It is easy — and heartbreaking — to look back and see where our personal life trains got derailed. For me, it was age 14.
There I was, chugging along my track — one of the smart kids at St.Joachim’s. Don’t I look smart?!
I headed off to the Catholic High School where I made the Varsity basketball team as a freshperson (I was tall — see above) and the challenges of the classes suited me. I remember distinctly my ethics class because I loved it so much. Ironically — or maybe not — I am teaching an ethics class this semester to undergraduates.
But the track from the 14-year-old me in that ethics class to the professor teaching ethics was anything but smooth.
The short version is that my parents’ divorce — and the resulting shortage of money — took the Catholic high school off the table for us, and so at the start of my sophomore year I went to a public school for the first time since kindergarten.
Oh.My.Heck.
Kids smoked! They did drugs! They practically had sex on the lawn! There was SWEARING!! It was a wee bit of a culture shock (understatement alert).
Everything that had provided structure — school, church, family, sports, and even uniforms(!) — was gone.
I got lost — and nobody really noticed.
I dropped out of high school in the middle of my junior year. I was married and pregnant at 18. Two kids before I could legally drink.
Mine is a story of what trauma does to kids but it is also a story of resilience — and privilege. At age 20, I took a step into the unknown future. A very pregnant me signed up for classes at San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton, California…
I did that because there was someone who believed in my potential: My grandfather.
This is my dad on the bench that is dedicated to my grandad at UC Berkeley.
That photo from the previous post of the three sisters? We are sitting on that bench. It is our place — I do not know how else to say it.
And so of course I transferred to Berkeley — where else would one go to college? I seriously thought that.
That is where the privilege comes in. Not only had I grown up around that UC Berkeley campus, my grandfather had set up a trust fund for his grandchildren’s college expenses. Not just the boys — all of his grandchildren. That was both a powerful message about possibilities and an invitation to the advantages of future income and independence that education offers. For a young woman of that time — it was life changing. I still had to work part-time but I never worried about how to pay for tuition and books, even when I was a single parent with two small kids in tow.
Sometimes I worry that my successes cover up the really important parts of my story. That traumatized kids need help — they are so vulnerable. That we all lose when trauma robs us of bright stars who are so filled with shining possibilities — but who are buried under their family drama. Maybe that is you and if so, please know it is not too late.
I used to wonder what I could have done and been if not for the metaphorical bombing of my family but I don’t anymore. Instead, I just have a sense of wonder and gratitude that I was uncovered from the rubble. I know it wasn’t just me that did that — I had so much help along the way.
We never can truly know the impact we have on others — all we can do is believe that we matter, and so does the person in front of us. Even if it is a random kid in front of us in line at the grocery store — maybe our kind interaction will be what she needs to keep chugging along through the darkness today — and finish a Ph.D. at Berkeley on some other day.
#gratitude
Blog posts are organic. I am not always sure how they will proceed — this series is definitely in that camp. These posts really are about this darn painting…
But I am contextualizing — and the context is even more than I expected or planned. My willingness to share is because I accept and honor the words that apparently needed to be written.
Maybe someone besides me needs to read them.
You matter.
