by Bob Purssell
“And?” responded my father.
“Well, I want to race.”
Probably anticipating her response, he warily answered, “Let me talk with your mother.”
* * *
When my father told me he was going to talk with my mother about me karting, I figured there was no way she would approve. However, I had that wrong. Taking me aside, we had a talk.
“You know your father loves to kart.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“You’re aware his happiness means a lot to me.”
“Yes,” I replied.
As she spoke, my mother looked at me with her incredible penetrating gaze that made me very uneasy. “Young lady, I’ll agree to your karting on one condition: you have to kart 100 percent, no halfway. Any time I see you showing a lack of interest, I’ll put a stop to your karting. Do you understand me?”
Feeling almost rebuked, I replied, “Yes, Mother.”
“I want you to think about what I have just said. If you still want to go ahead with the karting, tell me.”
I did as my mother directed and thought about what she had told me. I could have what I wanted. She had not said no. Nevertheless, there was a feeling, a feeling that I had not felt before. That fun and good things had a cost. That a good thing could go bad. That my actions could determine whether something came out good or bad.
I told my mother I wanted to kart, but somehow I felt I had paid a lot for what I was getting. Not too much, but still a lot.
* * *
My father was my karting coach, teaching me the ways of going fast. He was far from unique in that respect. All the kids had parents who were their de facto coaches. The other fathers would tell their children, usually boys, just what they should do. In effect, they trained their children, leaving it to the child to extract knowledge from his or her training.
My father’s technique was different; he taught me. He would ask me how I intended to execute a turn. Then he would ask questions: Where are you going to start your braking? Why are you following that line? This made me think about my driving. The mental part of my race started long before I got my kart on the track. In this respect, I knew I had the advantage.
Was I some super karter, lapping the pack, coming home with lengths to spare? No, but I had my share of victories. As I became more skilled, my competitors recognized me as a threat. However, in the beginning, that was not the case.
At first, the slam bang of karting intimidated me. I would not challenge my opponents. When they challenged me, I would back off. One Sunday, on the way home, frustrated after a day of my competitors pushing me around, I whined to my father, “They let the boys get away with everything.”
When my father asked me to be explicit, I described how a boy had bump passed[14] me at a turn. My father responded, “Technically, he probably violated the rules, but the race officials will never call it.”
Being argumentative, I replied, “So, they allow cheating?”
“Barbara, there are rulebook rules, and there are the actual rules. It’s the actual rules that count.”
Again being argumentative, I said, “So, it’s okay if I cheat?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m trying to tell you that you should race according to the rules being enforced.”
Less argumentative, beginning to listen, I asked, “So, if they allow bump passing, I can bump pass?”
“I’m going to say yes, but there’s more to it than that.”
Now listening, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“Some guys try to take advantage of everything the officials give them. That approach occasionally works, but it doesn’t make you friends, and sometimes you need friends on a race track.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen guys, who weren’t popular, when they were going for the win, get spun by guys who were out of the race.
“So, it’s okay to bump pass as long as I’m popular?”
“If I were younger,” responded my father, “I’d say you were teasing me.”
I laughed. My father was the coolest.
* * *
I started hanging in, not backing off. By the end of the season, I had learned how to push my way forward when the opportunity presented itself.
What was it like to win a race?
Let me try to describe the high I got in one race. Qualifying sixth, I start the feature race on the outside of the third row. Approaching the first turn, I realize there’s going to be a pile up, so I go wide. To my left, the third and the fifth place karts bump and end up slowing one another. I drive around the mess, and, when the dust literally settles, move cleanly into fourth position.
In fourth, not gaining or losing, I chase after the leaders. I want to push the limits, to scream into every turn, but I follow my father’s advice and stay disciplined. With five laps to go, the third place kart enters a turn too fast, skids onto the grass and ends up next to last.
Having a slightly slower kart, the leader has to drive a defensive race. Driving so the second place kart cannot pass, his blocking tactics slow both himself and his pursuer. In third place, I drive my own race and focus on minimizing my lap times. Steadily, I gain on the leaders until, with less than two laps to go, I’m a kart-length behind the second place kart.
Time is running out. I want to make a challenge and overtake the second place kart. However, as we approach the last turn before getting the white flag[15], I realize the second place kart is going to make his bid to take the lead. My father has told me that passing two karts is often easier than passing one. The trick: take advantage of the lead kart’s block.
As the three of us approach the turn, I prepare for a late apex, hoping I will get my opportunity. As I had expected, the second place kart dive-bombs[16] the leader. Bumping one another, the two karts, now side-by-side, exit the turn wide, unable to accelerate quickly. Seizing my opportunity, I hug the inside of the turn as my tires fight to maintain their grip on the track. Thrown about by the g-forces, I join the other two karts. Three-wide, we simultaneously take the white flag as we roar down the long straight.
As my motor screams, I duck my head to minimize wind drag and fight to hold my position. Rapidly building up speed, I realize at the next turn I will have the inside position. That is the good news. Unfortunately, there is a problem. At the beginning of the turn there will be three karts traveling at sixty miles an hour. Anything can happen, all the way from my winning the race to my being thrown completely out of my kart.
No one backs off. Braking as late as we dare, we hurtle into the turn and around we go, bumping all the way. Engines scream; tires squeal for mercy; only by holding onto the steering wheel do I stay in my seat. All I see is a blur of images. Somehow, from this mechanical maelstrom I come out with the lead, the other two karts right on my tail.
The next turn will decide the winner; I press my throttle hard against the stop. Again, the engine screams as the rpm’s climb and my kart accelerates. Drafting[17] off my kart, the competition closes the gap. In a line, with inches of separation, we approach the turn. I just know the kart behind me will make its move. Most likely, he will try a bump pass and either he or the third place kart will pass me.
Preemptively, fifteen feet before entering the turn, I go up and down on the throttle. The kart behind me bumps me squarely, transferring some of his momentum. Pushed ahead maybe two feet, I, for an instant, am immune to a bump pass. Accelerating cleanly through the turn, I emerge with a kart-length lead. It is my race to lose.
I have two more turns, an ess, and another turn to race before I will get the checkered flag. If I race flat out, if I do not make a mistake, I am the winner. However, even a tiny mistake will open the door for a comeback, which might well cost me my lead.
As I drive the last lap, I repeatedly scream the word, “Drive!” As I bounce through the turns, the g-forces pulling
me about the seat, the tires screeching, the engine’s banshee scream in my ears, I live, for a brief few seconds that seem like an eternity, in a nirvana of exhilaration and desperation.
Driving as hard as I can, I hold my advantage and take the checkered flag.
* * *
As we get in line to weigh our karts, the driver who had bumped me and finished second, loudly pleads his case. “She brake-lighted me,” he whines.
I say nothing.
The third place finisher, who had held the lead, walks past the complainer. Reaching me, he pats me on the back and says, “Good race.”
HIGH SCHOOL
In spite of my father’s wish that I not attend or become involved with the local high school, it was my interest and success in athletics—ironically made possible by my father’s encouragement—that undid his plan. By age twelve, for the second year running, I was an all-star in the mixed junior hockey league.
Without my knowing, the coach of the girl’s ice hockey team at the local high school approached my father and all but begged him to enroll me in the high school. My father balked, telling the woman, “I’m not interested in slowing down my daughter’s academic development.”
Determined, the coach convinced the school’s principal to recognize the fact that I was academically ahead of my peers. Having gained the school’s permission for me to take upper class courses in my first year, the coach approached my parents for a second time.
On a July evening, after telling me what had already transpired, my father asked, “How do you feel about all this?”
Perfectly content to continue my homeschooling, I replied, “I think I would learn more at home.”
“I guess you won’t be playing ice hockey,” observed my mother.
That got my attention. With alarm, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you too old for the league you played in last year?”
“Yes,” I replied cautiously.
“And you won’t be allowed to play on the high school team?”
“I won’t?”
“Not unless you attend the high school.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. Then after an exhaustive review of my options that took less than a millisecond, I said, “I want to go to high school.”
My father looked at my mother, shook his head as he chuckled, and then declared, “I guess we know who the salesperson in this family is.”
* * *
Initially high school threw me for a loop.
The good news: although apprehensive at first, I found my schoolwork interesting but the teachers nowhere near as demanding as my parents. Most of my fellow students greeted their assignments, no matter how interesting or easy, with groans. Students and teachers alike appeared to have one objective: pass the test. Quickly, I realized that only a few of my classmates had either my interest or my preparation. Right from the start, I recognized the advantage that my parents’ commitment to my schooling gave me.
The bad news: my interaction with my fellow students was a shocker. Taller than all but a few of the boys in my grade, possessing a skinny, wiry body, not “with it” in the slightest, I was odd girl out. Knowing little of hip-hop, heavy metal, or any form of popular music, I soon learned that my mere mention of Brahms or Bach would bring derision down upon me. My idea of what were important current events (Afghanistan, Iraq, and the like) differed substantially from the thinking of the majority of my fellow students, who, it seemed to me, were obsessed with gossip in all its forms.
In particular, the girls liked to talk and talk and talk. In groups or on their cell phones, they had to communicate. But what about? To me, nothing.
The worse news: from all the media attention it received, I was well aware of the nation’s drug problem. My parents and I had discussed the subject at length. However, to be in an environment where drug usage was a reality came as a shock. There was plenty of talk about not using drugs; the high school had an anti-drug campaign. However, both the faculty and the students had a resigned attitude: drugs were bad, but drugs were here and here to stay.
The terrible news: all of these difficulties paled in comparison to my first encounter with prejudice. In my history studies at home, my parents and I had discussed American racism, anti-Semitism, and religious intolerance, so I had a theoretical understanding of bigotry. Now the subject became real and personal.
One Wednesday in the middle of October, I was in the girls’ lavatory, which had a window that opened easily, allowing the stale air to escape. A fair number of the girls took advantage of this window as a way to smoke, both cigarettes and pot, without being caught. Why the teachers and school security didn’t do anything about this obvious violation of the smoking and marijuana bans was a mystery to me. They certainly liked to talk about cigarettes and drugs and to stress the rules against their use. However, when it came to actually taking action, they did little. Therefore, the girls who smoked did so with impunity.
I was in a stall when Melissa and Kim, two girls who liked to have a toke, entered the lavatory and began exchanging puffs on a shared joint. As I was putting myself back together, I overheard Melissa hiss, “That O’Leary thinks she’s so smart.”
“What do you expect from a homeschooled geek?” replied Kim.
“Not just a geek, a Paki geek,” answered Melissa.
Kim responded. “You know, she’s adopted. Her parents are white.”
With obvious derision, Melissa rhetorically asked, “What, American isn’t good enough for them?”
They probably would have continued, but the bell for our next class period rang. I waited until both girls had left, then I went to class hurt and angry.
* * *
That evening, I tried to hide my emotions. However, my mother must have sensed how upset I was. After I had crawled into bed, she entered my bedroom and asked, “Would you like to talk?”
In a little voice I replied, “Why do they say things about me?”
Sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my head, my mother asked, “Tell me who ‘they’ are and what they said?”
I unburdened myself, telling her about the day’s experience and then all the other things that had upset me. She listened intently, not saying a word. When I was done, my mother asked, “Can I tell you a story, one I hope you will keep between us?”
I nodded.
“Your father was worried this might happen. We talked and he asked me if you would find high school difficult.”
She paused long enough for me to ask, “What did you tell him?”
My mother smiled and then said, “I told him, ‘Barbara will experience her share of problems.’”
“Why did you let me go?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
“But-but-but,” I stammered.
“Growing up is difficult. I know, I did it once myself.” Although I did not want to, I smiled at her thought. “Oh, how I can remember,” my mother went on, “how the other children made fun of me.”
This was a revelation. Reflecting on her powerful personality, it was inconceivable to me that anyone would dare make fun of my mother. For that matter, I had difficulty even entertaining the idea that my mother had once been a little girl. “What did you do?” I asked.
“I got upset, just like you.”
I pressed. “But what did you do?”
Remembering, my mother said, “That was so long ago.” Then she explained. “I talked with my mother. It is such a shame that you never met her. She had wisdom.”
I was about to press my question again, when my mother said, “She told me, ‘It’s all part of growing up. You have to meet people who aren’t very nice so you can appreciate the ones that are nice.’”
“But aren’t you worried what will happen to me?”
“Of course we worry about you. We always do, but that’s
because we love you. What I don’t do is worry because of you.”
Confused, not comprehending the distinction, I blurted out, “I-I don’t understand.”
“Barbara, your father didn’t want you to go to the high school. He was all for you learning at home. I was the one who insisted you go.”
“Why?”
“Because you have to prepare yourself for life. We can’t do that for you; you have to do it for yourself.”
“But what if I—”
“Fail,” my mother interjected. “You’re not going to fail. I know you. When you get knocked down, you get right back up. That’s you.” My mother’s confidence caused me to smile in spite of myself. She went on, “As for those children who are teasing you, they’re just average.[18] Pay them no heed. Just smile and walk the other way.”
We talked for quite a while, and much reinforced by my mother’s expression of confidence, determined to overcome, the next day I went back to school.
* * *
Within a week, I had my confrontation with Melissa. I was walking to the last class of the day when Melissa and Kim entered the hallway maybe five yards in front of me. Initially, they were not aware of my presence. That’s probably why Kim felt comfortable saying, “That little Chink is always kissing up to Ms. Holloman.”
Melissa replied, “She’s another O’Leary. They both think they’re hot shit because they know the answer to some dumb questions.”
Ready to start a confrontation, I stepped forward and said, “If you want to say something, why don’t you say it to me?”
Surprised, both girls wheeled around. Kim, the follower, looked to see what Melissa would do. Angry, Melissa snarled, “Yes, you homeschooled geek, I’ve got something to say. Why don’t you and the rest of your kind go back to where you came from?”
“Melissa, for your information, this is where I come from.”
Her hatred obvious, Melissa taunted me with, “Your family is rich. Why don’t they buy you some decent clothes so you don’t look like a dork all the time?”
Angered that she had brought my family into our argument, not knowing how to respond verbally, I gave Melissa a shove. Not intimidated in the slightest, the big girl who played defense on the lacrosse team pushed back. I was about to hit Melissa when, from behind me, I heard a stentorian male voice demand, “What’s going on here?”