Phenomenal Woman
Many women would automatically say that their mothers are their heroes, and I am no different. Mine is a hero in the obvious ways that mothers are: She is selfless, tireless, and is just an endless spring of unconditional love. But there are so many other reasons that I consider my mom my personal hero—most are intensely personal, and it’s not possible to write about them without touching on a bit of my family history, something I’m not entirely comfortable blogging about at this point. This is, after all, the blogging equivalent of a second date, so you’ll forgive me for not laying all my cards out on the table just yet!
My mother, insightful woman that she is, holds the belief that insecurity is the root of all problems. Jealousy in relationships, vicious gossip in the workplace…you can trace these back to insecurity. If you consider that most girls are plagued with insecurities (the high school/early college me being one of them), then that’s a whole lot of girls with a whole lot of problems. And so I believe that any person who can help make even just one girl realize that she’s special can definitely be called a hero. One such woman stands out in my mind: Miss Leah.
She is only a couple of years older than I am, but I took to calling her “Miss” (as did a number of other people) because of a certain authoritativeness about her. I first met her in my freshman year in college—she was a junior, in the same dance organization that I was in. From then ’til my sophomore year, I was absolutely intimidated by this girl who was equal parts talent, intelligence, confidence, nerve, and unapologetic sexiness. Like many girls at that age, I was grappling with my own set of insecurities. So seeing this person who was so sure of herself, who just totally kicked ass—ahh, it was inspiring! Miss Leah: the one who taught me what it means to be a woman. Next to her, I felt like such a…kid!
It was in my sophomore year (and her senior year) when she became president of the org, and I got to see her as the captain of the ship. And I was even more in awe of her (and still quite scared of her, to be honest). To borrow that famous quote, Miss Leah spoke softly but carried a big stick—and she wasn’t afraid to whack you on the head with it if need be! Luckily, some time during that year, we went on a retreat, and I was fortunate enough to get to know Miss Leah on another level. She was no longer just a leader—she became a friend. And the more I got to know her, the more I realized what kind of person I wanted to be.
She has this way of making you feel special, of making you embrace what you thought were your flaws. Owing to her subdued voice, every conversation seems loaded with secrecy, as if she’s revealing the arcane knowledge of sages. She’s an old soul, wise beyond her years, always knowing the right thing to say, and peppering her enlightened talks with witty, often raunchy, remarks.
It’s been years since I last saw her, and we haven’t really been in touch. She’s off being her amazing self—a member of the Peace Corps in Honduras (!), no less. Despite the distance and the lack of communication, I somehow still feel close to her. So close, in fact, that out of all the people that could’ve written my yearbook write-up, she was the one I asked. The last line goes: “On the eve of adulthood, this lady still despairs to say, ‘I am woman, hear me roar!’ Um, should I break the news and tell her she already is?”
Miss Leah taught me well.