Mighty Fine Equine

Making Friends With Change

Last year I was invited to deliver the speech of my 50th high school reunion. I just wanted my parents could have been superlative there to reap the advantage of having so valiantly fought not only for me to School Seminar held preparatory Buffalo, but keep me there.

I was a kid turbulent public schools of South Buffalo. PS 67. My father was a butcher. In 8th grade, my English teacher, Helen Wilson (bless her insightful) called my parents by telling them that I had to take the scholarship examination for admission to the Buffalo Seminary, a small (and pretentious) non-denominational all girls prep school on the other side of our beautiful city. Parents were suitably flattered and encouraged me - no - I was forced to go through, up there and do the exam. I do not review. Then I bit my nails to the quick awaiting the results with great hope the dismal failure in my little black heart. But of all the Bad Luck ... I won! Yes. I won a scholarship to attend the seminar Buffalo.

For 14 years old myself, this victory means that I was punished for being smart. The Buffalo Seminary place was not only one bus to two - one and a half hour from my home, but she was full of foreigners was very strange, square Clothing lumpy. In those days I believed that white nylon see through blouses, skirts with poodles circle of felt and sequins plastered all over them and black ballerinas suede. I had never even heard the word wigwam, except when we studied about the Maid of the Mist going over Niagara Falls in a birchbark canoe Birch in the 4th grade class of Mrs. Robinson in PS 67.

Buffalo Seminary girls wore socks called wigwams wool chunky cardigan sweaters and bulky called Shetland (as in pony) that the well-to-do mothers bought dozens in a store in New York called Best & Company. These same girls seminary galumphing was great Spalding saddle shoes and coats wigwams woolly camel heavy 'shirt. They looked remarkably not sexy.

No I just do not want to go to school in Buffalo Seminary. I did not look lumpy or un-heavy. Furthermore, I have not had a mother rich man who went to New York to buy expensive clothes. I wore my older sister brown fur coat faux fur collar and sweater sets with orlon Pastel colors to keep me warm.

My parents hot, then decided. I had to be sent, at great expense for bus fares and books and school lunches, etc., at Buffalo Seminary. In response to this announcement, I cried buckets of tears of self pity. And when I stopped crying for a few minutes to watch Howdy Doody with my little brothers, I would suddenly think about what was ahead for me in September and cry a little more. I begged my parents to let me go to public high school. They said no. I promised not even attend the dull red brick Catholic Mount Mercy Academy where my poor sister had disappeared and been treated as a Viet Cong being Protestant. Parents have vetoed that too.

I would have gone to Guantanamo rather than attend the seminar in Buffalo.

But My parents knew better. I will soon be resolved, they said. And Eureka! Good news! They announced one evening at dinner. My classmate (and rival) PS 67, Barbara Linden was also going to the seminary in Buffalo. Think! What luck. Barbie and I could ride the bus up there together - that we have been for four long, windy, snowy, frostbite-production, chilled years.

I never told my parents how much I hated Barbie. His father was a lawyer. She had 6 pairs of wigwams and a coat of camel's hair before she started at the Buffalo Seminary. Her mother even took the train to New York to find the right Shetland sweaters at Best & Co. - those with grosgrain ribbon sewn placket front. She had braces on his teeth. I had an ugly space between my front teeth on it. Barbie has no spaces. But she wore braces expensive anyway. Everyone did.

My father was a butcher. There were five children. My mother did not know much about legs or grosgrain ribbon. But she knew exactly how my dad cook succulent roast beef until the meat was perfectly gray. I felt as if I was sent to reform school.

It is June 1952 and I am about to be registered as freshwoman at The Buffalo Seminary for the fall to come. My father attended a conference with the imposing director, a Miss Angell, who had been head teacher since 1903. My father and Miss Angell agree that in my first year I will study 4 subjects: English, French, Ancient History and algebra.

When my father returned and announced the four subjects, I groaned. "Frennnnnch ????? Daddeeeeeeee! Please! Why? French is a foreign language!"

"You will not start Latin until your second year," he explained.

I did not want any part of his Latin stupid neither. I wanted to typing and shorthand. I wanted to grow up to be a secretary like all the other girls in my class of 8th grade, and those of my church youth group.

But my father insisted that I could do as they told me "young".

So I sobbed a little more and left the table in anger and slammed the door in the floor and stayed in my room, pouting for hours feeling horribly sorry for myself. Privilege meant less than nothing to me in those days. Privilege was the punishment.

I lived in France now for over 40 years. I speak French almost better than English. I have written entire books on the books in French and translated from English into French and vice versa. I have an undying love and respect the French way of life. And, having learned to be fussy and emotional on cue, I made well with the people Grouchy French exuberance.

In short, even if it took a year or two shake shingles family quarrels, I not adapt to changes rigorous The Buffalo Seminary imposed standards of excellence in my life hitherto relatively predictable. And if I'm able to write this because my parents were able to raise all five of us on a modest income and still make me their Smarty Pants unmanageable rebellious daughter, graduated from Buffalo Seminary. I thank them and thank the scholarship fund each day of my life.

Maybe Morning those endless, dark afternoon bus rides last fetid Buffalo National Aniline and Republic steel mills scrambled my brain chemicals. Or perhaps he was driven from nylon see-through blouse and gabardine pants draped black button down Hathaway shirts, plaid kilts, wigwams and onlookers Weejun. But whatever remained in force in these precious years of adolescence, I was somewhat familiar to be me. These four expensive (and often painful) years seminar opened my eyes to the world and changed my destiny.

Instead of working as an accountant in a bowling alley on Seneca Street in South Buffalo, now I live in Paris and Buenos Aires. And I write books.

Once it was determined that I would stay in Buffalo Seminary and not run away and join the circus, I began to love learning. The first year in ancient history class, I learned the word "flood". In algebra, I learned that x and there can be values. From gentle Mrs. Clements, Professor of English, I learned how not to cry in a C + on a composition. She patiently explained I just did not (yet) know how to write and if I tried hard, I could probably learn.

And finally, my talent, elegant French teacher, I learned to conjugate a verb irregular perfection. Yvonne Handy taught me to speak and write his melodious language carefully and joyfully. Ms. Handy pre-war French still resonates in my 21st century French when my mother sayings pre-war are still alive in my daily English language. I liked Yvonne Handy. I admired his style. Gray skirt, silk blouse simple cardigans thrown carelessly over his shoulders. Pearls. Low and simple, well-cut black pumps. After retirement, Mrs. Handy wrote to me in Paris, offering me his job. "Nobody else can do." She has claimed.

I refused. But boy was I proud!

Before I had left Paris to attend the 50th meeting, I reread schedule of the weekend on my computer screen. To my amazement, I had not only been invited to deliver the speech at my 50th reunion, but I gave the star. The calendar is the creator raved that I promised to talk to reunionees on "My life fascinating."

It reminded me of how primary school we used to have to write compositions entitled "My Summer Vacation."

When looking back on "My fascinating life, it often seems as if, since I started writing books, I was on an extended stay. Very good what I do. I am not rich. I am not anywhere. I am free to roam and write and do what I like most at any given time. So I decided I would not talk about my vacation.

I write books about how to keep Chinese and Western. If you are not keen on astrology or if you think it's hogwash, I fully understand. I do not proselytize. I am not a missionary.

I started writing about Chinese Astrology in 1975. I had already written and sold a novel. My agent in New York, she broke to me. "You're a single mother. You should start writing non-fiction. "She said.

I did not even know what non-fiction was. She made a list: Fashion, beauty, cooking, astrology, history, religion, gardening ....

I shouted. "I can not write about one of these stupid topics. I want to write stories. Novels. Short stories. Even the theater or movies. No Iron Chef almighty! "

She warned. "Nobody makes money well write novels. At least not until you've written seven or eight years. It is simple. If you insist writing novels, your children will starve. "She lit a cigarette and blew smoke at me." Do the math. "she said.

I chose Astrology - Chinese variety. I wrote a proposal, the same day and next week my intelligent agent that sold a publishing house. Do not write more fiction represented a huge change and something of a disappointment too. But I quickly made peace with the idea. At least I was paid to do what I love most, which is to write books. Also, I was launched in a new direction - on my way to become the high priestess of Chinese Astrology. I have written four books on bestseller astrology and are published in almost all world languages - including Chinese.

Despite and because of my books of astrology and my will moving on to another train to survive and feed my children, I actually have a fascinating life. I wondered to myself.

Why I go live in France?
Why did I start writing books?
How did I survive cancer for so long?
How do I raise two children in Paris without a husband or child support?
How did - I published?
How did I manage to live in both places and do so different tasks and love so many and so often disappointed and remain optimistic?

I think the answer is.

I embrace change.

I'm going after the change. I get it. I hunt. I like poking a truffle hound looking for a change. And if I do not think I am voluntarily changes.

Sometimes when we do not expect it, when the change was even to be passes, I do my best to accommodate.

Most people are constrained by the familiar. They remain close to what is comfortable and stay with what is safe. They never color outside the lines. They work the same territory every day. They do their chores and pay their bills and to take their vacation at the same time in the same places. It's how they feel safer.

Are they bored? Maybe. Yes. They could be bored. And they may complain of boredom. Did they choose boredom change? Not really. Not consciously. But. come to think of it yes. It's safer that way. Change can be dangerous or at the very least uncomfortable. Many people fear discomfort and thus they continue to resist change.

My So-Called Life is never fascinating course. I guess I do not believe in security. I know in the pit of my being that not one of us is never sure ... disease, despair, loss, fear, poverty, sadness, doubt or lies. We are only spots that float aimlessly instead of each other in the vast universe, and if we do not want to be bored and we do not want to be disappointed and we do not want to be depressed, we must make our own fun. The pleasure is always there right under our noses. To create it, it only takes courage to embrace change.

If I am now the author of five books and friends with people from all breeds, sizes, shapes, colors and professions, it is largely because I'm very comfortable with change.

And so I advise a young start, I would say, "Take your business to live your life your way - even if it means crashing, screaming crowds of people who want to not. Being selfish, if you must. But be you.

What if you be mean to be alone? Then, being alone. Up what you decide you need a change.

About the Author

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