Prove Them Wrong

I wanted to do well academically at college, but given my history in the classroom, I wasn't sure that my "want" was going to cut it.  Then I had what I would later realize was a life-changing experience.  In the summer before I was to leave for Kent State, while walking through the Wellington Neighborhood Grocery, I heard a couple of my mother's friends talking one aisle over.

Mrs. Hoback said, "I can't believe Anne Marie Holtz is wasting her money sending that boy, Lou, to college."

Mrs. Toft then said, "I know what you mean.  She took a night job and everything.  It's such a waste."

They didn't know I'd overheard them, since I was one aisle over, but those comments cut me deeply and burned inside me throughout my freshman year.  I knew that my mother was sacrificing for me, but to have her friends, the people in my town, think that I was not worth the effort, that I was bound to fail, turned my wounded feelings into something quite different.  My "want" to do well became a fiery determination.  I would do whatever it took to pass, especially as a freshman, a year when the adjustment to college life can take its toll.

This was a turning point for me for several reasons: I could have felt sorry for myself after the criticism.  I could have said, "Those women are probably right.  I've got no business going to school.  I shouldn't waste my mother's time and money."  I could have used the comments as an excuse the first time I encountered a tough class or a hard-nosed professor, or the first time I struggled through a difficult test.  After all, I wasn't supposed to be there anyway.  But I didn't go that route.  Sure, the criticism stung, but I internalized it, made it a challenge, a competition with those who thought I couldn't make it, even though they had no idea I was competing against them. 

Although I didn't know it at the time, I owe those two women a lot of thanks.  My objective was to prove them wrong by passing, staying in school, and getting my degree.

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