I came from a dysfunctional family and what I needed most wasn’t available in it—but I was fortunate to find it elsewhere.
An excerpt from ...but few are chosen: A Different Path to Coming of Age
The week before I was to return to St. John’s, she (Aunt Sarah) asked, “What’s the matter, Michael; you seem so unhappy?”
I didn’t want to tell her; I didn’t want to tell anyone. I felt her arm around my shoulders. “Come over here and sit down,” she said, steering me to a sofa. “What’s wrong? You look more miserable than I’ve seen you in a long time.”
There was a long silence, me remembering, Connolly men don’t cry. Finally, the words burst out like a volcanic eruption: “I can’t do it. I’m no good at anything. I screw up everything I try. I’m just a jerk.”
“What are you talking about? You’re not a jerk. What makes you think you’re a jerk?”
Her hands felt warm, silky. And her voice; there was something about it that made me want to spill out all my misery the way I had years earlier to my mother when Mrs. Brown had taken all my marbles.
“I can’t do it, Aunt Sarah. I’m just a failure. I’ll always be a failure.”
“What are you talking about?” she said, tightening her grip on my hand and pulling it closer. “What do you mean you’re just a failure?”
“Remember how you told me last summer about the horse that finally decides to run? How it isn’t going to run to place or show? How it’s going to run to win? Well I tried last year; I tried to run to win, but I didn’t win. I didn’t win anything.”
“Go on,” she said.
“I tried to make the school basketball team, but I didn’t make it. I tried to write for the school newspaper, but none of my articles were accepted. I tried to make honor roll, but I didn’t.”
She moved in closer to me and put her arm around my shoulder. I could smell her lilac perfume.
“Look at me.” she said.
Reluctantly, I looked up. The lines that usually marked her face seemed to have smoothed out. Her eyes were on fire with excitement. She was smiling, almost laughing.
“Michael,” she said in a voice as soft as a love song, “when I told you that when a horse that has never won decides to run to win, I didn’t mean he always wins on that day. He has to learn how to run to win. He has to stay determined. If he does, one day he wins. You’re not a loser just because you don’t achieve the things you want to on your first try. Don’t give up. One day you’ll be a winner. I’m betting on you.”
I thought about what she had said when I went down to St. Michael’s the next day for Sunday Mass. Kneeling, I prayed silently. Lord, don’t let me be a failure. Help me be a winner. After Mass, I went home and pulled out my wallet and found the paper on which I’d written: When a horse that hasn’t done anything decides to run, it runs to win, not to place or show. Under those words, I wrote: “I’m betting on you, Michael”—Aunt Sarah. And I underlined it.
...but few are chosen: A Different Path to Coming of Age is available at Vandamere Press and at Amazon.com