Hello readers.
I was supposed to continue my blog from last week, but as I tried to write it, I thought better of speaking ill of any of my coworkers. The typos are innocuous, but the other stuff I was going to talk about kind of places blame, and I think it'd be both foolish and unkind of me to publish my rant about it.
So, I sat here trying to think of something else to write about, and I just couldn't form something coherent or interesting. I confess that I think I may be a bit burned out on blogging.
So, I'm taking a bit of a break this week. Hopefully I'll be back next week refreshed.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Tpyos are funny.
When I tell people that I am a math textbook editor, they often respond with something like, “Wow, that must be boring!” I try not to be annoyed at these moments, because I suppose that it’s an easy assumption to make. Although my job entails many multi-faceted tasks, the fact remains that I spend most of my time reading mathematics text books.
And the published versions of mathematics textbooks, the versions that the general public sees, are boring in a lot of ways. In a sense, I am paid to make them that way. It’s my job to make the text clear cut and easy to understand, without any flowery language superfluous examples. But what people don’t understand is that these are not the versions I spend most of my time reading. The “working versions” of the texts, seen by editors only, are often absolutely hilarious.
The sources of humor come in three basic forms. The first and most common, perhaps, is the abundant number of typos that appear in early (and sometimes even late!) versions of the manuscript. Many typos are just annoying for editors; I can’t understand how people with PhDs in mathematics never learned the difference between “there” and “their,” or worse, between “waste” and “waist.” But others can really tickle the funny bone. One of my officemates laughed for days when “Population Pyramid” became “Poupulation Pyramid.” (If you don’t see the 4th-grade humor yet, say the misspelled version out loud.) Another officemate found it particular amusing when a problem that was supposed to be about a transistor was written as being about a “transitor,” a word she interpreted as being a dinosaur-esque creature, complete with claws and a growl that she is fond of imitating. Personally, my favorite typo is when “function” is missing its first n. (Again, say it out loud.) Sometimes I think the authors and production workers that introduce these typos are trying to poison the minds of today’s youth.
Typos do not always come in the form of misspellings, though. Working as an editor has really made me appreciate the value of words, because I have seen how losing one word from a sentence can completely change its meaning. For instance, there is a question in one of our books that now reads, “Does the infinite series converge? If so, what is its limit?” Strictly mathematical, and what most people would call boring. But the version I saw had one word missing, and instead of that boring mathematics question, it was a philosophical question for the ages: “Does the infinite converge? If so, what is its limit?” My mental image of 11th graders trying to answer that question kept me laughing for the rest of the day.
There are two other ways the working text can become funny – authors trying too hard and editorial assistants not trying hard enough. However, I’m going to have to save those stories for next week, as I am off to a barbeque today. I hope you all had a great Memorial Day! Thanks, as always, for reading.
And the published versions of mathematics textbooks, the versions that the general public sees, are boring in a lot of ways. In a sense, I am paid to make them that way. It’s my job to make the text clear cut and easy to understand, without any flowery language superfluous examples. But what people don’t understand is that these are not the versions I spend most of my time reading. The “working versions” of the texts, seen by editors only, are often absolutely hilarious.
The sources of humor come in three basic forms. The first and most common, perhaps, is the abundant number of typos that appear in early (and sometimes even late!) versions of the manuscript. Many typos are just annoying for editors; I can’t understand how people with PhDs in mathematics never learned the difference between “there” and “their,” or worse, between “waste” and “waist.” But others can really tickle the funny bone. One of my officemates laughed for days when “Population Pyramid” became “Poupulation Pyramid.” (If you don’t see the 4th-grade humor yet, say the misspelled version out loud.) Another officemate found it particular amusing when a problem that was supposed to be about a transistor was written as being about a “transitor,” a word she interpreted as being a dinosaur-esque creature, complete with claws and a growl that she is fond of imitating. Personally, my favorite typo is when “function” is missing its first n. (Again, say it out loud.) Sometimes I think the authors and production workers that introduce these typos are trying to poison the minds of today’s youth.
Typos do not always come in the form of misspellings, though. Working as an editor has really made me appreciate the value of words, because I have seen how losing one word from a sentence can completely change its meaning. For instance, there is a question in one of our books that now reads, “Does the infinite series converge? If so, what is its limit?” Strictly mathematical, and what most people would call boring. But the version I saw had one word missing, and instead of that boring mathematics question, it was a philosophical question for the ages: “Does the infinite converge? If so, what is its limit?” My mental image of 11th graders trying to answer that question kept me laughing for the rest of the day.
There are two other ways the working text can become funny – authors trying too hard and editorial assistants not trying hard enough. However, I’m going to have to save those stories for next week, as I am off to a barbeque today. I hope you all had a great Memorial Day! Thanks, as always, for reading.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Soldier Field 10 for the Soldiers
Next Saturday, I will be running a ten-mile race. The race is called the Soldier Field 10 because it ends on the 50 yard line of Soldier Field in Chicago. It also takes place on Memorial Day weekend, to further honor the soldiers for which Soldier Field is named.
I was thinking about these things yesterday morning as I did a 10-mile training run. Sadly, I have never really thought of Memorial Day as a holiday. For me, it has always been about an extra day off and the beginning of summer. I have never given much thought to the fact that the day is intended to honor current members of the military as well as veterans.
I suppose this oversight makes some sense. While I was growing up, I didn’t have much contact with anyone in the military. I definitely do not come from a military family. But the longer I thought about it, the more ashamed I became of the fact that I ignore the meaning of this holiday. I began to list the ways I am connected to the military now, and the list was much longer than I expected.
So, I resolved to make this year different. What could I do this Memorial Day weekend to honor the soldiers I know? I thought about this as I ran along, and then the answer became obvious.
The race. This race will be my first of this length, and the training has not been an easy road. Putting each of those ten miles behind me will be a huge personal feat for me. Although I know that I can do it, I’m nervous, and I always wonder what will drive me to finish. Now I have a reason. I’ll run it for my soldiers. I’ll use each mile to remember and honor the soldiers in my life.
My first exposure to the realities of the military was on a trip to Washington DC with my family when I was in middle school. We went to the Vietnam Memorial, and my mom looked up her cousin’s name. We found the right panel, and there it was: Terry VanOchten. Obviously, I never met him, and my mom never talked about him, either, but something about seeing my mother’s maiden name on that wall made the war real for me. So, my first mile will be for my mother’s cousin. Mile 1 is for Terry.
The other thing I remember clearly about that trip to DC is seeing the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The idea that people could die without being identified was incomprehensible to me. I have a strong and perhaps irrational fear of becoming inconsequential someday – of dying and having no one notice. So I felt for the men and women to whom that memorial is dedicated. I don’t want them to be forgotten. Mile 2 is for the Unknown Soldiers.
I also try to make it a point not to forget where I come from. I have a bad habit of cutting myself off from my past; when I went from my tiny middle school to a big high school, I hardly saw my childhood friends any more, and when I went to college, I lost touch with my high school friends. Technology has changed this habit in a small way. Even though I still don’t talk to many of my high school friends, I keep tabs on them through Facebook. Recently, I read on one friend’s profile that he is now in the Air Force. His name is Jake Johnson. He was somewhat of a quieter presence in our group of friends, but he always made me laugh. He loved pickles. He also brought me a cake to my graduation party. He never seemed to think much of himself, though. He was unsure what he would do after high school (but made sure I knew I would do fine). I haven’t spoken to him in years, but I’m glad I found him on Facebook, so that I could remember him for the friend he was. I hope his career in the military brings him the fulfillment he seemed to lack when I knew him. Mile 3 is for Jake.
Luckily, I seem to have managed to stay in touch with my college friends. One college friend, in some ways, is the polar opposite of Jake. Confidence is definitely not my friend Stephen’s issue. He’ll say whatever he wants, whenever he wants to say it. His demeanor is loud and sometimes boisterous, and his sense of humor is sarcastic and sometimes inappropriate. Yet after I got to know him, I realized that Stephen struggled in different ways. Even though he knows what he wants (to be a writer), for a long while he chose not to pursue it because several people in his life wanted him to be an engineer so he could make money. He did end up double majoring in math and English, but worked a job he hated for the first few years after college. Recently, he decided to join the Navy. I was skeptical of this decision for a long time, but in time I came to see it as the first choice he made for himself – a choice to leave his hometown and his dad’s influence and figure out what he really wants to do. I hope the Navy serves the purpose he hoped it would. Mile 4 is for Stephen.
There’s only one person in my generation of my family that spent any time in the military: my cousin Nick. He enlisted in the Army after high school, and spent some time in Germany during his four-year commitment. I think those four years were decent ones for him, but unfortunately, at the end of his time came September, 11 2001, and complications involving his release from service then followed. That year was difficult on him and his family. He’s been out of the Army for a while now, but still seems to be struggling to figure out exactly what he wants to do. Whenever I think of him, I am always hoping that he uses all the benefits that being a veteran brings to find something that makes him happy. Mile 5 is for Nick.
Nick’s dad, my Uncle Jack, was also in the service -- in his case, the Marines. He spent most of his working life as a police officer, and that’s how I still think of him – as a cop, not a soldier. We are not particularly close, and his time in the service is not something he talks about often. However, when I was studying abroad and struggling, he wrote me a very nice and surprising email. In it, he described the struggles and triumphs he experienced while serving in the Marines, and told me that although the time was hard, it taught him who he really was. That was something I really needed to hear at the time, and I have never forgotten it. At the end of the email, he said, “I may not be your favorite uncle, but I am a big fan.” Mile 6 is for Uncle Jack.
There were actually three generations of that branch of my family in the armed services; my paternal grandfather was also a veteran. This seems in conflict with what I said earlier, doesn’t it? How can I say that I don’t come from a military family? Well, my grandpa is another veteran that spent very little time talking about his service. I do clearly remember one Thanksgiving when he let my cousin Matthew wear his uniform jacket and hat and carry his sword (Matt, probably about 6 at the time, thought this was awesome), but that’s the only connection I remember between Grandpa and his time in the service. After Grandpa died, my mother did tell me a little something about what he did; he went ahead of the troops, setting up communications before fighting began. My mother believes that he did not talk about it much because he didn’t believe his work was worthy of honoring or discussing. Well, Grandpa, I disagree. Mile 7 is for Grandpa Rich.
As was typical for their generation, I suppose, my other grandfather was also spent some time in the service. Once again, I know very little about what he did, except that he was stationed on the island of Okinawa. Truthfully, I know very little about my maternal grandfather, service related or not. Both of my mother’s parents died before I was born. This is really the only aspect of my life in which I’ve felt perpetually cheated. I wish I could have known them, and I cherish every story I am told of their lives. So the fact that he was a veteran is really only one of the reasons that mile 8 is for Grandpa Vern.
As I thought about the soldiers in my life during my long run yesterday, the list did become longer than I expected, but I must admit that only one person came readily to mind and stood out in a sort of class of her own. That’s my dear friend Alyson. Alyson and I met in college, and she is now a navigator in the Air Force. Without any disrespect to anyone else I have mentioned, or any other service members for that matter, I believe that Alyson stands in a class by herself because she embodies everything a good soldier should be. From the beginning, she wanted to join the armed services, and spent her college years fighting against medical disqualifications and other ridiculous bureaucratic roadblocks. She kept fighting and fighting because her desire to serve our country was so deeply rooted inside her. That passion made me support her efforts wholeheartedly, always, even if I didn’t understand her decision to keep fighting. In the end, she graduated from Air Force officer school at the top of her class. I confess that I worry about her being sent into war – that same admirable passion, I fear, will lead her into the most dangerous situations – but I am so happy for her that I can hardly describe it. Mile 9 is for Alyson.
As I think about the potential of Alyson being sent to war, I can’t help but also think about all the other people that worry about someone. All the family and friends that are left behind when the soldiers are shipped away. I empathize with these people more than I do with the soldiers themselves, and after everything I’ve written above, I also count myself among them. I wish them the unique kind of bravery required to support and honor the soldiers in their lives. Everyone finds their own way to do this. I happen to be running a 10-mile race. I will be running this race to honor my soldiers, but also to honor the work I put in to get here. Mile 10 is for everyone left behind, and most of all, mile 10 is for me.
Running 10 miles is no small feat, especially considering that I suffered a rather bad injury less than two months ago. It’s been a long road to get here, but I am tremendously proud of what I have accomplished. But I’m also happy to share that victory with the people that next weekend and Soldier Field are intended to honor.
Have a great Memorial Day. I know it will be a great one for me this year.
I was thinking about these things yesterday morning as I did a 10-mile training run. Sadly, I have never really thought of Memorial Day as a holiday. For me, it has always been about an extra day off and the beginning of summer. I have never given much thought to the fact that the day is intended to honor current members of the military as well as veterans.
I suppose this oversight makes some sense. While I was growing up, I didn’t have much contact with anyone in the military. I definitely do not come from a military family. But the longer I thought about it, the more ashamed I became of the fact that I ignore the meaning of this holiday. I began to list the ways I am connected to the military now, and the list was much longer than I expected.
So, I resolved to make this year different. What could I do this Memorial Day weekend to honor the soldiers I know? I thought about this as I ran along, and then the answer became obvious.
The race. This race will be my first of this length, and the training has not been an easy road. Putting each of those ten miles behind me will be a huge personal feat for me. Although I know that I can do it, I’m nervous, and I always wonder what will drive me to finish. Now I have a reason. I’ll run it for my soldiers. I’ll use each mile to remember and honor the soldiers in my life.
My first exposure to the realities of the military was on a trip to Washington DC with my family when I was in middle school. We went to the Vietnam Memorial, and my mom looked up her cousin’s name. We found the right panel, and there it was: Terry VanOchten. Obviously, I never met him, and my mom never talked about him, either, but something about seeing my mother’s maiden name on that wall made the war real for me. So, my first mile will be for my mother’s cousin. Mile 1 is for Terry.
The other thing I remember clearly about that trip to DC is seeing the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The idea that people could die without being identified was incomprehensible to me. I have a strong and perhaps irrational fear of becoming inconsequential someday – of dying and having no one notice. So I felt for the men and women to whom that memorial is dedicated. I don’t want them to be forgotten. Mile 2 is for the Unknown Soldiers.
I also try to make it a point not to forget where I come from. I have a bad habit of cutting myself off from my past; when I went from my tiny middle school to a big high school, I hardly saw my childhood friends any more, and when I went to college, I lost touch with my high school friends. Technology has changed this habit in a small way. Even though I still don’t talk to many of my high school friends, I keep tabs on them through Facebook. Recently, I read on one friend’s profile that he is now in the Air Force. His name is Jake Johnson. He was somewhat of a quieter presence in our group of friends, but he always made me laugh. He loved pickles. He also brought me a cake to my graduation party. He never seemed to think much of himself, though. He was unsure what he would do after high school (but made sure I knew I would do fine). I haven’t spoken to him in years, but I’m glad I found him on Facebook, so that I could remember him for the friend he was. I hope his career in the military brings him the fulfillment he seemed to lack when I knew him. Mile 3 is for Jake.
Luckily, I seem to have managed to stay in touch with my college friends. One college friend, in some ways, is the polar opposite of Jake. Confidence is definitely not my friend Stephen’s issue. He’ll say whatever he wants, whenever he wants to say it. His demeanor is loud and sometimes boisterous, and his sense of humor is sarcastic and sometimes inappropriate. Yet after I got to know him, I realized that Stephen struggled in different ways. Even though he knows what he wants (to be a writer), for a long while he chose not to pursue it because several people in his life wanted him to be an engineer so he could make money. He did end up double majoring in math and English, but worked a job he hated for the first few years after college. Recently, he decided to join the Navy. I was skeptical of this decision for a long time, but in time I came to see it as the first choice he made for himself – a choice to leave his hometown and his dad’s influence and figure out what he really wants to do. I hope the Navy serves the purpose he hoped it would. Mile 4 is for Stephen.
There’s only one person in my generation of my family that spent any time in the military: my cousin Nick. He enlisted in the Army after high school, and spent some time in Germany during his four-year commitment. I think those four years were decent ones for him, but unfortunately, at the end of his time came September, 11 2001, and complications involving his release from service then followed. That year was difficult on him and his family. He’s been out of the Army for a while now, but still seems to be struggling to figure out exactly what he wants to do. Whenever I think of him, I am always hoping that he uses all the benefits that being a veteran brings to find something that makes him happy. Mile 5 is for Nick.
Nick’s dad, my Uncle Jack, was also in the service -- in his case, the Marines. He spent most of his working life as a police officer, and that’s how I still think of him – as a cop, not a soldier. We are not particularly close, and his time in the service is not something he talks about often. However, when I was studying abroad and struggling, he wrote me a very nice and surprising email. In it, he described the struggles and triumphs he experienced while serving in the Marines, and told me that although the time was hard, it taught him who he really was. That was something I really needed to hear at the time, and I have never forgotten it. At the end of the email, he said, “I may not be your favorite uncle, but I am a big fan.” Mile 6 is for Uncle Jack.
There were actually three generations of that branch of my family in the armed services; my paternal grandfather was also a veteran. This seems in conflict with what I said earlier, doesn’t it? How can I say that I don’t come from a military family? Well, my grandpa is another veteran that spent very little time talking about his service. I do clearly remember one Thanksgiving when he let my cousin Matthew wear his uniform jacket and hat and carry his sword (Matt, probably about 6 at the time, thought this was awesome), but that’s the only connection I remember between Grandpa and his time in the service. After Grandpa died, my mother did tell me a little something about what he did; he went ahead of the troops, setting up communications before fighting began. My mother believes that he did not talk about it much because he didn’t believe his work was worthy of honoring or discussing. Well, Grandpa, I disagree. Mile 7 is for Grandpa Rich.
As was typical for their generation, I suppose, my other grandfather was also spent some time in the service. Once again, I know very little about what he did, except that he was stationed on the island of Okinawa. Truthfully, I know very little about my maternal grandfather, service related or not. Both of my mother’s parents died before I was born. This is really the only aspect of my life in which I’ve felt perpetually cheated. I wish I could have known them, and I cherish every story I am told of their lives. So the fact that he was a veteran is really only one of the reasons that mile 8 is for Grandpa Vern.
As I thought about the soldiers in my life during my long run yesterday, the list did become longer than I expected, but I must admit that only one person came readily to mind and stood out in a sort of class of her own. That’s my dear friend Alyson. Alyson and I met in college, and she is now a navigator in the Air Force. Without any disrespect to anyone else I have mentioned, or any other service members for that matter, I believe that Alyson stands in a class by herself because she embodies everything a good soldier should be. From the beginning, she wanted to join the armed services, and spent her college years fighting against medical disqualifications and other ridiculous bureaucratic roadblocks. She kept fighting and fighting because her desire to serve our country was so deeply rooted inside her. That passion made me support her efforts wholeheartedly, always, even if I didn’t understand her decision to keep fighting. In the end, she graduated from Air Force officer school at the top of her class. I confess that I worry about her being sent into war – that same admirable passion, I fear, will lead her into the most dangerous situations – but I am so happy for her that I can hardly describe it. Mile 9 is for Alyson.
As I think about the potential of Alyson being sent to war, I can’t help but also think about all the other people that worry about someone. All the family and friends that are left behind when the soldiers are shipped away. I empathize with these people more than I do with the soldiers themselves, and after everything I’ve written above, I also count myself among them. I wish them the unique kind of bravery required to support and honor the soldiers in their lives. Everyone finds their own way to do this. I happen to be running a 10-mile race. I will be running this race to honor my soldiers, but also to honor the work I put in to get here. Mile 10 is for everyone left behind, and most of all, mile 10 is for me.
Running 10 miles is no small feat, especially considering that I suffered a rather bad injury less than two months ago. It’s been a long road to get here, but I am tremendously proud of what I have accomplished. But I’m also happy to share that victory with the people that next weekend and Soldier Field are intended to honor.
Have a great Memorial Day. I know it will be a great one for me this year.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
This one's for you, Mom.
Early, early in the morning on Saturday, April 24, 2004, I sat in a hotel lobby in Malmö, Sweden, next to my mother. We were clutching fruit from the hotel breakfast and both avoiding looking at each other. It was a tense 15 minutes or so we sat there before deciding we couldn’t take it any more and walking out the door to the stop where the bus could come to take my mom to the airport. It is a morning I remember vividly; it was the last day of my mother’s solo trip to Scandinavia to visit me during my semester abroad.
I can’t say that it was a morning that either of us enjoyed. While we seemed to have an unspoken agreement that we had a hell of a good time over the past ten days, neither of us was quite ready to see it end. I had hundreds of amazing and irreplaceable experiences while I was abroad, but it was also one of the times in my life when I was the most unhappy. I struggled a lot personally and socially, and having my mom there had been a blessed relief from that. My mother knew all this, even if she never really said it out loud, and while a part of her had to be relieved to go home, she was reluctant to leave me. I was near tears for most of that morning, and once Mom boarded the bus and it pulled away without me, I did cry. But before that happened, she said something to me that I will never forget.
When she saw the bus pulling up and hugged me goodbye, she said, “I want to thank you for giving me this adventure. I never would have done this if it wasn’t for you.” I don’t know what I said in response, because the comment didn’t seem all that significant at the time. But I thought about it a lot during my remaining time in Sweden, and at certain moments in my life since.
It’s not that I didn’t understand what my mom meant by it. I did. She met my dad when she was in high school and has been with him ever since. While there’s no regrets associated with that, I know she hasn’t had a lot of chances in her life to do things on her own. She’s told me before that one of the only things she wishes she had done earlier in her life is live by herself. As scary as doing things on your own can be, there’s also a king of thrill and satisfaction in it. My being in Sweden gave my mom the chance to travel internationally by herself, and she was grateful. I understand that.
What surprised me about the comment was the way it has changed my perspective over the years. While in some ways I am a carbon copy of my mother, this is one way in which we are very, very different. My mom has never really been on her own, whereas sometimes I feel like being on my own is all I’ve ever really known. I have been blessed with some amazing friends over the years, and with the exception of Sweden, I’ve never felt completely isolated. But I’ve also never been in a real, exclusive relationship that makes me feel like someone will always be there. There are always people around who I can ask for help, but ultimately, I am responsible for all my problems, all my big decisions, and the direction my life goes. That’s true of people in marriages and relationships too, I suppose, but someone else will be affected when they make decisions, and someone else can help them make them. There’s someone you can ask to come and get you when you are stuck at an airport in Indianapolis, and someone you can call at 6:30AM to ask to come and shower at their apartment because your hot water is out again. As much as I love and cherish my friends, those are not things I feel I can ask of them. At those moments, I am on my own in a way my mom has never been.
This is an issue I’ve struggled with since high school. As independent as I am, I also am self conscious about my lack of a dating history. I’ve never really understood why things seem to happen so naturally for everyone else, yet nothing has happened for me in 26 years. It’s an aspect of my life that I always have found regrettable.
But at the moments when I start to get down about it, I think about that day in Sweden and what my mom said. There are a lot of things I have to do on my own, yes. But there are people who will never have the chance to do those things on their own, either. Not everyone will have the chance to claim the victories over opposition that I have. That tearful day in Malmö, my mother taught me how to see struggles as opportunities. I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked her for that.
That’s only one of many, many brief episodes with my mom that I recognized the significance of only after the fact. My mother is not one to talk about her own feelings – at least not to me. While we can talk on the phone for hours, she mostly lets me tell the stories. She also is not one to teach you anything directly; she’s more likely to wait and let you ask the question first. I don’t have strong memories of her teaching me to shave my legs or discussing her own experiences in college with me. I remember all my mother’s impacts on my life in a different way. This excerpt from my Sweden journal, written about that morning in Malmö, captures it pretty well:
When the bus turned the corner, I hugged her one last time, told her it really wasn’t so long til I came home, and watched her board the bus. I mouthed that I loved her through the window, watched the bus pull away, and took a deep breath to gain control of myself before slowly making my way to the train station. I sat on a bench for a little while in the train station writing in my journal, hoping it would make a little of the emptiness go away… The ride back to Växjö was uneventful, I just wrote a little more and stared out the window. It didn’t feel as peaceful as most train rides do, and I was still feeling very empty and alone, but all in all I really wasn’t doing as bad as I expected at that point. I got off the train in Växjö, renewed my bus pass, and walked back here. I came in and set my stuff down and looked around. There was the plant Mom had bought me, and there were the neat piles of paper she had cleaned up. There was my bed all nicely made, and there was the feather she had put on my computer. Everywhere I looked was a sign that she had been there, and that was when I burst into tears.
No, my mother is not one to talk. But when she does tell me things, like when she thanked me for her adventure, they really mean something, and they really stick. And the excerpt above shows that even when she doesn’t talk, somehow, she finds a way to leave her mark. I have no doubt that the way she parented has both allowed me to become independent in a way that serves me well, and shaped me into a person I’m proud to be.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
I can’t say that it was a morning that either of us enjoyed. While we seemed to have an unspoken agreement that we had a hell of a good time over the past ten days, neither of us was quite ready to see it end. I had hundreds of amazing and irreplaceable experiences while I was abroad, but it was also one of the times in my life when I was the most unhappy. I struggled a lot personally and socially, and having my mom there had been a blessed relief from that. My mother knew all this, even if she never really said it out loud, and while a part of her had to be relieved to go home, she was reluctant to leave me. I was near tears for most of that morning, and once Mom boarded the bus and it pulled away without me, I did cry. But before that happened, she said something to me that I will never forget.
When she saw the bus pulling up and hugged me goodbye, she said, “I want to thank you for giving me this adventure. I never would have done this if it wasn’t for you.” I don’t know what I said in response, because the comment didn’t seem all that significant at the time. But I thought about it a lot during my remaining time in Sweden, and at certain moments in my life since.
It’s not that I didn’t understand what my mom meant by it. I did. She met my dad when she was in high school and has been with him ever since. While there’s no regrets associated with that, I know she hasn’t had a lot of chances in her life to do things on her own. She’s told me before that one of the only things she wishes she had done earlier in her life is live by herself. As scary as doing things on your own can be, there’s also a king of thrill and satisfaction in it. My being in Sweden gave my mom the chance to travel internationally by herself, and she was grateful. I understand that.
What surprised me about the comment was the way it has changed my perspective over the years. While in some ways I am a carbon copy of my mother, this is one way in which we are very, very different. My mom has never really been on her own, whereas sometimes I feel like being on my own is all I’ve ever really known. I have been blessed with some amazing friends over the years, and with the exception of Sweden, I’ve never felt completely isolated. But I’ve also never been in a real, exclusive relationship that makes me feel like someone will always be there. There are always people around who I can ask for help, but ultimately, I am responsible for all my problems, all my big decisions, and the direction my life goes. That’s true of people in marriages and relationships too, I suppose, but someone else will be affected when they make decisions, and someone else can help them make them. There’s someone you can ask to come and get you when you are stuck at an airport in Indianapolis, and someone you can call at 6:30AM to ask to come and shower at their apartment because your hot water is out again. As much as I love and cherish my friends, those are not things I feel I can ask of them. At those moments, I am on my own in a way my mom has never been.
This is an issue I’ve struggled with since high school. As independent as I am, I also am self conscious about my lack of a dating history. I’ve never really understood why things seem to happen so naturally for everyone else, yet nothing has happened for me in 26 years. It’s an aspect of my life that I always have found regrettable.
But at the moments when I start to get down about it, I think about that day in Sweden and what my mom said. There are a lot of things I have to do on my own, yes. But there are people who will never have the chance to do those things on their own, either. Not everyone will have the chance to claim the victories over opposition that I have. That tearful day in Malmö, my mother taught me how to see struggles as opportunities. I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked her for that.
That’s only one of many, many brief episodes with my mom that I recognized the significance of only after the fact. My mother is not one to talk about her own feelings – at least not to me. While we can talk on the phone for hours, she mostly lets me tell the stories. She also is not one to teach you anything directly; she’s more likely to wait and let you ask the question first. I don’t have strong memories of her teaching me to shave my legs or discussing her own experiences in college with me. I remember all my mother’s impacts on my life in a different way. This excerpt from my Sweden journal, written about that morning in Malmö, captures it pretty well:
When the bus turned the corner, I hugged her one last time, told her it really wasn’t so long til I came home, and watched her board the bus. I mouthed that I loved her through the window, watched the bus pull away, and took a deep breath to gain control of myself before slowly making my way to the train station. I sat on a bench for a little while in the train station writing in my journal, hoping it would make a little of the emptiness go away… The ride back to Växjö was uneventful, I just wrote a little more and stared out the window. It didn’t feel as peaceful as most train rides do, and I was still feeling very empty and alone, but all in all I really wasn’t doing as bad as I expected at that point. I got off the train in Växjö, renewed my bus pass, and walked back here. I came in and set my stuff down and looked around. There was the plant Mom had bought me, and there were the neat piles of paper she had cleaned up. There was my bed all nicely made, and there was the feather she had put on my computer. Everywhere I looked was a sign that she had been there, and that was when I burst into tears.
No, my mother is not one to talk. But when she does tell me things, like when she thanked me for her adventure, they really mean something, and they really stick. And the excerpt above shows that even when she doesn’t talk, somehow, she finds a way to leave her mark. I have no doubt that the way she parented has both allowed me to become independent in a way that serves me well, and shaped me into a person I’m proud to be.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
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