Happiness essay in progress

Memories of Grandma

            This is another essay written for my college Composition class. It was probably one of the hardest things to write about for me. Whether or not I earned a good grade on this assignment was not important at the time. I wanted to tell a story about how my Grandma saved me. I wanted to try and express just how much her influence shaped my life.

             Trying to pin down a single memory about what shaped my identity as a writer and a reader is like trying to catch a goldfish in the ocean; it feels nearly impossible. The first five years of my life were not what they should have been. Rather than having a childhood full of adventure and discovery, mine was full of violence and fear. As a result, I didn’t have many of the typical experiences that most children have during their early years. I didn’t know any nursery rhymes or have a favorite story book. I didn’t understand why kids got excited for Christmas or birthdays. I didn’t know how to play with toys or use my imagination to create games.  I was literally stunted in my emotional and social growth. As a way of self preservation, I had closed myself off from everything. I didn’t speak unless spoken to. I didn’t dream. I didn’t hope. I survived day to day and that was all I knew.

I think that if things had continued on that way I probably would have ended up in some sort of institution - locked up and forgotten. Instead, my grandparents stepped in and rescued me. They took me in: a small, frightened and fragile child, afraid of my own shadow and introduced me to a life I hadn’t dared imagine. They taught me everything. They showed me what life was supposed to be like for a child. They taught me to find joy and happiness in the things around me; to live life to the fullest everyday and dream of bigger and better things for the future. They literally saved my life.

My Grandma was the first person ever to sit down and read to me. 

There was an old, worn out rocking chair that sat in the corner of our living room. The black paint was long faded and cracked from years of use. At some point Grandma had decided to drape a garishly colorful knitted afghan over the back as a way to spruce it up. That chair would creak and crack every time someone sat down in it; like it was daring the person to actually rock in it. It was in that ancient rocking chair that Grandma would sit, with me on her lap, reading to me stories about corduroy bears that had lost buttons and curious monkeys who befriended men in big yellow hats.

I was still too young to read to myself at that point, but the fire had been lit. I remember grabbing books and looking at their pictures for hours trying to figure out what the story could be about. I begged my Grandma to read me anything she could get her hands on from shampoo bottles and cereal boxes to junk-mail and the daily newspaper. She always indulged me. When she ran out of things to read to me she would tell me about a story she had read as a child or one that she had been told.

It wasn’t long before I began to not only read on my own, but excel to levels much higher than my age group; much to the surprise of my therapists and kindergarten teacher, who said it would take years before I would be on grade level academically. Once I started reading I quickly discovered that I could lose myself in the story – my reality changed and I no longer had to think of my past. Reading allowed me to be anyone I wanted to be: to travel to places I never dreamed existed; to experience the adventure and pure joy of being a kid without being tainted by my complicated history. I discovered a freedom and anonymity in the pages of books that I could not find in real life.

That love of reading eventually blossomed into a love of writing. I started to put down my thoughts and ideas in journals and began to piece them together; creating characters and far-away places that I imagined all on my own. Of course I would read these stories to my Grandma at nighttime. She would usually be crafting or working on one of the massive puzzles she loved to piece together. She always listened intently and never criticized what I had come up with. She encouraged me to write anything I wanted and not to be afraid of what others might say. Because of that encouragement, I continued to write without fear and eventually had one of my stories selected as the grade level winner for our school districts Young Authors contest. It was a moment that I will never forget and a moment that was only possible because of my Grandmothers encouragement and support.

My love of reading and writing has never waned and if anything only seems to get stronger as I get older. I still read almost anything I can get my hands on and though I don’t write creatively much anymore, I still write in a journal regularly to keep track of my thoughts and ideas. My personal journey in life has not been typical and I have come close to not having a life at all. I truly believe that if I had not been exposed to books and developed a strong love of reading and writing, I would have struggled to express myself and deal with my past in a healthy and productive way. Those early moments sitting with my Grandma in that rocking chair shaped my future in a way that even she could not have predicted.

This I Believe

Below is my version of a "This I Believe" essay that I wrote for my Composition class. 

This I Believe is an international organization engaging people in writing and sharing essays describing the core values that guide their daily lives. Some 100,000 of these essays, written by people from all walks of life, are archived here on our website, heard on public radio, chronicled through our books, and featured in weekly pod-casts. The project is based on the popular 1950s radio series of the same name hosted by Edward R. Murrow. (http://thisibelieve.org/)

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This I Believe

            I remember going to church as a kid and hearing the Preacher shout about “Hell and Damnation” to all those that didn’t follow the word of God; that God only protected his own flock and that all others should bow down to Him or face His wrath. And by God, the Preacher meant the Christian version of God, the one presented in The Bible and found throughout most of the major Western religions. I admit, I was terrified and willingly went along with what I was told out of fear that I would find my soul charred and burning in some fiery pit for all of eternity if I didn’t. I didn’t question; I didn’t think. I truly was like a single, fearful sheep in a massive flock, following everyone around me without question because I couldn’t think for myself and was told that it was wrong to want to.

            I was a senior in high school when a nation news story grabbed not only my attention, but the attention of the entire Nation. Mathew Shepard, a young man from Wyoming who also happened to be gay, was savagely beaten and tortured; tied to a fencepost and left to die by two men who claimed to be “driven to panic” by flirtations from Shepard. During the course of the trial, there were many views expressed in the various media outlets; rage, fear, heartache, confusion…and cold indifference.

There were many who called for major reform to our laws; demanding justice for Mathew and others by enacting tougher hate crime legislation. There were also those, mainly highly conservative and controversial “religious” organizations, that believed Mathew’s death was a righteous act and that not only would Mathew be burning in Hell for his sins, but also any of those that supported the gay community. Those groups viewed Mathew’s murders as heroes – doing the work of God himself. They even went so far as to protest at Mathew’s funeral, waving around signs full of hate filled words while his family and friends cried and mourned his loss.

It was then that I decided to believe that the world was not at the mercy of some unseen, judgmental man sitting in the heavens and that every person in the world had value regardless of what they believed in. I couldn’t fathom that any God or Higher Power would foster and nurture such hate and intolerance. My newly found belief was reinforced when I saw people from all walks of life and religions coming together to speak out against such hatred. It was then that I began to believe in people: people of all colors, religions, sexual orientations, cultural backgrounds, financial statuses and political beliefs. And so, this I believe – I believe in the strength, the beauty and the power of people.

I began to believe that people are all basically good and have an ingrained moral compass that guides them to do right by others. We are not mindless creatures that can only find self worth and redemption in the forgiveness of God. People are people and that fact alone is what brings us together in times of need and hardship. We look past those things that separate us: religion, class, color and culture. We come together as one unified group: human beings. It is the power held within each person - the undying spirit of the human mind - that drives our cultures and societies forward as well as brings comfort and structure in day to day life.

This does not mean that people are above reproach. People screw up, make mistakes and do the wrong thing even when they know they shouldn’t. People can hurt each other deeply and do things that test our faith in Mankind. But that doesn’t mean that the people that make those mistakes are useless and not worthy of regaining respect. People are flawed and it is in those flaws where we find our greatest strengths.

I remember the months following the terrorist attacks on 9/11. Many say it was some of our darkest times as a nation and while I understand their point of view and even agree with them to some degree, I also think it was some of our strongest and brightest moments as well. People from throughout the world came together to mourn the tragic loss of life and to condemn those that orchestrated the attacks. People also came together to celebrate each other – to celebrate life. We celebrated the individual lives of those that we had lost. We told their stories. We related to them. We were each of them; we cried with them and laughed with them and hoped with them. We became one in those moments; putting aside our nationalities, religions and ways of life.

There was also forgiveness. That is what puts me in awe of us as humans. We can forgive those that deeply wound us. We suffer and though we will bear the scars for a lifetime and never forget, we can forgive our fellow man. The depth of understanding and appreciation for each other that it takes to do that is not something that can be taught. It is something that everyone has in their core. It is not something that is divinely given or sought out. We somehow think we need to seek out that forgiveness or the ability to forgive from a higher power, but it is a human characteristic that we all have within us.

As humans, we can rise above organized religions and ancient myths and begin to value each other over everything else. We can begin to celebrate and support human life in all forms rather than pouring money into churches that will alienate people for being different. We can begin to support individuals and the abilities of those individuals to achieve success on their own terms. We can value ALL people, regardless of how different they might be. As a particular Doctor once said “A person’s a person, no matter how small!”