is, who would I confront?

My dad beat with his fists and belt. My mother abused me with name-calling and deprivation of love. My brother pinched and kicked me. My sister taunted me. Joe raped me.

I never forgave my parents. Even as their minds failed, I wasn’t the daughter they wanted. I wasn’t worth loving, only using. They asked me to babysit my dad. They demanded I drive my mother to the store. They never said thanks or expressed love.

My brother, though, changed. He mellowed out after he retired. We speak now and then, and it’s always respectful. I can forgive him. He did to me what our father did to him: physically and mentally abuse.

I tried to forgive my sister, but she’s too much like my mom. She carries grudges like glue. They are stuck to her shoulders and heart, and they never break free. She rehashes things I did fifty years ago. She blames me for things I never did, or at least can’t remember doing. She’s never apologized for the troubles she caused me, or for the hurtful things she said.

I like to think that someday I can forgive her. Recently I’ve been adding her to my prayers. Perhaps that will help.

A friend recently told me that I carry grudges. That shook me. I denied it, of course, but she got me thinking: have I let go of the hurts done to me?

Answering honestly, in most cases, yes. In rare cases, no.

Example: I apparently offended a choir member. I am not sure when or how, but when she sees me, she glowers at me. I’ve tried smiling at her, thanking her for her help, and speaking softly to her, but nothing seems to be working.

I shrugged it off, saying to myself that the relationship can never be healed. Last week I needed her help. I thanked her. She smiled!

I can forgive her for all the angry looks if she can forgive me for whatever I did to her.

Forgiveness is tough. A person can choose to pile grudges on their backs and walk around, bent over from the weight. Or they can choose to forgive and move forward.

I’m trying to move forward.

Forgiveness is tough, but I’m determined to accept my faults, their faults, and attempt to walk with them as they accompany me.

Alternate Kingdoms

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Consider, no acknowledge,

That there are alternate kingdoms.

The planets come to mind.

Swirling masses of rack and glass

Floating around us

None have been identified as hosting life

Yet there could be

Could have been

Creatures crawling, flying, digging

Multiplying, colonizing

Creating kingdoms of their own

Wriggling in the waters swirling

Below in lakes and streams and creeks

A variety of beings build homes

Reproduce

Celebrating love and life and family

Much as humans do,

But in their words, their thoughts,

Their beliefs.

Flowers and bushes and trees

Send their spores into the void

Populating unoccupied spaces

With vibrant hues of greens, browns,

Reds, ochres

Which then become homes for others

Usually not by choice,

But needed, necessary to foster

New lives, new families, new clusters.

Creeping, crawling, walking, stomping

Through it all are beings with legs

Or no legs

Wings or no wings

Breathing air, inhaling pollutants

That humans have created,

Thinking only of themselves

Their needs, their desires,

Of only what they perceive their lives should be

The world, the kingdom, expands and contracts,

Breathing its own rhythm

Pulsing life-giving blood and fluids

Across the lands, skies, waters

Sharing common space without consideration

For impact, for change, for unwanted influence

On other lives

On other kingdoms

Roses

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My mother loved roses

It made no difference the color or the heritage

Whether they climbed or grew in a bush

She carefully tended each plant

As if it was a child, a baby

Needing nurturing to grow.

She’d buy several new plants each season

Dig the holes and line them with mulch

The roots would be unbound, then settled.

I wanted to be her rose

To be carefully tended

Nurtured, like the child I once was

I didn’t need her to buy me anything

But I yearned for her to create places

For me to learn, love and grow

I wanted her love

Needed her love

And cried when she didn’t deliver.

Patience

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Tell me everything.

Don’t leave out the tiniest details

I want to hear your story, my dear.

Oh, mother, it’s so boring

And you’d never believe me anyway.

Yes, yes, I would.

I promise I’ll listen carefully

Memorizing every little description

Every thought, my dear.

Okay. Hear goes.

Mother, you know I’ve been interested

In Daniel Peters for a long, long time.

Oh, I remember!

You met in kindergarten.

Didn’t he build you a sandcastle?

Please, Mother, don’t distract me

So, the Sadie Hawkins dance is in two weeks.

You asked him, didn’t you?

Mother, just listen for once.

I wanted to ask Daniel

But he’s been dating Sharon Yeats

She’s not half as pretty as you.

Or not even close to as smart as you.

Mother, let me explain.

Anyway, I kept my eye on Daniel,

Looking for clues.

Sharon never ate lunch with him.

He never walked her to class

Or carried her books

.

So, did you ask him?

Please, please, Mother, listen, will you?

Everyone makes a big production

Standing up in the cafeteria

Holding signs and asking…hoping

I got brave

Made a huge sign

Walked up to the microphone

And said, “Daniel Peters,

Will you be my date?”

He said yes, I just know it!

Mother, you’re so wrong.

Everyone started laughing.

My cheeks got hot.

Tears formed in my eyes

Where does he live?

I’m going to go talk to him

.

No, mother, don’t do that.

Let me finish my story.

As I was walking away,

Just before I left the building,

Someone grabbed my arm.

I turned around, angry,

Ready to say something snarky,

But it was Daniel

.

I knew he’d come through!

Mother, no you didn’t

Because I didn’t.

He smiled, then whispered

His feelings in my ear.

So now I need a new dress

And a boutonniere

Let’s go, right now.

Where, Mother?

Shopping.

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.

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.

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.