Let me set the story straight right from the beginning. I came from a loving home. My parents worked hard, and while we didn’t have much, we had enough. In some ways, I guess I was luckier than many others who maybe went to bed hungry or didn’t have a warm coat or hat. Still, I grew-up not knowing how smart I was (or not), or if I had any special talents (or not), and if life would be good to me because of who I was, and what I could do. I think sometimes, even though a child has a sense that they are loved, they also need to know that in some ways, they are special. Or does being loved, make you special?

In the early years, I did okay in school. Nothing outstanding. Nothing to make me stand out. I was the type of student that teachers wouldn’t remember years later. If given my name, they would probably just stare at you, shake their head and purse their lips, “No, I just don’t recall anyone with that name, but then, I’ve had so many students over the years,” would be the reply, So, life moved on. Me being mostly invisible at school, and more and more invisible at home, as my parents began to struggle with the expenses of raising three children, and the uncertain times they were living through.

When I entered high-school it was with a heavy heart. I had wanted to take the straight academic track thinking that maybe, just maybe there would be a college who wasn’t looking for a straight ‘A’ student, but someone like me. Average Jane. Not special, but sweet in a quiet sort of way. Someone who worked hard and did the best she could. Didn’t my hard work count for something? My counselor took one look at my grades from middle school, and promptly began to tell me that I was not a good candidate for the academic track classes. Perhaps shorthand, (remember that?) typing and secretarial classes would be a better match for me. Also, she suggested I take Spanish as my language, as perhaps Latin or French would prove to be too much of a challenge. No discussions at home, no discussion at school. Decisions were made for me, then silence prevailed.

I lasted two years at school. I hated every minute of it. I hated my classes, and by association the teachers who taught the classes. I hated my classmates who sensing my hostility, kept their distance, and I hated the school whose walls had begun to move in closer to me each day. I was too young to hate so much, and to be so unhappy. But there you have it. I did poorly in school because my classes held no interest for me, and I had stop caring and trying to do better. It was a losing situation all around.

I told my parents I wanted to drop-out of school. I was sixteen and could legally leave now with my parent’s permission. The next day we were in the counselor’s office, papers were signed, and goodbyes were said. Done. No one tried to talk me out of it. No one said to struggle through one more year to see how it goes. No one said that they had confidence that I could graduate. No one said anything. But the silence said it all. And who can blame them? I wasn’t the shining light in any of my classes. I never had a teacher put their arm around me and say, “Well done.” Because nothing was said by anyone, I believed that what they didn’t say was true. Maybe I wasn’t a loser, but I sure wasn’t a winner, and now I was a high school dropout. Now what?

I got a job. Thirty-seven fifty take home pay. I was a keypunch operator for a supermarket chain called Food Fair. I gave my parents “board money” and spent the rest (what little there was) on clothes, transportation, and food at work. Eventually, I met a young man. We courted, then married. I continued to work until the babies started to come. Life was good, but not exciting. Always, always, at the back of my mind was the knowledge that I had never finished high-school. Having children made this deficit in my education even more pronounced. In time, what would they think of me once they found out. Would they think less of me because of it… maybe not, but maybe yes.

One day a brochure came to our house. The local high-school was offering free classes towards earning your GED in eight weeks. The classes were held in the evening, two times a week. It would mean running out as soon as my husband came home. It would mean doing homework at the kitchen table in between everything else. Most important, it would mean a new beginning for me. Let’s see what I was really made of. What I was capable of. Since my marriage I had begun to read a lot. Good stuff. Especially books on American history, biographies, and classic English literature. Heavy stuff that for whatever reason I liked. I had maintained the silence, never telling anyone about what I was reading. My husband, busy in his own world making a living to support his family, was glad when I told him about the classes. Whatever steps I took at that point, he was always right beside me. A fellow traveler keeping me company on my road to literacy.

The eight weeks went fast. Too fast. I was back in school and loving it. Me, who not so long ago hated anything to do with books and learning, was now reading, writing, and solving math equations. Alright, maybe I wasn’t exactly solving the equations, but I wasn’t hating the process. This was definitely progress. I graduated with excellent grades, and a plain, but to me wonderful diploma that I quickly framed and hung on the wall. I thought this was it. I had achieved something I really wanted to do. And I had done it well. “Well, good for me,” I thought. Maybe patting yourself on the back once in a while is okay. Just don’t get in the habit of it.

So, my husband asked me, “What now? What’s next?” That GED diploma hanging on my wall had given me not only the right to apply to college, but also the courage to do so. I applied and was accepted in Temple University’s American Studies program. As we were not rolling in money, I was careful as to what classes I took each semester. I read the offerings like I was reading Shakespeare. Slowly and carefully. One class here, two classes there. I was the tortoise. The hare was passing me by, but I would cross over the finish line in my own time, and in my own way. If I had never gone back to school, I would never have known what I could achieve, and at what level. The silence that surrounded me, the no comments or accolades on my smallest achievements (there must have been some), made me as an adult doubt myself. It wasn’t what was said, it was what wasn’t said.

Well, I graduated Phi Beta Kappa, and summa cum laude. I was awarded the American Studies highest honor and was a Presidential Scholar. It took forever. I was middle-age, and my kids were grown. I remember being measured for my graduation gown. The material was not the best, and it sort of hung on me as I’m a little woman, but to me wearing it was like Cinderella putting on those beautiful glass slippers. Nothing I had ever put on would ever feel so special and beautiful again. I walked down the aisle with the other graduates. I was now more than old enough to be the mother to many of them, but I didn’t care. This was my best day ever. I know I would never top this moment, this feeling that I could do anything, be anything. It was magical and other worldly, and I gloried in it. If indeed pride goeth before a fall, I was about to topple right off that stage. I was absolutely giddy when I held out my hand to receive my diploma. I actually had to restrain myself from giving the Dean of my department a giant hug.

Was I done? Not on your life. I continued with my studies, and eventually became an educator. I never failed to complement any achievement, no matter how small, or to encourage any sign of talent no matter how limited. Everyone should have a special moment in their life, or if they are lucky, many special moments.

*****

Arlene is a retired English as a Second Language, American Studies teacher. She writes because it makes her feel special, and at almost eighty-three, it is something she has done almost all her life. Her story is not so unique, as there are many who had to leave school for one reason or another. She was lucky though; it has a happy ending.  She has had the following published: Persimmon Tree “Edible Art” Jewish Literary Journal “Memory Stones” WOE (Writing on the Edge) “Teaching Writing”