independence

by

I. Am. Independent

IMG_0021

When I was 16, able to work, I immediately applied at McDonald’s. A local place up the street. A walk-to-work kind of place. I didn’t have a car (and wouldn’t buy one for another 3 years) but, I really wanted to express my independence, mostly to myself. I also needed to take the burden off my parents (even though they never ever made me feel like a burden) because I was growing up.

Still young, sure. But ready to conquer life. Ready to prove to myself that I could manage, regardless.

I love being able to take care of myself yet, the flip side, the (sometimes – a word given lightly) negative aspect of complete independence is never asking for help, not wanting to be a burden –

(and yes, I do note a theme here, not wanting to bother people.)

Interestingly, and it took a few years, the one place I am comfortable with others helping me is in the classroom. Kids are notorious for wanting to take the burden off the teacher, do small chores, help out whenever they can. I’ve learned to embrace such willingness. Their excitement surpasses my need to just do it all.

But to be fair, I don’t have a huge problem with the fact I don’t ask for help, which stems from my desire to be independent, because taking care of ‘whatever’ myself simply means I am in control, and more importantly, I know exactly what is happening. Which then rewards self-sufficiency.

I can live the life I do, the life I choose, on my own.

(Which, I must say, my mom would be proud. She always, as I began my relationship with Rudy, told me to make sure I could take care of myself, with or without him. That I must be a female who can stand on her own, rather than relying on anyone, especially a guy, to prosper.)

No truer words have been spoken, to me.

I. Am. Independent.

by

Running on Empty

vw bug

Long ago, when Rudy and I first started our courtship, I did all the driving. For no other reason than Rudy did not have a car and I did. And honestly, I really didn’t mind. For me, any chance I could get to drive my very first bought it myself car, a yellow VW Bug, I took the opportunity to make use of the term Pedal-to-the-Metal.

In the midst of driving and dating, Rudy had asked me if I had twenty bucks he could borrow, which was one of the hardest things for him to request. He claimed he needed it to cover a few days before he was handed his weekly paycheck. And then he’d pay me back. I’m not sure he realized it, probably not, but my feelings for him deepened in that moment. I felt trusted. Someone he could rely on. So I simply smiled, hugged him, dug into my wallet, and pulled out a folded twenty dollar bill. Rudy quietly responded with something about how hard it was to even ask me, that he really appreciated my help, and all other manners of speech relating to him, a guy, asking me, a girl, his date, for money, something he never thought he’d ever need to do, and on and on. In the end, he said his thanks, and, well, he was humbled by my kindness. Then he hugged me.

Ironically, less than a week after Rudy had timidly asked me if he could borrow money, I timidly pretended that my Bug was capable of running on gas fumes.

You see, I was driving south on the 57 Freeway, in Orange County, CA, when I noticed that the Volkswagen’s gas gauge was lower than low. We were heading towards Rudy’s place, for a nightcap, you might say, when I nonchalantly mentioned I needed gas, or some such comment. “You want to stop, put gas in the car?” Rudy questioned. Well, now, even though I knew I should have right then and there, filled that tank up, I simply, quietly said, “No, it’s alright. I have enough to get me back home.” He questioned if I was sure. I said yes. And that was it. No more discussion.

Later, after I left, to return home, at about one ‘o clock in the morning, I was traveling north on the 57 when the VW gave out on me. That cute little car just could not move without fuel. I let the car cruise until it came to a complete stop, its nose barely reaching an off-ramp entrance. Cell phones were only used by the wealthy back then, and that wasn’t me, so I was stuck in the darkness of the evening. By myself. Until another car pulled up, a guy got out, and offered help, speaking into my barely cracked-open window. I politely said no thanks, and he left. Which left me to fend for myself. Which meant I had no other option – AAA wasn’t on my radar during those days – except to walk to the nearest gas station, and borrow a filled gas can. I then had to walk back the half mile to the Bug, dump the fuel in, then drive the fumed-up car back to the not very helpful attendant at the service station, where I preceded to fill the Volkswagen full. An hour or so later, I returned to the freeway, driving myself home.

Why I didn’t take Rudy’s suggestion that we get gas for the VW earlier in the evening? I don’t know. All I can say is that I felt just like he did when asking me for money. Timid. Awkward. Yet, unlike him, I couldn’t rise to the occasion and accept his help.

by

twirl me a dress

liz, age 3:4Liz was about 4 years old when she discovered she actually had a say in the kinds of clothing she could wear. Not to say I didn’t dress her as cute as a button. I did. But, she realized at some point that all she had to do was simply say no and I’d move on to the next outfit, until we found something that made, not only me happy, but even more so, her excited.

One afternoon, I took her shopping for a dress. A fancy one. We were going to attend my brother’s wedding and I wanted her to fancy it up. Together, we scanned the racks, admiring extremely cute dresses. Yet, each time Liz would say no, no, and no.

I gathered a bundle of appropriate dresses and walked her into the well-lit dressing room. Arms up, dress on. Again and again. Over and over. Liz would look in the mirror, then down at the floor. No. she’d say.

Leaving behind a pile of dresses, we walked out, back into the children’s section, to give it one last go.
And there it was. A beautiful, lacy-collared, cloth buttons up the front, cream colored, flouncy dress. “No,” is all she said when I held it up for her to admire. “Let’s just try it,” I told her, as I slipped my hand into hers, and walked her back into the dressing room. Arms up, dress on. Liz looked at herself. Just looked. Not saying anything.

“Twirl,” I advised her.

That did it.

She twirled and twirled and twirled. Around and around. Watching in the mirror as the dress flew up, and out. So fun! A big smile on her face. “Yes!” she happily said.

From that moment forward, the twirl test was the determining factor for whether a dress was worthy or not. Depending on how far it would flare out. Not how it looked on the hanger. Dress shopping became a bit easier from then on. Just a bit.

by

Mr. and Mrs.

f7804-img_1469When I first met Rudy I appreciated his kindness. He didn’t put on a show, a “look-at-me, I’m rough, tough, and I’ll tumble”.  Nah, Rudy was gentleman, without attitude. A good guy. With squared shoulders, narrow hips, and a serious set of brown eyes.

Those were our innocent days. The days we were slowly learning about each other. What made us tick. What made us tock. And what didn’t. Slowly, we began to reveal who we were. How our lives were formed, the reasons we acted the way we did, or didn’t, and who played a part in the formation of who we’d become. Young adults.

Before we even knew the other existed, Rudy and I both learned the importance of being independent as young teens. I grasped rather quickly that I had to create my own life, in my own way, without help. From anyone. Even in the midst of a large family. After his father died, Rudy knew he had to leave his mom to figure out how he fit into the world beyond his family. So, he moved from Central America to the United States. Full of fear, combined with wonderment.

Some might consider that I married Rudy, and he attached himself to me, so that we both could fill a need. To find someone, anyone, to stand with. To be with. To make a family with. But that wasn’t the case. That’s not what was on our mind. Not at all. Simply put, Rudy and I met, we liked each other, and, so, we got married. There was no agenda behind our relationship. At all. We just were. Two young adults. Following our hearts.

And, so, here it is, thirty years later, still both very independent, with lots of ups-downs-and-all-arounds, still learning. Still listening to the ticks, the tocks, and the whatnots. Listening. Listening. Listening. Reaping the rewards of understanding.