Who I Am

May 1, 2004

My dear Dion:

Finally, I am coming back to your project, HER LEGACIES, and the question you’ve put in my mind – who IS the woman Beth, and how did she get that way?

I can't think back to how I came to view myself as a woman and to begin to find my place in the world without thinking of my father – I believe he was the single greatest influence in the way I look at me and what I am capable of, even though he died 27 years ago. Somehow he always made me feel I should be able to do anything that I really wanted to do badly enough. So I guess when I find something I can’t do very well, I tell myself that I must not really want to do it, which allows me to move on to something else.

And that is a very telling statement about me – I have "moved on" many times, but not always because I found myself unable to accomplish something. It has often been because of boredom or restlessness, whatever you want to call it. I do know I've caused myself much pain at times, due directly to my own actions, but even then there seems to be some part of me that stays "protected" and eventually emerges to butt up against the next brick wall I encounter.

Back to pain - as a female I've had my share - from the adolescent pain that once seemed so terrible, to the woman pain that really WAS terrible . . . the gut-wrenching pain of losing a baby girl only a few hours removed from my womb; of watching the slow deterioration and finally the death of my beloved father, and later, as if in a dreadful replay of the same horror show, my dear mother; the pain of losing a husband of more than 30 years, even though some of those years were not happy ones; the pain of seeing my children hurting and lost at times, battling their own demons, demons I feel I ought to be able to banish, for after all, I am their mother, dammit!

And then, the most horrifying nightmare imaginable – the telephone call that brings the unbearable message that my 38-year-old daughter has placed a pistol in her mouth and ended her physical pain and mental anguish in what must have been the only way out that she could see. Even now, almost four years later, just writing those words, brings back a hurt and a sense of failure as a parent that I will carry with me to the grave.

Have these fires strengthened me, made me a better person than I might otherwise have been? Who knows - the only consistent thing I've noted woven throughout the ups and downs of my life is this: somehow I survive, and not only survive, but thrive. Is that because there is some selfish part of me that won't ever quite invest ALL of me in loving any particular thing or person? Or isn't it just human nature to rise above the fray when the chips are down? I see it in many other people, so it surely isn't just me, or just WOMAN.

Well, you said thoughts/musings/ramblings - "ramblings" are what you're getting, so don't complain. I'm trying to recall some specific images that stand out in my memory that may have helped to make me who I am, but this whole exercise seems so narcissistic! Nevertheless, I'll get on with it.

I'm trying to think of how I "suppose" most people view me, as opposed to the me that I know I am. That may give you some insight. For example, there are some words that others use with reference to me – gracious, charming, caring, possessing integrity – yet I know, and you have probably seen examples, that I can be ungracious, anything but charming, uncaring about anyone other than myself in certain situations, and I have no doubt that I have been unscrupulous on more than one occasion in my life. So, is the "me" that other people see just a facade? Maybe – or maybe no one is ever all one way all the time. I choose to believe that the "better" me is the me that I am MOST of the time, and the not-so-good me is the one who rears her devilish head only once-in-awhile, in moments of "character failure."

Now I know you're probably sitting there thinking that those episodes of "cf" are probably mild little incidents where I failed to say "please and thank you" or something to that effect. I wish that were so. I might like to be June Cleaver, but I failed the perfect wife and mother test a long time ago. However, those trials, too, helped to shape me into the person I am today, which is definitely different from the woman I once was. There was always a lot of potential for being an excellent woman in me I think, but it takes a long time getting there. I finally began "growing up" (a little) in my forties, and continue to do so every day.

To really "see" me, though, you need to go back to my early years – a kinky-haired, skinny, knobby-kneed little girl with a smart mouth, and a great big insecurity on the inside. I never saw myself as "pretty" though my mother told me I was all the time (I didn't believe her), but she always followed that with, "pretty is as pretty does." I never really felt we were a poor family, but I wanted better clothes, and I wanted to live in town, and I wanted to be "popular.” Didn't we all? Since I never really felt part of the "in" crowd, I used my intellect to feel superior, or at least equal to them. Consequently, I offended a lot of people, then pretended I didn't care – but I did. Oh how I cared.

I remember high school mostly with discomfort - my joy came later at going back, participating in homecomings and reunions, and feeling very accepted. The old friends and classmates make me feel I’ve “held up well” over the years, and that I bring something worthwhile to the mix. How great it is at this point in life to be able to discover each other in new and interesting ways.

Somehow – probably just the times and the environment I was raised in – I got the idea that I needed to get married to be "defined" as a person, although at the time I wouldn't even have been able to articulate that thought. So when I graduated from high school and went to Austin to go to business college, there’s no doubt in my mind I was definitely looking for a husband. And it didn't seem at all strange to me that I was only 16 when I married. I thought I was "grown" after all. I was self-sufficient, had a job and lived on my own.

Obviously I had so much to learn about life, about love, marriage, raising children . . . yet somehow, for reasons mysterious to me even now, that marriage lasted 33 years 'til death did part us. It wasn't all good, but it wasn't all bad, either. My deepest disappointment, though, was always that my husband was never a happy person. I somehow felt that I was responsible, that I should have been able to make him happy. It took a very long time for me to learn that we are each responsible for our own happiness, and that no matter how hard I tried or didn't try, I couldn't change his perception of life. He was what he was, just as I am what I am. Sad perhaps, but living is full of unexpected turns, and the stroke that disabled him somehow eventually restored a caring relationship between us before his death, and I have thanked God many times for giving us that time. Otherwise I might have had to live the rest of my life with regrets, instead of being able to move forward with a new husband, a new love and a new life.

And that new life eventually came to include you as my boss, and then as my friend and mentor. I am grateful for the opportunities I was given at SHSU, but let's face it, those opportunities came from people - like you and Twila and Rex – not from the institution. You, of course, did more for my self-esteem than anyone. Because of you I finally began to believe that I was really making a contribution that not just everyone could make. Whether you realize it or not, you've had a great deal of influence on this little old lady.

I wish I could give you more insight into "me" but there are just too many things that I can't put on paper. I don't want to close, though, without also saying something about my mother, because obviously she also had a great influence on me. While my father gave me strength, my mother gave me compassion, and inspired in me the capacity to develop a real love for other people. Of course, Mother had her strengths, too, but she kept them hidden until she needed to pull them out. Maybe I do that, too. At some point in my childhood I can remember thinking only that I wanted to be left alone. Not true. I like some "alone time" but not too much of it.

Surely I’ve written enough, dear friend. Edit and/or do with it what you will.

Beth