Note: This blog comes as a result of an anonymous posting on a public website from a student of mine who said “She’s a very nice lady, but maybe she should find something else that’s more her style.” As a new teacher, such a comment stings, but I realize that is part of the learning process of teaching – not everyone is going to think you are the world’s greatest teacher, and many may think you are indeed the world’s worst. But not my “style?” I think not.
When I was young, my “style” was extremely shy. My mother says she used to have to apologize to people because I was just too shy to look people in the eye and say thank you. At extended family gatherings I would hide behind the doorway in the kitchen, playing with the phone cord and peeking out to glimpse my family – people I knew. It was only my Grandma who could coax me out to sit on her lap. Once I got acclimated, I was the life of the party and as far as I know I was well liked and loved by my relatives. I didn’t cause much trouble, that’s for sure.
That “style” continued throughout most of grade school. About fifth grade I came out of my shell a bit, but still couldn’t look at boys or (gasp!) talk to a boy. My mom says the boys liked me because I always laughed at their antics. That style has persisted throughout my life. It’s the only way I survived raising three sons to manhood and being married to Al. Sense of humor or perish was pretty much my motto.
In high school I came out of my shell in sophomore year. I was still shy, but I became less and less afraid to interact with those wonderful scary creatures called “guys.” I became less afraid of everything – speaking in public, math, walking onto a stage for a play or a performance. By the time I was a senior in high school my “style” was confident and happy and had wonderful, bright, funny friends who remain that to this day.
My “style” in college was even more outgoing. The drinking age in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in 1972 was 18, and I, along with my peers, took full advantage of that – and other sources of fun that were popular and available at the time. I came from a small town – a particular style, to be sure – and learned about the style of living smack dab in the middle of a city. My first boyfriend there grew up in Jamaica, Queens, NY with alcoholic parents who struggled to get by. I learned about how growing up in one style does not have to define the style your whole life. He remains a very close friend to Al and me and is a successful business owner, with two beautiful and unique children and a business partner, his wife, who is the smartest and most generous woman I have ever known and a cherished friend as well.
Over the years my “style” changed again – wife, mother, physical therapist and now: teacher. I decided to brainstorm some things that are my “style.” None of these styles just happened. They were the result of decisions I made, circumstances that I chose. Of course we get thrown curveballs in our lives, but how we deal with them is what counts. (Miley Cyrus was right about that one…)
Moving to New York to follow the BB (bad boyfriend – not the good one mentioned above) right after college with very little to my name but a college degree in philosophy and some personal belongings, living for a time and working temp jobs and learning to ski in Vermont, getting a job as an aide in a PT department, learning crewel and cross stitch and needlepoint and knitting sweaters. That was my “style.” Sewing every prom and homecoming dress and making my own wedding dress, making my own Christmas cards, sewing curtains for the Montessori school. That was my “style.” Chairing the church carnival, writing copy for the school auction items, cantoring at Mass. That was my “style.” Surviving good relationships and bad relationships with those scary male people. (Actually the older I get and the more I understand them, those dudes are getting scary again. Are you with me, girls?)
Going back to school for physical therapy – having to study my ass off to get A’s in the prerequisite science and math courses (they did not come easy – I’m a philosopher), my first job working at San Francisco General Hospital in 1982 as the AIDS epidemic was decimating the lives of my peers and there was a race to stop it, treating abused babies in the burn unit there and washing the open wounds of homeless drug addicts. That was my “style.”
Joining a chorus at age 40 and travelling to Italy to sing at noon Mass on the main altar at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, taking off surreptitiously from the tour group to enjoy my own private Italy tour with a few other choristers, hiking to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back up at age 55 with my 60 year old sister. That was my “style.” Sitting by the bedside of a dying friend, moving from my home of thirty years where I raised my children and moving to a completely new community and culture, leaving behind my work connections, and in some ways having to start over as a physical therapist to make my name, including venturing on my own to take on private clients in their own homes. That is my “style.”
Oh, and, no longer shy. Often have been given the distinction of saying what everyone else is thinking – still learning that when I do that and turn around to say “right, everybody?” – everyone pretends not to know me. Still, I speak up, I just make sure I’m only talking for myself now. Changed my “style…”
I turn 60 this year. What is my “style?” Can it be defined? I am going to fulfill a dream that I think I will excel at, but the learning curve looks like Mt. Everest at times. I will most likely have to change my style somewhat. But when I look back, I realize I have changed my style many times, and it has evolved according to my needs and desires. I am what is now called “a life long learner.” I never stop learning, nor do I want to. Nor will anyone who tries to define my “style” be satisfied any time soon that such a definition will stand.
That’s my style.
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