I had a rather scary fall a few weeks ago. I got tangled in a pajama leg whose static cling unbalanced me and sent me careening across the bathroom floor. I landed with my head banging loudly on the marble of my bathtub. It was a scary moment as I lay on the ground wondering if I had broken anything. As good luck would have it I ended up being just fine other than having a great number of aches and pains on the areas of my body that took the blows. A CT scan confirmed that everything was miraculously intact and the only damage was to my psyche which felt terribly stupid in the moment.
I joked about my mother’s oft spoken belief that I was a very hard headed child. I know that she was right in her appraisal of my personality but I prefer a more positive sounding description such as being someone with an independent mind. Where I got that trait would probably have shocked my mother because I have always believed that in many ways I am an amalgam of both of my parents.
My father impressed me when I was an eight year old transferring from a school in Texas to one in California. The principal there insisted that I was younger than the average third grader and that my education in Texas was in all probability inferior to what was being offered in her school. She wanted to put me back into the second grade where I might have an easier time both academically and emotionally.
I can still hear my father insisting that I did not need to conform to the so called norms of the new school. He boasted that I was a strong girl who would be able to make up any deficits that I might have with sheer will. He would not agree to holding me back but instead noted that I should be encouraged to push forward if I was willing to do the work needed to adapt. I loved him in that moment and became determined to always do whatever I needed to do to keep moving forward. As it happened I was not behind at all and my transition to the new school was as smooth as silk.
Years later after my father died and I was entering high school my mother and I met with another principal who believed that my abilities had been overestimated by my former teachers who insisted that I be placed in advanced classes that were then known as honor classes. He reluctantly deferred to their advice but explained that he would rescue me and provide me with the proper placement once I had failed.
This time it was my mother who insisted that I would be fine. She boasted that I was a tough young woman who knew how to work hard when needed. She noted that she had taught me to be brave and to achieve beyond what people believed I might do. As I listened to her I knew exactly what my assignment was. I determined that there would never be a failure on my part no matter how hard I had to work.
My life has been such that I have had to prove myself again and again. I don’t look like a gritty person , but I am. I know that my IQ and my testing abilities might not be as outstanding as others but I have found that in this life there is no substitute for effort and I have always been someone who gave my all to whatever I was doing. Sometimes that meant that I had to overcome challenges that pushed me beyond what even I thought I might be able to tackle. Every single time that hard headed streak in me overcame my hesitation.
Both of my parents taught me to have a mind of my own. While they respected rules and laws they also admired people to stood up for truth and fairness. I suppose that the lessons that they quietly gave me with their own example stayed with me to this very day. Along the way to where I am now others inspired me with their courage to do the right thing when others were reticent.
Shortly after we moved into the home where I would grow up after my father died a man murdered his wife one evening. When the shots rang out virtually everyone in the neighborhood rushed outside to see what had happened. While we were still unsure of the exact situation everyone knew that the man had been abusing his wife. During our wait for the police to arrive the man’s children were screaming and crying in a window facing the street. I was only eight but the scene horrified me and would be etched forever in my mind.
Seemingly from out of nowhere came Mrs. Bush, a tiny but feisty woman who walked straight to the house and banged on the door demanding that the man send his children outside away from the horror of what they had witnessed. Everyone held their breaths in amazement of her courage as she kept up her demands even as the man shouted threats at her. Then the front door of the home inched open and the children came out sobbing and shaking. Without a word Mrs. Bush took them to the safety of her home. In that moment she became my hero.
Years later when I was a married adult a similar incident occurred. A man was beating his wife and his children were begging for help. One of my friends in the apartment complex bound up the stairs and threatened to break the window if she had to in order to save those youngsters. She too became a person whose bravery inspired me to learn how to speak my mind whenever situations demanded.
I suppose that to some people I sound a bit crazed when I harp on issues and situations that I believe to be hurting others. It’s not that I am a bleeding heart or that my empathy is a weakness that pushes me to question rules. It is because my family taught me about the power of thinking for myself. Those beliefs were further reinforced by individuals who impressed me in dangerous moments when their help was crucial. Those people have been my guiding lights and the reasons why I am no longer willing to stand mutely watching wrongs. My hard head demands that I follow my heart.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 