Fear and Bravery
They Do Go Hand in Hand
I remember when I was 18 years old. Somebody asked for my opinion. I was like a deer caught in the headlights. I didn’t know what to do. I was frozen. Nobody had ever asked for my opinion about anything before. It was like somebody was speaking a foreign language to me. I really did not know how to respond. It was such an embarrassing moment that I can still remember exactly how I felt. I do know I wanted to flee. Probably, I mumbled something unintelligible and excused myself, like I had to go throw up or something.
The reason I was caught off guard is that my entire life living with my family, I was told what to think. My own opinions about anything were both ridiculed and suppressed. I never ever talked to either of my parents about anything I was feeling. It just did not happen.
Oh, to be truthful, I do remember one thing that happened. A classmate drew a switchblade on me once in the 5th grade. He wanted to sit in the front seat of the bus, and I was in that seat. I did not relinquish my seat. I do not remember being concerned in any way. He did not frighten me. Also, having a switchblade drawn on me did not alarm me, though I had never seen one and actually didn’t know what it was. I certainly did not say anything to anybody on the bus. But I evidently told my mother about it.
The next thing I knew, the boy’s father was being interviewed by my father, who outranked him. I vaguely remember the man and his son coming to our house and me receiving an apology. I was horrified, as I recall. Nothing more was ever said.
Actually, I can remember other times when I was not afraid. In high school, the last one I attended, two girls tried to rob me. They did not succeed. I did not fight them. I did not scream for help. It was like I was a force of nature. They went away. I still don’t understand it.
I remember seeing my parents holding hands across the aisle on a plane. We were on approach to JFK International Airport. It was 1968, and I was 12 years old. We’d been in a holding pattern because of the weather. We were stacked ten planes deep, circling in the air around JFK. The turbulence was strong. There was clattering as stuff fell in the galley behind us. When I saw my parents holding hands, I realized something bad was happening. Eventually, we landed, and all was well, but in those moments when the plane dropped fast and when my parents held hands, I was afraid.
Another time shortly after Dennis and I were first married. It was cold outside. Hey, it was winter. There wasn’t much snow on the ground; in fact, the road was clear. It had been raining. We were going over a bridge. The roadway will freeze on a bridge before it freezes on the ground. But, if there is cold air going under a bridge, it is slicker than the road. There was also a bend in the road before we got on the bridge.
We entered the curve with the bridge approaching. As we drove over the bridge, the car started spinning. I remember thinking. “I’m okay with this. I’m going to die, and this is okay.” I knew in my heart that whatever happened, it was going to be okay. It was. Dennis steered against the swerve, and we stopped, shaken but okay. After that, we have both been most respectful of cold weather, of bridges, and of driving too fast for the conditions.
One last time, I wasn’t afraid. I destroyed 1 ½ million words I had written. I did it on purpose. It was a promise to myself that I would write a million words in one year in my journal to prove to myself I was a writer. I got the idea from Ray Bradbury in Zen in the Art of Writing. He had said to himself that he would consider himself to be a writer after he had written a million words.
My twist, after the words had been written, was to understand loss. It was to see if I were so stinking attached to those words my world would end if they were gone. My world did not end, and I determined that I was okay to see the words gone. If I wrote them once, I could write them again.
Writing this piece and remembering those moments when I was afraid might have changed me a bit this morning. Perhaps I can be fearless today. I might even try to clean up my desk. I can be fearless. I can be brave. Again.
The Links: Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury