"You cut me open and I..."

I was invited to a women's Christian conference with a large group of girls. It was a two-day event so I was hoping that it would be entertaining and uplifting. That's what the ad said when I looked into it. It was described as an uplifting, life-changing and life-enhancing event. Several of my friends were annual attendees, and I was curious and willing to allow myself such an opportunity. What could it hurt? Well, it turns out that it could hurt. I'm not saying that it was a bad thing.... There were a lot of powerful messages and shared experiences that resonated with me. There were also some messages and experiences that made me very emotional and I was somehow unprepared for that. I didn't really want to be emotional on this particular trip. I wanted to cheer. I wanted to be happy. I had been feeling very happy for the last few months and I wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. I had previously been struggling with mild depression and anxiety and I was glad it had passed. I didn't want to have a cry-fest. But I cried. And I cried. I'm not a stranger to my emotions. I cry pretty easily with others and for others, but for some reason, I was not embracing the feeling in an altogether positive way. I found myself a little disappointed that this uplifting and enhancing experience had to be so...lovingly painful.

During the concert segment of the event, the words of one particular song were very loving and sweet. So why was I crying? Am I broken? I didn't think so. I looked out into the massive crowd around me and I suddenly felt so overwhelmed with all of their emotions. Was it their emotions or was I projecting my own feelings onto them? Because it really felt like there was a radiating and permeating sadness in the air. I am a frequent concert goer, so this experience was a severe contrast to that. Instead of smoke in the air, there was palpable love and pain in the air. Instead of a drunken, dancing, carefree mass, there was an eerie stillness and concern, a directed and purposeful energy in the atmosphere. Maybe that's why it struck me as so strange and confusing. I thought I could feel all of their pain hitting me and piercing me. I felt all of their love. Pain from love. They were hurting because they loved. Is that right? Or was I hurting because I love?  Loving because I have hurt?

The female speakers were great, and I appreciated their stories and messages a lot. They made me really think, and laugh, and cry. It was a lot to take in. Some of the participants in the conference were entertainers, mood lighteners and I appreciated them very much. There was a male comedian that I just loved. One of the male speakers mentioned that he was affected by all of the estrogen in the room. I think he was kidding, but I think he was serious too. Now and then when I shifted my focus from the stage to the crowd, I'd think for a second that I saw a man, or maybe I was just half-expecting to see men blended into the crowd because I have never been in an arena filled with only women--thousands and thousands of bleeding hearts, of soaring hearts, of exposed hearts. Maybe we needed some men. Is that okay to say? I think so. I think maybe that's what God thought when he made two sexes, that we need each other to balance our energy. If there had been men in the room, would I have found comfort in their strength? Would they have been strong or would they have been swept under the blanket of all of that guided and directed energy, intended to break us down and build us up at the same time?

I'm a Presbyterian, so I am not all that comfortable with being so raw and emotional when I gather for worship. I don't know about all Presbyterian churches, but in mine, we tend to talk about the Bible and God at arm's length. That is not to say that Presbyterians are stone cold. Let me explain if I can. I believe that each member has a personal walk with God, moments with God, and in prayer with God in which we expose our personal emotions. But when we gather on Sundays, we discuss the Bible. We discuss Jesus. We learn about life and about the lives of those who have gone before us. We ask ourselves how we can use these passages and concepts in our own lives. We always "take a moment for silent, personal confession," and we find comfort in "the assurance of pardon: in Jesus Christ, we are forgiven." But we do not announce our personal burdens in our services. We do not give our testimonies. I cannot recall a time in my church's service that I have cried (except when I was pregnant and I cried over every thing). We don't discuss Hell or even Heaven as they pertain to us. For me, there is not a real sense of urgency or intensity of any kind. Some people say that Presbyterians don't feel anything, but of course we feel. In our daily lives, there is urgency and intensity of plenty. In our church, there is serenity. There is peace and comfort. One of my favorite scriptures is Psalm 46:10: "Be still and know that I am God." We don't express our desire to get to Heaven or our aversion to Hell. We acknowledge their existence, but for some reason, we don't mention them. I'm not disappointed...maybe because I don't want to be made afraid or uncomfortable. I want to study about how to get the most out of my life while I'm here and not think too much about what will happen when it's over. Life is brief and heaven is eternity. I'll have plenty of time to learn about Heaven when I'm there. As for Hell, I just prefer not to dwell on damnation and suffering.

But I digress. Back to the conference. Although I was told that there were all denominations present, non-denominations and even some non-believers, there were moments that I felt a little foreign. I felt like the majority of the women in the arena were accustomed to a more modern format of worship. There were hand-raisers all over and I got the feeling that most in the room knew the words to most of the songs that were played by the intermission band. I didn't know any, but I enjoyed the music. I have visited lots of different churches in my life and I find things I like about every one. I like exposing myself to different situations. I like learning about how my friends worship. I shared a little of my resistance to the emotional out-pour and my friend seemed a little confused as to what I was implying. I wasn't sure either. This was not my first encounter in this way of worship and I wasn't really sure why I was having such a resistance. I briefly explained that we are less emotional at my church and she offered a comforting, "I should come try your church some time." And the most horrible words came out of my mouth. I said, "You probably wouldn't like it." Why did I say that? I wish I hadn't because I would love for her to come visit my church. I guess I was just feeling very different from every one around me, isolated, but surrounded by love somehow. I didn't mean it in an unkind way. I just couldn't help feeling overwhelmed while I was there in the arena, and as I said, I had recently been relieved of my depression and anxiety spell. I think that as I was so unwelcoming of my tears, I said an unwelcoming thing to a friend that I love very much. I tried to take it back and rephrase it, but I didn't have the words that I needed. I hope she understands and forgives me.

I missed my husband and my kids and I hadn't contacted or heard from them. When I got home, I felt heavy. I don't think I was smiling much. I felt drained and still felt a bit sad from having cried a lot. We ate dinner and talked about their weekend. Then I laid on the couch and felt like I was going to cry again. And Rodney listened as I talked it out. I felt confused by all of the things I was feeling at once. I am still trying to process all that I took away from the conference (which, by the way, I find an inaccurate term). I learned a lot. I think my focus sharpened on how and what I want to teach my children, what I want the focus of my life to be now and what it has been. That's worth every second of discomfort that I felt, right? Spiritual growth can be uncomfortable. Maybe it even must be. I learned that I don't focus my attention on God in my life first and foremost as the Bible says you should. I focus on my family for the most part. God has not been my primary source of joy; it's been my family. I don't think I know how to change that. How do I learn to direct my attention away from myself and my life and focus on God first? I feel like I have learned to listen for God's voice in my life, but for me it is a whisper. I find it difficult enough to keep my focus on my family rather than all of the other distractions in my life. How will I focus more, focus harder on God on top of this? That will be a challenge, and I, to be perfectly honest, do not want to become obsessed with religion, or to feel like I must be in order to please Him. I feel God in my life always, in my heart, in my children's faces, and in all that surrounds me: in the trees in the grass and in the moon and sun and stars--everywhere I go; I know He is there. I hope this is enough. I learned that my husband and I need to discuss how we want to teach our kids about God, what we want to share and how to share it.

And then Rodney shared his perspective on God and religion, which is a rare share for him, and I felt so safe and comforted by it. We are a lot alike in the way we feel about our faith and I really appreciated him reaffirming that for me, reminding me of that sense of togetherness and understanding that we share. He unburdened me of worry and of inadequacy. He just took it off of me and now I feel like myself again. I can sit down and write this blog post and know that no matter what, God loves me, my husband loves me, my kids love me, and my mom and dad love me, and just love, love, love. And I'm not crying. I didn't have to cry to write this and I have clarity and partnership, family and community.
I can be still...and know that I am loved.

This Guy...

Rodney and I have been in a relationship for almost half of our lives. That's hard to believe. It's been a journey that has taught me a lot and I'm still learning. I love all of the memories, even the fights. And believe me, there have been plenty of fights. We spent a lot of our early relationship at school, at NSU in Tahleuquah, OK. We were one of those staple couples that could be seen all over campus either playing or fighting. We hung out between classes in the game room, playing pool or air hockey. We flirted childishly, teasing or rough housing. Or, just as often, we were mad at each other, stomping all over the campus arguing, either storming off or chasing the other down to make our point.

One particular semester, there was this guy. He was in my Algebra class and he sat behind me. He was always dressed up in a sweater or collared shirt. He had gel in his hair and had very rosey cheeks. He was always talking to me and following me out of class. He was nice enough, but I hated having him around me because Rodney would sometimes see him with me and be annoyed. Who was this guy? Rodney had a class after my Algebra class, so that was usually my time to get a few assignments done or do some studying...if it weren't for this guy. I mentioned to him that I had a boyfriend, but he wouldn't shake. It didn't seem to matter.

He treated me like I was his new friend. He wasn't overtly hitting on me; he was just very friendly... and he talked and talked.  He was, however, very forward about the fact that he was looking for a wife. And he was always telling me how much money his family had. It seems like the story he told me about the money had something to do with toilet paper which I found a little amusing. I thought it was very tacky how he was always gloating about "being a millionaire."  I thought he was a jerk for telling me he was looking for a wife, like he was the most eligible bachelor in the state and was accepting applications and interviewing random and worthy young ladies in his classes. I remember thinking he was probably a big liar because he talked so much. It seemed to me that the more a person talked, the more full of crap they were. I found myself tuning him out and wishing he would go away. One day, I said, "I have to study, so I'm going to the library. See you later." And he still kept following me. I am not well-practiced at being rude or blunt with people like him. Was he deaf?

So I sat in a chair at the library and he sat right next to me. I buried my face in my notebook and he still kept talking. I finally said, "Hey, I have a speech I have to prepare for and you're disturbing me."
   "Well, I'll help you," he offered. I rolled my eyes and let out a big breath of air.
Oh my God, this guy! He was just looking at me so nicely, smiling and appearing to be helpful. So I didn't have the heart to be rude to him. I figured I didn't have much of a choice in the matter, so I started to practice my speech on him, doing my very best to look at him and not my page, appear conversational...and remember my next point. And he was eating it up. He had this huge grin on his face the whole time.

Enter Rodney. Perfect timing. All of a sudden, a rush of air blew past me and I saw him. He stormed past me while shooting me the meanest look I had ever seen. Oh, no, this was terrible. I am not about to lose him. Not over this guy. I loaded up my back pack as fast as I could and left This Guy sitting there with his grin. I chased Rodney all the way across campus, trying to explain to him what had happened, how I didn't really want to talk to This Guy...."It isn't what it looks like," was the worst cliche I could think of and Rodney wasn't listening anyway.

The next day I finally got the courage to tell This Guy how I felt after class. "You're really nice, but you're bothering me. You won't find a wife if you're busy following me around. Plus, you're causing problems for me and my boyfriend." He only seemed a little upset and said he understood.

As I turned to walk away, I saw Rodney standing there with a forgiving smile on his face.

She Smiles

I met her in coach-pitch softball. We were five years old. She was the star. She was the "pitcher" beside her father, the coach of our Pepsi team. She caught every ball that came to her. I thought she was amazing. I was so shy. I wouldn't have had the courage to catch the ball even if it landed in my glove. I remember my job was to "toss the ball to shortstop," the girl two feet away from me.

I didn't see her for a long time after that. When we met again our freshman year, we became fast friends. As high school proceded and temptations presented themselves, the test was in session on our characters. We were very different from one another. She had a job, sometimes more than one. I never had to work. I think some would even say I was quite spoiled. I didn't really have any responsibilities but to go to school. My parents always took care of me and my needs. She took care of herself for the most part, or at least it seemed to me. I had a boyfriend and she had a lot of boyfriends. In hindsight, I think I felt a little jealous of her. She lived so recklessly and free, yet she seemed in control of her life. She always had a smile on her face. It seemed like she never felt strain from her wildness or felt fear of consequences. She never worried about anything, not like I did. I worried that I'd get in trouble. I worried that I might hurt someone. I worried that my decisions would affect me negatively in the future. I think that's how I've managed to stay on track in my life--worry, fear. That sounds pathetic. I wish I was more daring. But I think there is such a thing as good, healthy fear. This is not to say that I haven't made my share of mistakes and bad desicions. I've made plenty. But I can usually sniff out a bad situation. Or at least I used to think so.

I always knew she had a sneaky way. No one is happy every day, are they? Is that smile really real? I wondered about it, but when I was around her, it was contagious. The smile would make me feel all warm and fuzzy and I would forget my suspicions.

She married young, right after high school, and I stayed at home with my parents while I was in college, even through graduate school. I learned a lot from hanging out with her while she did her wifely duties. I learned a few cooking basics and tricks. I'd help her clean, or just talk to her while she did. I looked up to her. I was proud of her. I thought she had it all together. She paid the bills. She balanced the checkbook. She worked hard from the age of 16 and on. She had it all it seemed, a husband, a house, the adult life that I wanted. I felt like I was waiting and waiting, and my life was on hold while I was in college. A lot was happening, but it was internal, nothing tangible that I could see or touch in my life to show for it.

When things finally started happening in my life, I noticed that she didn't seem to notice. I guess a wife's work is never done. She was too busy. She didn't want to talk about or acknowledge significant life events, like when my parents built a house outside of town and I moved with them. It was exciting, but she kept reminding me: "It isn't your house." She wouldn't come see where I lived for the longest time. She kept the same smile on her face, but her eyes were cold. Then, there was my engagement, my graduation, my pregnancy, the birth of our twins. None of them seemed to pique her interest. They were just things that caused her to have to stop and look at needy LeeAnn. Maybe she thought I wanted her praise, or maybe she felt patronized some how. I thought I was gracious about her life events. Maybe I wasn't. She participated when she was called to do so. She was a bridesmaid in our wedding. She came to the baby shower. But, I felt like she only did because she knew that if she didn't, I would be very upset.

I think she is unhappy inside. I don't think she is jealous of me. I think she has grown numb from all the pain in her life. I think she smiles because that's how she copes. I think she's in a lot of pain, and her smile helps her forget. So now, even though she has hurt me deeply, I forgive her. I forgive her for not coming to see us when we were in the hospital for a month with our preemies, for not coming to see them for months and months after their birth and homecoming. I forgive her for blasting my husband and me after they bought a new house, and I didn't come to see it. That's right; I stooped to her level. I didn't think she deserved to have me rush right over and support her when she hadn't done the same for me. I regret it.

The long and tired chapter of "Friend or Foe?" is over for me and I give up. I hope we both learned from our relationship. Maybe she learned to acknowledge her pain somehow. If that missle she launched at me from across the ocean of silence made her feel released in any way from her pain, then I'm glad.

I should've smiled. I shouldn't be so damned transparent. I should've put on the happy face and risen above my pain and her pain.

But I have never been very good at disguises.

Black-out

I have low blood sugar: hypoglycemia. I found out after having some strange episodes when I was a senior in high school. One time, I got so dizzy and disoriented that I couldn't speak. I couldn't recall facts that I know, like my parents' names or my telephone number. I knew them, but they wouldn't rise to the surface. It was almost like a walking coma.

If I eat right, the problem is non-existent. Seems like that should be a no-brainer then. No sugar for the rest of my life. No problem. No alcohol. No bread. No pasta. No way. So for me, however wrong it may be, the name of the game is balance. And by balance, I don't really mean moderation. I mean counteraction. I try not to tip the scales. If I'm going to drink alcohol, I make sure to eat a substantial meal with plenty of protein. If I feel a little funny, I go eat some peanut butter crackers or something. I try to listen to subtle cues my body gives me. I usually have about 15 minutes' warning, starting with irritability. This one is hard to pick up on because what ever stimulus may actually be really irritating. Or is it? Then there is mild confusion or disorientation. Nausea. Still not worse than having NO sugar, etc for the rest of my life. I realize that this is a serious condition and that I should be more serious about abstaining from these sugary pleasures of mine.

I should keep more handy in mind the time that my body convinced me of that seriousness:

It was while I was in college. I was waiting for my boyfriend, Rodney, to get off work so we could eat together. I was starving. Just a little longer, I thought. He finally got off, and we were headed for food when he decided to take a detour. "Let's go by Hastings real quick first," he said. There was some CD he really wanted that was released today.
"I'm so hungry. I think I might have an attack," I whined. Maybe he thought I was just being dramatic. This was one of those things I said a lot.
    "It will just take a second. I swear."

We went inside Hastings and looked around for a minute, and I started feeling a warm sensation in my face. So I went to the bathroom and could barely open the door. It's always heavy, but I almost couldn't open it this time. I walked to the sink and turned the knob. My hand felt tingly and a strange heat wave shot up my arm. I was starting to freak out. I splashed the water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked very pale. I was getting dizzy. Blackness started to creep into the corners of my vision. My heart started beating faster. I went out to find Rodney in somewhat of a panic.

"We have to leave now," I told him, and he could see that I meant it.

We quickly walked outside to the parking lot. He had his arm around me, trying to support me as we walked. I remember him saying, "We're almost there. We're going to make it."

But we didn't.

The next thing I knew I was waking up from a little nap that I had apparently decided to take on a bench just outside of Hastings. Before I could open my eyes, I heard far off voices as if I were dreaming:

"Is she ok?"
"I don't know..."
"Somebody call an ambulance..."

I woke up to see a young black man sitting by my side.
"Where's Rodney?"
"You mean that white boy?"
"Yes."
"He went inside."

???

He...left me out here? With all these people? There were people standing all around, starting to disperse now that the show was over. I turned to look inside the window to see if I could see him and all of a sudden, another man approached me. He was an older white man and he was smiling. Why is he smiling at me right now? I think he was trying to say something to me... What is he saying??? Maybe I am still too foggy to understand. No, I was almost certain that he was speaking jibberish on purpose. He started getting closer and reached out to touch my arm. This man is trying to kidnap me. He's trying to confuse me even more, so he can snatch me and throw me into some creepy van.
"Sir, get away from me. You are scaring me," I said plainly.

He began explaining that he was a minister of a church, even started to present some sort of paper as evidence of the fact. This is when Rodney finally came out with beef jerky.

I felt safe again when I saw him and a little guilty for suspecting evil in a man of God while he was praying for me.

I do still wonder what good beef jerky would have done if I was unconscious. I guess he panicked and didn't know what to do. For the rest of the night, he kept staring at me like I was the walking dead.

He explained that when I fainted, he had called out for help. And the man who had been sitting at my side, guarding me while I was unconscious, had helped him carry me from the parking lot to the bench.

I wish I had said thank you.

After this event, I swore I would never eat sugar or wait too long to eat again. I got a medical bracelet and carried sugar pills in case I ever passed out among strangers again. I was on top of it for the longest time....

I thought that night would be enough to set me straight for the rest of my life.

The Big Boom

It was late in the evening way back in 2004. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was visiting my friend who had come home for a visit from her military home. We were talking and laughing and enjoying each other's company as usual. Humor and silliness are big trademark themes in her family, and it's a joy to be around. My friend had only two daughters at the time, one of which was only a few months old. I remember thinking how easy my friend made it look to be a mother of two. I really admired her for being such a good mother at such a young age and living so far from her family and support system, and with her husband overseas. I couldn't imagine. I found the idea of motherhood somewhat alien and frightening. There were several other children in the house as well, and my friend was standing the baby up on the kitchen table, making her dance and--BOOOOOOOM!!!!! The loudest boom I have ever heard hit the house. Yes, it seemed that something huge had just hit the house. The chair I was sitting in jumped, was almost knocked out from under me. The windows busted out, or rather they busted in. The chandelier was thrown like a wind chime in a violent storm and pieces broke off onto the floor. Part of the ceiling fell in. My friend was amazing. While I quickly hid under the table, she got the baby and the other children under the table, too. My mind was dumbfounded. Even then, I felt ashamed that my first instinct was not to save the children. My first thought was, "This is a drive-by shooting," as if I would know what that was like. My second thought was, "Someone threw an explosive device at our house....like a grenade? Why would someone throw a grenade at our front door??" Those possibilities came into my mind like flashes of lightening. It's a little funny to me now how quickly my mind jumped to false conclusions of the mysterious BOOM. There was a deafening silence and stillness that followed before everyone snapped into survival mode. We weren't sure what was on the other side of that door, but on this side, we were counting heads. When every one was accounted for, my friend asked me to get the baby dressed while she tended to her other child. How can she be so calm and clear-headed? I guess it helps to have military training when disaster strikes. I tried to remain calm, but my arms were shaking wildly as I awkwardly dressed a baby for the first time in my life as quickly as possible.

Just as I became aware of the loud, high-pitched ringing in my ears, all of our phones started ringing one after another. I didn't have any answers for my loved ones, but assured them that I was okay. Eventually, we were told that a local scrap metal plant, Yaffee Iron and Metals, had exploded about a block from the house. Someone knocked at our door and told us to evacuate the area but to be prepared for additional blasts. I can't remember if there were additional blasts, but I don't think there were--none like the first one anyway. Funny how the brain seems to reduce its functioning to only essential processing in times of crisis.  Reports said 3 people were killed and 14 were injured. There were multiple fires in the neighborhood, damage to many houses and a local strip mall not far away. My husband (boyfriend at the time) told me that there was an eerie green light in the sky right before the bright flash and blast, unlike anything he had ever seen. My parents who live about 10 miles away said they felt it and thought something had hit their roof. It was reportedly felt and heard for at least 30 miles.

That is the closest I have ever come to a disaster. The incident shook me emotionally for years. Sometimes a loud sound, like fireworks, a gun shot, or a loud thunder clap, would trigger a physical response. My body seemed to lock up and I could clearly see and hear in my mind the chandelier swinging from the ceiling. I could hear the baby crying, and I could feel the hard floor on my knees. Even though I was not hurt and didn't even see any one hurt, the terror and jolt to my senses stayed with me for at least 2 or 3 years after. Now, 8 years later, I am fully recovered of course, and have nothing but tremendous respect for all of those who have suffered more severe traumas and survived much greater horrors than this.

Penny Lover

"Find a penny, pick it up, and all day you'll have good luck!"


Maybe it was this little expression that first caused me to place so much more value on a penny than one cent. If it can bring good luck just by picking it up, what other amazing things could happen after that?
Penny loafers were in style when I was in elementary school. Every one had them, but no one put a penny in them. I thought they should come with a penny in them if they were called penny loafers.

My dad had a Lionel Richie phase at one time and I loved to sing Penny Lover.
Pennies were also popping up in several other songs and expressions here and there, in my piggy bank and sprinkled all around for any one to pick up...

"Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes!"

Because adults were always discarding them, they were always in abundance.  My parents had a huge collection of pennies in their closet. Look at all this money, I thought,  just sitting here....
My sister and I played with it sometimes in our make-believe games. I think all kids do that. It's the only money you're really allowed to play with, touch and have control over--the stray dogs of money, the rejects. Your parents tell you that it is "so dirty," and that makes it even better somehow. You're willing to get your hands dirty. You'll never forget the smell of pennies on your hands, the feel of a hand-full squeezed in your grip, the sliding and the pinching, the sound of the raining down of pennies, buttons, carpet fuzz, and pet hair.

When I was about 7, my cousin and I decided that we were going to start a charity that would help all of our neighbors. We filled tube socks with pennies and walked down the street sprinkling a few shiny coins into each mailbox. We got a big, scary lecture when our moms caught us. We were told we had committed a federal offense and could serve prison time. Apparently, pennies are very serious business that you can't just go around passing out for free. ;)

We had a pool in the back yard of my childhood home. My sister, my cousins, and I used to love to walk out to the front drive and sit on the warm asphalt on our towels and eat a snack. One time, I had some pennies left over from our 7-11 candy purchase, and it happened that my pennies fit perfectly into a small hole in our driveway. I became fixated on this perfect fit and began placing pennies in all of the holes in our driveway. Then, it occurred to me that I could go to prison for this. This giving stuff is hard work that involves a lot of red tape. I covered each deposit with a Band-aid, and I felt like I had given back to the earth in some small and strange way. This time, I decided, it would have to be a secret.
My very first crime, a civil disobedience, had been committed.

"Here's a penny for your thoughts, a quarter for your call and all of your momma's love."

Captive Audience

I had to go to prison to get my foot in the door at Connors. Extreme, yes, but I had been teaching at Bacone for a year, so I felt prepared.  Teaching at Bacone made me get tough. Sometimes I felt like I was in the movie Dangerous Minds...which was a bit unexpected since it is a Christian university. I was teaching a lot more classes than an adjunct instructor typically does because Bacone operates under its own rules as a private school. I had 18 credit hours of day and night classes. One particular night class was full of rowdy football players who were pretty much convinced that they were too cool for school. It was a challenge, to say the least, to keep their attention, to keep them in line and, as one of the most unpopular instructors with the athletes, to feel safe walking to my car at night with no security and no lights. By the time I left Bacone, I knew how to wear my game face, how to get respect as a young female instructor and how to shut down any attempts at leveling or sexual advancement. Only after I learned those things could I even hope to reach some of them through writing assignments and discussion of literature.

Compared to my experience at Bacone, Eddie Warrior Correctional Center was friendly. First of all, it is a women's prison. Second of all, only the best behaved inmates can enroll. That's not to say that I didn't have some students who needed to be removed. It was a little difficult for me to push out of my mind that some of these ladies were guilty of crimes I couldn't imagine, but I did push it out. I forced myself to turn a blind eye to my visions of being attacked with a pencil or being dangled from the 2nd floor window.

After I graded their first essays, my perception of the world changed. Most of them wrote very emotional stories about how they came to be in prison and how they missed their children. I came to see them as women...women who had made some very big mistakes. Some of these women were girls, not yet 20 years old.  I felt very blessed to have had such supportive parents who always did their best to protect me from myself and from any danger they had the foresight to help me avoid. Still, as I look back, there were times in my teenage years when I put myself in situations that could have led me down a path of destruction. I couldn't help but see that every one, even Martha Stewart, is just one big mistake away from being inmate number 0001-2345.

Behind every tough girl's eyes, there was pain.

They were ready to make a change in their lives. They were tired of failing, tired of drug addiction and tired of their cycles of abuse. They were fiercely determined to soak in every lecture. They participated passionately in every discussion. They worked on each essay like it was the most important thing they'd ever done. They were coming to the realization that they were in fact good enough, smart enough, and fully capable of success. I've never seen eyes like theirs before or since.

I came away feeling like they educated me more than I had them. I learned compassion, humility and gratitude in a most unlikely place, the Oklahoma Department of Corrections.