When I was in the second and third grades I became addicted to stories about saints in the Catholic Church. The librarian, Mrs. Martin, noticed my propensity to choose the books about saints and often set aside new ones that she had purchased so that I might be the first to read them. I must have gone through every such text that the school owned before tales about the early American pioneers began to tickle my fancy and steal my attention. 

For some reason I’ve always had a tendency to read everything in a particular genre until I suddenly have little interest and move on to new frontiers. I don’t actually recall many details about the saints that I found the most interesting other than the common trait of courage that so many of them seemed to have. If their personalities were too syrupy sweet I quickly became bored by them but those who bucked the system in the name of what they believed to be right fascinated me. 

At the time that I first encountered books about the lives of the saints I was a little mouse afraid of her own shadow. I would never have had the strength to speak out or buck the system so I suppose that I felt a sense of admiration for anyone willing to speak the truth as they saw it. Women like Joan of Arc and St. Theresa impressed me with their courage and their humanity which often included anxieties that made them question the status quo. 

I suppose such people, especially the females. have always seemed quite special to me. I loved a childhood neighbor who stood up to a man who had just murdered his wife in order to protect his children. All of the other adults were frozen in fear waiting for the police to arrive but she would have none of the reticence. She saw the little ones screaming for help in the living room window and dove into action. She pounded on the front door with all of the force that her tiny body allowed demanding that the murderer free the children into her care. I was only seven when I witnessed her audacity but I have never forgotten how impressed I was with her. I tend to believe that she is now one of those saints that remain unnamed but definitely worth remembering. St. Kathleen is my secret icon and I have never forgotten her.

I have known others who were willing to risk their jobs and even their standing in the community to do what they believed to be right. Each time I saw such a person I chided myself for not rising to difficult occasions the way that they had. I so wanted to be like them but never quite found the chutzpah I needed to overcome my shyness, I would be in my mid twenties before I found something deep inside of me that allowed me to openly sand up for what I believe. It eventually led me to become a Peer Facilitator for teachers and a Dean of Faculty. At the same time I stood firm in my defense of students who were being bullied or abused. 

The more often I spoke my mind, the easier it became to be an advocate for anyone who was in a dire situation. Perhaps it began with those books about the saints or with my admiration for certain women whom I had known. Maybe it was having to care for my mother when she became ill with bipolar disorder. I will never know for sure, but I found my voice and never again looked back.

I have learned to price of speaking my mind. I once enraged one of my bosses so much that I feared that I would be fired even as I knew that I had been fair in my complaints to her. What I saw was an insecure and power hungry woman who quite unfairly misjudged her employees seemingly to make herself appear to be more in control that she was. I stood my ground because I believed that with a bit of self reflection she might have become a decent leader. Instead she only became more and more threatening until her authority collapsed under the weight of her damaged psyche. She was eventually judged by her own bosses to be incompetent and they relieved her of her job, thanking me for attempting to right the wrongs long before it was too late to salvage the situation. 

I tend to think of my fortitude as good trouble but not everyone agrees. I have lost friends and been marked as a trouble maker for mentioning hard truths. There is a price to be paid for speaking one’s mind. Not everyone sees me as a heroine whenever I attempt to bring difficulties to light. I often remind myself that Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. I have slowly learned when my words and actions will do good and when they will make things worse. There is a balance that I must attempt to achieve but some things are so egregious that silence would be morally wrong under any circumstances. 

I have been surrounded by brave women for all of my life. My mother forged an incredible path in life in spite of her illness. My mother-in-law would raise her eyebrow and state her views when she witnessed someone being hurt. Both great men and women of integrity abound. They are the kind of heroes that I still strive to be. They are people willing to sacrifice for truth and justice. They are the living saints who keep me striving to live an honorable life. .