Bonnie Raitt Thoughts

In my building, the English as a second language department and special education share an office, which is also the space we have available for small groups. Today, between completing the quarterly reports that are yet another piece of special education paperwork, I listened in on one of those small groups.

Jessica, the educational assistant for ELL, an extraordinarily competent, cultured woman, showed three kids, Vietnamese, Peruvian and Mexican, pictures of clothing, and taught them the English words for dress, buttons, hat, pants, and so forth.

The scene provoked an old memory, and I asked to share a story with the students.
"When we came to this country," I began, Jessica translating after each phrase into Spanish, "I knew no English at all. We started out living with my aunt and uncle, and my two younger cousins. My sister and I unpacked that night, and as we took things out of our suitcase, we showed each to the girls. I picked up a nightgown. 'Cute,' one of my cousins said - and so, for a while, I thought 'cute' was the English word for 'nightgown!'"

The kids were, actually, rather unimpressed by my story - but I don't tell stories all that well, in any language, so that wasn't surprising.
Jessica asked, "So how old were you then?"
"Same age as these guys are," I replied. "That's why I told them about it.."
"You see," Jessica told the kids, "Ms. Syrovy came over when she was just your age. And now she's very successful!"
I was about to argue with her about that, but decided to let it go.
Later, though, I thought about my immediate "what, me successful?" reaction.

Jessica wasn't the first to give me that label. Tim keeps telling me that I'm one of the most successful people he knows. How's that, I always want to ask. I live in a glorified miner's shack with no central heating. I barely make it through to the end of the month, and yet I rarely buy a new book or piece of clothing, or pay for a meal out. I failed at remaining married, or at remarrying. Even my athletic endeavors could not be described as particularly successful - people tell me, when I note that I finished a race, last in my age group, 'well, at least you're out there doing it,' not realizing, I think, the implication of failure in that comment.

But, but. I am, actually, out there doing it. I have a job that I don't ever completely hate, and that even inspires me at times. I publish a scribbling here and there, producing unreasonable joy and self-pride, though no cash . My sons seem at least adequately happy. I have friends, and even some romance going on. And I did lose those 65 lbs or so, and so far haven't begun gaining it back.

Bonnie Raitt sings, in one of my favorite, rollicking tunes:

now what, what, (i dont know, can you tell me what)
what is success?
is it do your own thing?
or to join the rest
and if you truly believe it, and try over and over again
living in hopes
that someday you'll be in with the winners

By that measure, perhaps, Tim and Jessica are right. I'm successful. Even though I hate to admit it.