To My Daughter - Upon Your Graduation

Victoria has graduated from college. I wanted to share here a letter I wrote to her for her graduation. Fair warning; it's mushy.

To My Daughter - Upon Your Graduation

4 May, 2014

Ashley Victoria Stephens, you have completed your college degree, and in a sense, your childhood as well. Graduating from college means you have transitioned from being my child, under my supervision and responsibility, into being an adult. You are no longer financially dependent on me, and you are legally responsible for yourself. But more importantly, you are functionally responsible for yourself. You don’t need me anymore, not as an authority figure, not as a safety net. You have grown up. My ‘job’ of being your parent is complete.

That doesn’t mean I’m cutting you loose, that I won’t be there to help you make decisions and to guide you, or to support you when things don’t work out. I’ll be there. But I’ll be there by your side, as your friend and advisor. I won’t tell you what you have to do, only what I think you should do. And the decisions will be yours. It’s okay; you’re ready. You’ve been making your own decisions for a while now, really. And for the most part, they’ve been good ones.

I want you to understand that I am impressed with the things you’ve accomplished in your life already. You did very well in school. You got yourself into a good college, and worked hard to do well there. You’ve searched for, and found, opportunities that would affect – and start – your career. A career which harnesses your passion and energy, not just a job. None of this was handed to you; you did the work to get there. And you didn’t stop there; you did more. Extra.

You’ve already done things that affect people. You have helped folks that needed it. And you’ve accepted help when you’ve needed it; I think that’s harder to do. You’ve touched people by teaching. Teaching is one of the most important ways of touching other people, because that will stay with them forever, especially when they, in turn, teach other people. And you’ve let people teach you. You haven’t just been in classes figuring out what needs to be repeated by rote to survive the test; you’ve learned lessons, asked questions, and applied what you’ve learned. That’s what makes a teacher’s job worthwhile – you’ve made your teachers’ jobs worthwhile.

You have been a friend. Sometimes a ‘for now’ friend, to someone who was having a bad day and needed a friendly face. Sometimes a ‘for a while’ friend, to someone at Berea or NSA or in the theatre. Even if you never see them again, you have made their life better by being with them for that time. And sometimes you have been a ‘for always’ friend. You may not even know who those friends are, yet. Look back in a few years and see who they are. You may be surprised – you may not.

But beyond the things you’ve done and the people you’ve touched, I want you to understand that I am terribly, fiercely proud of the person you have become. If someone asked me twenty years ago what I would want for my daughter, I would have said, “I want my daughter to be kind. I want her to love people. I want her to be proud of herself – and have a reason to be. I want her to see beauty in the world, and to help other people to see it. I want her to be strong and intelligent and decisive. I want her to be gentle and tender. I want her to be happy. And every now and then, I want her to be sad. I want her to succeed. And sometimes, I want her to fail. I want her to fall in love, and sometimes, I want her to have her heart broken. I want her to help people, and to let people help her. I want her to impress people. I want her to make a difference to the people around her, and to the world.” Tori, you’re only 21 years old, and you’ve already done all these things. Don’t stop. Ever.

So what do I want for you as an adult? The same things, of course. Because you are only at the beginning of your life. This is the end of your childhood, which means it’s the beginning of your adult life. You have a metaphysical clean slate. What are you going to put on it? I hope you will continue to do all the things I just said. I can’t imagine you won’t.  And I want you to do more. Keep pushing yourself. Keep pushing others to do more, too. I want you to be happy, whatever that means for you.

I want you to keep teaching. Maybe that means dance or theatre to you; maybe it means martial arts. Maybe you’ll teach someone to read. Maybe you’ll teach a child to tie their shoes or write their name. Anything, but keep sharing of yourself as you always have. And I want you to keep learning. Learn a new dance; read a book; go out and try something new. I want you to perform, and I want you to see other people do things you never even thought of. 

I want you to be part of raising a child. Whether your child, biologically or not, or someone else’s child. Being part of raising a child is an experience that can’t be replaced by anything else. Raising you was the most important thing I’ve ever done with my life. It’s a kind of creation that changes the world, at least for you and for that child. Oh, and for every single person that child comes into contact with.

I want you to love. I want you to surround yourself with people that make you happy, and whom you make happy. I want you to travel some, and have a home to come home to, not just a house. You know you’ll always have my home to come home to, wherever I am. Loving, and giving of yourself, is a huge part of who you are. And I know that won’t ever change.

I’m looking forward to seeing what you do with your life, my daughter. I can’t wait to see what you do next that will impress me, thrill me, worry me, and make me proud of you. No matter where you go or what you do, you will always have my love, my support, my acceptance. Now go. And do.

It's a Small World...

My father has never been great at choosing gifts. No hard feelings; it's just not his thing. Nowadays he sends cash; that's always good. But when Tori was little, he tried. And usually failed. When the kids were about, oh, seven or eight, the Fail Gift was a Christmas gift. Matching toys, so everyone's equal. Tori's was a fairy and EJ's was a dragon. The figures sat on a base with a pull-cord. You pull the cord out, and the figures whirl around really fast and rise up into the air. Pretty, right? So they both opened their gifts, pointed them both directly at each others' faces, and pulled the cords. And that was the one use they got of those toys.

When Tori was much more tiny, the Fail Gift was a walker. It was one of those thin plastic ones you see people selling on the side of the road. Pink plastic. In the right corner, just under her elbow, was a small silver button. Now, when she accidentally hit the button, it played the Disney song 'It's a Small World'. One of the most annoyingly cute songs ever. At first, it was merely annoying, because she only ever hit it by accident. And then one day she learned how to hit it on purpose. The walker became much more annoying that day, as she would hit it about once every twenty minutes or so.

And then she learned to lean on the button with her elbow. The good news: it stopped playing the song over and over. The bad news: it started playing just the first four notes. "It's a Small World... It's a Small World... It's a Small World... It's a Small World... It's a Small World... It's a Small World..." So the next day, Mom comes home from somewhere, and Tori's down for a nap, and I'm sitting in the living room floor with the walker, a screwdriver, and a hammer. She opens the door and asks me, "What are you doing?" I quickly slam the hammer into the screwdriver, sending pieces of the music button crunching into the carpet. "It broke," I answered.

Two Little Monkeys Jumpin' On The Bed

When Tori was a toddler, my sister and her son, EJ, lived with us. It was like having twins, even though they were a few months apart in age. Tori was older, and EJ was bigger. And there was no doubt as to who was the dominant twin. EJ's first phrase that he spoke was 'Ok, Toria'. She said it, and he did it. If we found something broken, we knew, EJ had broken it, but it had been Tori's idea. So they got punished equally for most everything. One of my favorite examples of Tori's dominance over her poor cousin was the jumping on the bed story.

One day the two kids, around age four maybe, are playing in one of the bedrooms. There's a grown-up bed in there, but it's kind of high to climb up on. I'm walking down the hall, and through the half-open door I hear Tori's eager voice say, "Come on, EJ, let's jump on the bed!" Intrigued, I stop and peek through the door where they can't see me too well. Sure, I could have walked in and forbade the activity, but I tried to let them work things out themselves.

I hear EJ mumble something, but he's still sitting firmly on the floor. Undeterred, my sweet little girl is now standing on the bed. "EJ, come on. Climb up on the bed and jump with me!"

EJ stands up, cocks his head at her, and says, "I don't think Aunt Martha wants us jumping on the bed." He's a smart boy, because last time they tried jumping on the bed there were cracked heads as a result.

"No, it's okay, EJ. It'll be fun!" Because, of course, fun is all-important. She's motioning at him vigorously now, and bouncing a little on the balls of her feet.

They go back and forth a couple of times, with Tori all excited about jumping on the bed, and EJ pointing out that they aren't supposed to be jumping on the bed. Finally, he starts climbing up on the bed. He's got one foot up on the side, and she's pulling on his arm, trying to help him climb. I hear him say, "We're gonna get in trouble." But he's climbing, nevertheless.

At this point, I did step into the room, picking up one tot, and then the other, and placing them on the floor. "You're right, EJ," I say. "Aunt Martha does not want you jumping on the bed." The look of relief on his sweet young face was adorable. Tori, undeterred, was off to something else. After all, she wasn't in trouble - it's not like she had actually jumped on the bed.

I Am A Cougra

When Tori was young, maybe in Kindergarten, she came home one day and told me that she had had a terrible day. And for some reason, she decided to identify herself as an animal in her misery. All melodramatically, she announced, "I... am a POSSUM." And I was amused. So I asked her, "I don't like possums.Could you maybe, just possibly, be a rat instead?" She agreed she could make that small step. "I am a rat!" And I asked her about another animal. Each time, we went a little higher on her/my estimation of the animal, until she was bouncing on the bed announcing what kind of animal she was. "I am a Horse!" "I am an Eagle!" And finally, I asked if she could be a cougar. Striking a dramatic pose, she declared "I... am a COUGRA!"