It’s NOT Too Late

Thirty years ago, my younger sister did something that completely confounded me; she quit her very good job to go back to school – to get her master’s degree.  Even stranger, she suggested that I go back to college, too.  She said I should complete my undergrad, which I had hastily and ill-advisedly abandoned, after one semester some ten years earlier.  I was, for many reasons, not in any position to comprehend the idea, so I balked. “Phyllis, it’s too late. I am twenty-eight years old!  What could I possibly get out of college at my age?” She knew I would always feel like a quitter, unless I went back to school, so she smiled and retorted calmly, looking me right between the eyes, “Oh, how about self-respect?” I was enrolled at Penn State less than a month later.

Now, at fifty-eight, I am again going to do something that I had earlier thought was an opportunity missed.  I am going to quit my traditional job to do things that are interesting and important to me.  If you have the luxury of being able to choose between two good options, choose the one that speaks to your real self, not the one you put on your business card, not the one you show to your neighbors, not the one your parents/spouse/preacher/teacher/boss expect you to be.  Listen to yourself, unfiltered by others’ expectations.

I know this is the right thing for me.  Again, my brilliant sister has played an enormous role in my decision.  This time, it was not her words.  It is the way she lives her life, on her terms, guided by her principles, and with great joy.  Phyllis, thanks to that push you gave me thirty years ago, I can, again, choose to follow your example.  Even though it’s taken me longer to take this path, I know it is not too late.  Self-respect was the first step.  Now it’s time for self-acceptance.

Unhappy Valley

Many of us believe Joe Paterno should resign.  I believe, without question, Joe Paterno should not be permitted to resign.  He should be fired, along with every adult in the Penn State program who knew about the horrific behavior of a predator within their midst and failed, for years, to stop him. There are no words to explain the magnitude of the failure of conscience exhibited by people who were part of an athletic department led by a man who many held up as a god.

And what about Penn State after a purging of the culpable and complicit?  Shall we just burn the place to the ground?  Absolutely not.

There is no question that Joe Paterno’s fans are legion, no question that a large part of the image of Penn State has been JoePa; however, no matter how much Paterno would have us believe he is Penn State, he is not.  The university owes its students and alumni – and the residents of the town the school dominates – to take immediate and meaningful action to minimize collateral damage.

There is nothing now that can be done to protect Sandusky’s victims, but there are others at stake. Penn State is a university of bright and beautiful children, most of whom will never set foot onto the gridiron. Penn State’s football program is more than its coaching staff and administrators; it is a hard-working and fine group of decent young men who deserve the same support and respect today as they did yesterday.  Just as there should be a radical surgery to remove the cancer that is the coaching staff and administration at PSU, there should be the same determined effort to protect the body of the university, as a whole.

Talking heads are all calling for “an adult” to step up to change the “spin” that is surely showing Penn State’s feet of clay.  They are wrong.  It will take a new and courageous and ethical administration to make sure the university moves forward properly, but it is up to the students and their families and the alumni to honor the Penn State traditions of scholarship, sportsmanship, and service.

Nittany Lions, hold your heads up. Show the world your moral strength.  JoePa was a myth.  You are Penn State.

Self-taught Artist?

Is it important to decide whether or not I am self-taught?  Must be.  The question’s been on my mind for a long time.  What would make me decide today to find the answer?  John Farnsworth.

I was encouraged by an e-mail from my brother-in-law to visit the artist Farnsworth’s website, which I did.  Here’s how Mr. Farnsworth describes himself.

Artist, Photographer, Graphic Artist, Designer, Gallery Owner, Teacher, Webmaster, and now, Daily Painting Auction Blogger. I’m an autodidact, and a lover of life, learning, travel, good food, exotic food, and dry-fly-fishing.

I read his brief bio with interest and then dismay. You’d think a man with such an impressive list of accomplishments would not need to show off JUST FOR THE SAKE OF SHOWING OFF.  Autodidact!  Why couldn’t Mr. Farnsworth simply say he is self-taught?  Why, for that matter, did he even have to mention his education?  Why do we seem to get stuck (up) on our formal training or lack thereof?  And we’re back to my original question.

Am I a self-taught artist?

Of course not. Nobody’s self-taught.  To be self-taught would require existing in a vacuum. We learn from what we experience and that almost always involves other people or their work.  We all understand that is not what artists mean (I hope) when we refer to someone as self-taught, but it seems to be a silly concept, now that I have thought about it. Nobody’s self-taught.

Am I a self-taught artist?

Of course. Matter of fact, “self-taught artist” is redundant. I must continually discover how to use the tools and theories I have learned in ways that are meaningful to me.  Not being self-taught means not being an artist. 

Being an artist has also taught me about myself. It has taught me to be self-aware, not selfish; self-confident, not self-absorbed; and filled with healthier self-esteem –         and just a little bullshit.

You Deserve a Peacock Feather

Sunday, I was “spring cleaning” some computer files and I rediscovered this little essay written by my niece a few years ago.  Her message is so hopeful, I wanted to share it with you.  Katy immediately gave me permission and says she hopes it helps other children who don’t seem to fit in the traditional classroom – and the parents of those children – to find their own way and to never give up on themselves. I hope you let Katy’s view of her “disability” make you take a more positive look at your own struggles.  It certainly helped me.

It was Friday afternoon, five minutes until three o’clock, and the air in the third grade classroom was thick with anticipation. Somewhere near the middle of the leftmost row of desks sat a round-faced kid, 8 years old, with short, brown hair. She was sitting on the edge of her seat with excitement, holding her breath as the teacher carefully took a vase of beautiful peacock feathers down from the top of a high cabinet. After setting it on her desk, the teacher smiled at the class, looking around at each of them. The moment seemed to last forever. Finally the teacher took a breath, and opened her mouth. The little girl in the left row was hoping, maybe this time… but it wasn’t to be. The teacher gave a peacock feather to the best student in the class each week, and every Friday the same scene ensued.

I watched my best friend walk up to get the feather and sank back into my seat; all the excitement now replaced with misery. Close to tears, I tried to figure out what I had done wrong when I had tried so hard. Maybe it was that worksheet she’d assigned us for homework on Wednesday. I’d done it — I’d worked on it for an hour and a half — but somehow it hadn’t made its way back into my backpack.

This anxious, insecure third-grade Katy would not have been recognizable to someone who had known me in my pre-school years. As a young child, I was always fascinated with everything and wanted to know more. When my parents took me to a museum or a guided tour, I was always asking questions. It seemed there was no quenching my thirst for knowledge.

Yet for four years, I struggled to deal with the public school system, trying my best to please my teachers, to do good work, and to make friends. It was a new and terrible feeling, the feeling of failure. In my heart I knew I was smart enough to do the work, but it would never show on paper. School was torture. I couldn’t sit still for more then a few seconds. I would think of something and say it, only to realize it was not time to talk and my thought had nothing to do with the lesson. Then I’d be scolded. I hated getting yelled at; that was the worst of all. As my grades dropped I began to wonder if maybe I just wasn’t smart. I found myself skipping class for imaginary headaches and spending all afternoon in the nurse’s office.  I got to know her so well that she bought me a Christmas present.

When my teachers told my parents that I was shy and lacked motivation, they thought the teacher was talking about the wrong child. How could their enthusiastic, outgoing, little girl be described with words like “withdrawn?”

By the middle of third grade the grown-ups finally figured out that something must be wrong. I met with some child psychologists to see if they could find what it was that held the true me locked up inside. They diagnosed me with Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. When we got the results my parents were upset, but to me the findings were a relief. I wasn’t stupid.

As soon as my teachers got this news, things started changing. I was moved to the front of the room, given more time on assignments, and shown more consideration. The doctor put me on medication. I hated the way it made me feel, but it helped me concentrate in school. By the end of that year, I had won three peacock feathers.

With that diagnosis I realized that though I might have a hard time doing some things, I was still capable of anything. I was able to pull my grades up and start succeeding in school for the first time. This college-bound Katy, applying to the honors program, would not be recognizable to my third grade teacher.

 Katy Little