My story really isn’t that much different from the stories of other women my age. Born into a Catholic family in 1950, I was raised to be polite, obedient, and self-effacing. Somewhere along the way I got the message that it was better to blend into the background, not make a spectacle of myself, and put everyone else’s needs before my own. None of these things came easily to me at first.
As a young child, I was loud, demanding, bold, and headstrong. When I played, I played hard, got dirty, and came home with bruises and skinned knees. I was often told that I “didn’t know my own strength.” I grew up in a time when you could be strong or you could be a girl, but you couldn’t be both. My stride was too long, I walked too fast, and I talked too loudly. I was not graceful, or petite, or ladylike. I was bossy, argumentative, and a show-off. To top it off, I had big feet, toes that resembled talons, and a pair of hands you’d be more likely to find on a boy. I was a mess.
As a young child I remember my mother calling me “a mental case.” I wondered what that meant. I thought she was saying “metal case.” I’m still not sure what I did to prompt that reaction from my mother. Two things were very clear to me though–that I was a disappointment to her and that she loved me anyway. In desperation she often warned, “You are a reflection of this family.” Clearly she feared I would tarnish our family’s reputation by my actions, a heavy burden for anyone to bear. It took me a long time to realize what a tortured soul she was. The unrelenting expectations of my grandmother breathed down her neck day after day. Familial history was repeating itself.
I remember being with my mother in the grocery store when I was about seventeen years old. The young woman just ahead of us on the check-out line was trying to cope with her little daughter who was clearly in the midst of a very loud and squirmy temper tantrum. My mother touched the young woman’s arm and in her most knowing voice said, “It does get better, really it does. My daughter was the same way and now she is a sweet young lady.” It occurred to me that I had finally become the person my mother wanted me to be. I remember feeling proud and happy. The feeling was a fleeting one.
Considering the question “Who am I?” dredges up all the memories of being an unacceptable little girl, a conflicted adolescent, a misunderstood wife, a guilt-ridden mother, and a woman who, ultimately, threw herself into her life’s work to prove to herself that she really was a good person. Those stages of life are behind me now. I am older now. I am a widow. I am retired. My children have children of their own.
Writing is an act of reconciliation between my heart and the sharp edges of my personal history. It demands a kinder and gentler perspective. It reveals and begs for understanding. Because I write, I understand my story more fully. Once blame and shame are allowed to fall away, the love that was hiding behind it all along feels safe enough to peek out from its hiding place. Examining one’s life is difficult work, but necessary.

The question “Who am I?” is a question for an old soul.

I am ready.