Being Chosen for the Team

When I was young, I felt like Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. All of the other children used to laugh and call her names. They never let poor Doreen play in any children’s games. I felt bad. I felt different. I felt unwanted.

My grandmother, of course, tried to make me feel better by saying there was something wrong with them. It really didn’t make me feel better. More importantly, it didn’t change the situation. They still wouldn’t allow me to play with them. Unlike Rudolph, no magical event occurred to change their minds. I had a lonely and unhappy childhood in many respects.

As I grew up, I realized that grandma’s putting them down wasn’t an effective solution for the problem of mean-spirited playmates. Children were mean from the beginning of mankind (Cain killed Abel) and still so today, made even worse by Internet bullying. For myself, what coping skills could I really expect to learn from my grandmother? She was a poorly educated, first generation American, stay-at-home-mom.

With education and living in other cities and states, I figured out from the school of hard knocks how to cope a bit better with being the odd person out. My standard self-protective retort became to apologize saying “I’m sorry. I did bring all three of my manners with me.” (One woman actually asked me what the three manners were. Lady, it’s a smart-Alec response. Hello?)

As I became involved with Gaithersburg Presbyterian Church, I learned that God chose me – even before I was born (John 15: 16; 1 Peter 1:2; Ephesians 1:4). How great a feeling to know I was picked for the best team ever!

Now, about those three manners….

Passport anyone?

There is a rite of passage when you are old enough to have your own checking account. Because I grew up poor, it had extra meaning for me. Add to that the reason I needed one is because I was the first in my branch of the family tree to go to college and you have real cause for a celebration.

At the time I got accepted to graduate school in Chicago, bank regulations were tightening and stores were requiring at least one, if not two, major forms of ID to cash checks. I quickly realized that my Massachusetts license might not qualify to cash out-of-state checks in Illinois. I mentioned this concern to my college pals, many of whom had real worldly experience. Beth Ann (of the New Hampshire Steinberg’s) said “why don’t you get a passport? That’s a major form of ID.” Not to be one-down, I went to find out - from someone else - what I needed to get one.

It was no big deal to get the two passport photos. I simply went to one of the arcade photo booths at Revere Beach. It was more involved, however, to get a notarized birth certificate. After more research, I needed to go to the McCormick building Records Office in downtown Boston.  I remembered I saw a building with that name on one of my shopping trips so merrily caught the train – which in Massachusetts is the same as Metro in DC – toting my precious photos.

I easily found the McCormick building and went directly to the tenant directory. Two security guards ambled over to “help” me. I told them I needed a notarized birth certificate and they said I was at the wrong McCormick building. Go figure.

They gave me directions and as I was leaving, one guard asked me why I needed one. I smugly informed him that I needed it to get a passport. Naturally, he asked me where I was going. Without thinking, I said “Chicago.” They both gawked at me in disbelief. One stuttered “B, b, b, b, but, lady. You don’t need a passport to go to Chicago!”

Of course, I knew I didn’t need a passport to go to Chicago. After all, Illinois is still part of the US. I tried to correct my shortcut answer to no avail. They looked at me like I needed to go into THE home for SPECIAL people. I let it go, hopped back on the train and hurried to the correct McCormick building.

Showing evidence of learningÔ, when the Records clerk asked me why I needed it and where I was going, instead of saying “Chicago” or “I need it for ID,” I angrily said “nowhere. I am not going anywhere!” He looked at me like I needed to take a pill but didn’t press further.

Many years later, at one of my husband’s work-related social gatherings, Ron insisted I tell my “best” story. So, I did and everybody laughed. Then Ron added “I bet those guards are still talking about the lady who thought she needed a passport to get to Chicago.” Okay, it’s one thing for them to think I’m crazy. It’s another if the guards have their get togethers and I am one of the showpieces!