Letting fate take over

Confidence is such a fragile thing. I find myself constantly trying to protect my children’s confidence and my own. Once it starts slipping, it’s hard to get it back. Things just start fall apart and then next thing you know you feel even worse about yourself.

My Mama, the dance teacher

I never realized how bad my confidence was until I registered to go back to college over 2 years ago. Some people don’t know this, but I actually registered my first quarter at SCAD as an undergrad. I didn’t think there was any way I could get into a graduate program.

After a few weeks of classes with 19-year-olds, I quickly learned that I needed to be with grown-ups. The transfer from undergrad to graduate course work was seamless on paper, but my confidence still sucked.

Most of the art-based classes in SCAD do something called “workshops.” That’s where we hang up our drawings on the wall or email everyone in the class a copy of our written work and sit back quietly in class while everyone talks about our work like we aren’t in the room.

For the first year of school, I dreaded workshops. Most of the time I couldn’t hear what others were saying about my work because the voice in my head was saying, “Oh my God, you suck. I can’t believe you let anyone see that. You don’t belong here!” My favorite mantra was, “You’re so stupid.”

Yes, it was sick. I can laugh about it now. I even got to where I would tell my peers about it and we would laugh hysterically. I guess part of being an artist is that constant self-deprecating feeling that everyone thinks you suck but you have to show the world what you created anyway. An most importantly, you have to pretend to be proud of it.

My Daddy, the artist

I still have that voice, but I ignore it. Well, I guess I should say I ignore it on good days. On bad days I just tell him “yes, I know I suck, but I have to get this done and submitted so I can get paid.”

Lately it has been even harder to ignore the voice. I can hear it when I look in the mirror to check my outfit before an interview, “Yuck, you look so old.” I can hear it when I get another rejection letter, “Yep, they hated you.”

But despite the constant rejection and the very low bank account, I feel like I have learned to live with the voice. It’s almost like I need it to stay fresh or to work harder. I need that voice trying to prove me wrong so I can say, “You were wrong.”

I’m worried right now, but I shouldn’t be. I still don’t have a full-time job and I have no new leads right now. By some miracle, I stumbled upon some great freelance opportunities that will keep me afloat until something bigger comes along.

I’m living the life that I said I never would live. I’m self-employed. And it scares the hell out of me.

I grew up in a house with two parents who were self-employed and I hated it. I hated that we never knew when someone would pay for dance classes or artwork. I hated the way people would tell us, “Sorry, I can’t pay for dance this month because I have to buy Christmas presents for my children.”

I wondered why they didn’t understand that if they don’t pay, then we had no money for Christmas presents. It made for a turbulent childhood of feast and famine—most of the time it was famine.

I wanted to go to college so I could find a job—a real job. Not a self-employed, artsy-fartsy kind of thing that promised money then made you sit and wait for it. I wanted something different from my childhood.

Me, the writer

But just like everything else in my life, I find myself drawn to a life that I swore I never wanted. I find myself more and more sympathetic to my parents and their choices every day. I find myself walking down a path in life that scares me but excites me at the same time.

I guess the reason I say I shouldn’t be worried right now is because I know that the harder I try to fight the natural progression of life, the more frustrated I become. So, instead of fighting back, I’m going to sit back and enjoy this ride for a little bit and see where it takes me. After all, it’s the only time the voice quits talking and right now I need all the self-confidence I can hold onto. 

I thought I forgot about you...

Life has a weird way of bringing people into your life that you “think” you have forgotten about. The truth is, of course, you never forgot about them, you were just lucky enough not to have to think about them for a while.

Before Robby and I got married, we made the decision that the children and I would leave our long-time home and move in with Robby in Savannah. They would leave the only school they had ever known and make new friends in a new school system.

But our old school system is probably one of the best in the state of Georgia. As a matter of fact, the schools are probably some of the best in the country. It was a tough choice, but as things began to fall into place, I knew it was the right decision.

The children also lucked out because they ended up with an extra 3 weeks of summer break due to the move. But with all the excitement of a move, a wedding, and life, I had failed to withdraw them from their old school yet.

Last week I was driving Jude home from karate class. My cell phone rang and I let it go to voice mail. When I listened to the message, I began to laugh out loud. “What’s so funny Mom?” Jude asked from the backseat of the car.

The message was from one of Veronica’s former teachers—she was calling to inform me that she would be Jude’s teacher this year. I had forgotten about her—or at least I thought I had. But as soon as I heard that name and that raspy voice, I knew exactly who she was. I replied to Jude, “You better thank Robby when you get home.”

Jude was confused until I said, “That was Mrs. H (I will keep her name private). She was going to be your teacher this year if we had not moved.”

Jude was horrified. He remembered that name very well. Mrs. H had tormented Veronica to the point that I almost pulled Veronica out of 3^rd grade. And the ironic part was that Mrs. H was a resource teacher who was supposed to be “helping” Veronica raise her grades and catch up before state testing began.

Third grade was a lousy year for Veronica. I was getting divorced and my soon to be ex-husband had just suffered a partial amputation of his leg and was in the hospital in Texas. And to top things off, the cast of “Mean Girls” had apparently set up shop in Veronica’s homeroom. She was a very sad little girl and she hated going to school. She had constant dark circles under her eyes, she rarely smiled, and she never ate.

She was so depressed that her mind began to not work correctly. She couldn’t comprehend short stories she read and she couldn’t even add simple numbers together. I began sending Veronica to family counseling and her homeroom teacher began to send her to Mrs. H’s classroom for extra help.

I went to eat lunch with Veronica at school one day. I gave her money to buy an ice-cream and she had just pulled off the wrapper when she saw another classmate come into the lunchroom to fetch her for Mrs. H. A look of terror swept over Veronica’s face and she stood up and threw her uneaten ice-cream in the trash and said, “I gotta go.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You still have over 5 minutes of lunch time left.”

She hurried to the door and said, “I have to go or Mrs. H will scream at me.”

I walked Veronica down to Mrs. H’s room and then walked across the hall to Veronica’s homeroom. “Why is Veronica not getting her full lunch?” I asked her teacher.

She looked uncomfortable. “Well, Mrs. H needs all the children in her room at the same time and some children have already had lunch.”

I told her I didn’t care. “Veronica gets her full lunch from now on or I’m going to the principal next time. Got it?”

The teacher looked scared. But I knew she wasn’t scared of me. I began to realize everyone was scared of Mrs. H.

Veronica’s teacher did fix the situation with lunch by sending her to the lunchroom 5 minutes early. I didn’t complain because I got what I asked for and I thought that would be the end of the situation.

Several weeks later, I was trying to help Veronica with her math homework. “Veronica, you got every single one of these problems wrong.” I wasn’t angry, I was worried.

She started crying. “I know. I’m stupid. I can’t do math. Mrs. H says I’m never gonna pass and I’m gonna be stuck in 3^rd grade forever.”

I almost broke my front tooth from clenching my jaw so tightly. “She said what?”

Then it all came out. Veronica began to tell me everything from how Mrs. H screams at them to how she yells, “None of you will ever pass anything! You are horrible students!”

I put Veronica’s homework in her backpack and told her, “You don’t have to worry about that woman ever again. I’ll take care of this.”

Veronica cried off and on for the rest of the night. I was so angry with this woman. Here I was trying to do everything I could to restore my daughter’s self-esteem and sense of self-worth and this stranger was tearing down everything I had built up.

I sent a note with Veronica the next morning and told her teacher that under no circumstances was Veronica to go to Mrs. H’s classroom. My phone rang about an hour after school started.

“Hey, is this Veronica’s mom?” said a gravelly voice.

“Is this Mrs. H?” I asked.

“Why, yes it is,” she said with a laugh. “I think we have a misunderstanding.” She was laying on the sweet pretty thick.

“No we don’t,” I said. “Veronica told me everything. I will be at the school at lunch to take care of this, so I suggest you get your story straight before I get there.”

Later that day, I met Mrs. H. She looked the way I expected—she had those crazy bitch eyes that she tried to hide behind her fake smile. She informed me that her method of teaching was very successful and that children do better when they think they are going to fail.

“That’s the biggest bunch of crap I ever heard,” I laughed. I told her that she better treat my little girl like a princess and do something to turn her self-esteem around or I would make sure the school board knows she’s the kind of teacher who picks on disabled children. I pulled every card I had and I didn’t stop until I saw that woman cry. Then I went across the hall and I got Veronica and brought her into the room. I made her apologize to Veronica and explain to her that the state tests have no bearing on her ability to pass 3^rd grade. I made her tell her she was wrong to treat her that way.

Veronica looked up at Mrs. H’s teary face and said, “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

Perhaps it was mean, but I wanted her to feel the way she made my child feel. I wanted her to feel stupid. I wanted her to feel like an idiot. I wanted her to feel like everyone was laughing at her. I wanted her to feel something besides entitlement and self-justification.

It worked. She began to treat Veronica the way you are supposed to treat a child. She praised her hard work. If she asked if anyone needed more time to finish a test, and Veronica raised her hand then she would say, “Take as long as you need, honey.”

Veronica’s self-esteem began to blossom again. Her grades went up and she not only passed her state test, but she blew them out of the water. And most importantly, I got my little girl back. I got to see that smile again. I was able to see those beautiful brown eyes again and they weren’t clouded with tears or sadness anymore.

But the name Mrs. H still evokes fear in Veronica. When I told her that Mrs. H would have been Jude’s teacher, she almost cried. She hugged Robby and said, “Thanks for moving us to Savannah.” I guess it was just meant to be.