At 13, what I wanted —more than anything— was to be thin as a prima ballerina, so delicate I could pirouette with ease, so tiny I’d finally fit in with the other girls so slender I’d fade into school walls rather than risk being seen.
That spring, I made the school musical, I had a part and a solo. When I stepped on stage to sing, my voice shook, then steadied, with each verse, I grew feathers, soon after, I was soaring high in the sky.
That was my first taste of a more expansive life I didn’t need to hide away; I could offer hope and goodness. I could be and do more than I ever dreamed I might. I wanted to chase that feeling over and over.
I’d like to say that moment was a revolution, but that would only be half-true. For nearly 40 years, I’ve wrestled with silence and singing fitting in and standing out perfection and mess. On my best days, I claim my power. On my worst, I’m 13 again, still afraid of sharing my voice.
If I could warn her, oh if I could whisper wisdom into my younger self’s ears, I’d tell her: Some men will try to cage you and keep you small. Don’t let them. Sing your song. Spread your wings. Let your beautiful, wild self be free.
In the summer, she’d set up a makeshift baseball field in our cul-de-sac. Mom dug out the bats, gloves and tennis balls from our garage and plopped them down near our mailbox. The driveway held home base. My brother and I must have been in elementary or middle school back then, and she, in her forties.
She roped in our next-door neighbors – the freckled Maher boys – and the handsome bachelor who lived across the street from us for a few years. I don’t remember his name. I do remember his dog, a white and orange mut named Boomer who caught fly balls in his teeth, and the way Mom’s eyes lit up when she’d assembled up a team for pickup baseball.
She pitched. Standing in the center of the cul-de-sac, Mom threw straight, steady pitches, encouraging us to swing with a gentle, “Hey batta-batta, swing batta-batta.” When it was her turn to bat, she smacked line drives and fly balls into the outfield, which was the handsome neighbor’s front yard. Boomer sprinted and strained to snag them.
Looking back today, I get the sense she held back some of her power when we played ball in the street together. A gym teacher by calling, she was a natural athlete and our first coach at everything. Her skilled hands showed our novice ones how to hit, how to catch and how to throw hard. She taught my brother and me that playing with all your heart was more important than winning or losing.
Her love of the game was palpable.
Mom’s the reason I played shortstop in summer league softball. My softball coach said I had a good arm – honed from endless games of catch out with my mother. I could field well, too, but my hitting was unreliable.
This became a problem when I moved on to high school softball. I made the A team, but I ended up benched more often than not. We lost the majority of our games. What I hated more than losing was not getting to play at all.
Mom didn’t come to all my games – school was in session, and she had several after school commitments of her own – but when she showed up in the stands, my confidence blossomed.
After another game lost, I sat in the car with my mother, head in my hands. She put her hand on my arm and said to me, “You should be out there, too, Erin. You’re just as good as the other girls are. You deserve a chance to play.”
She was right; after all, we’d gotten destroyed. It would have been nice if the coaches cut me a break and put me in in the eighth inning. Unlike my mother, I was a mediocre softball player.
The next year, I tried out for the school musical instead. Everyone who could sing made the school musical — it was my chance to get in the game. Mom came to my performance and cheered me on, same as always. She brought me a bouquet. Her love for me was palpable.
Erin Strybis 