Linnea

Linnea turned 17 the week after Kami was born. That fall she started her senior year in high school, and it was hard for me to believe she was so old. Wasn't it only yesterday that she was my little baby with  sparkling eyes and the cutest smile? Now she was all grown up.

I'd spent years trying to convince Linnea, and all the kids, that being different was OK.

“You don't have to look, or act, or be like everyone else to be cool,” I'd told them. “Making your own style and being unique is OK  It makes you a character, someone special. Don't just be one of the bunch, be you!”

I'd been learning that philosophy all of my life, from the time I idolized Kathrine, the heroin in my favorite book, “The Middle Window,” to the time I read about the grandma in “the House Without a Christmas Tree.” They were characters, independent, free thinking women who did what they believed was right, regardless what their peers thought. They were my heroes, and I wanted my kids to grow up with the same sense of self esteem so they would be able to stand tall and not just follow the crowd.

Maybe I preached it too much. Maybe I didn't explain the underlying principles well enough. Maybe having your dad walk out on you when you are young leaves a scar that keeps you from ever truly believing in yourself. I don't know, but I sure was proud of how Linnea tried to be her own self, even if inside she doubted.

Each time she was asked to go to a special dance, like Prom or Winter Formal, Linnea needed a dress. I wasn't much help. I'd grown up in a world where your mother made your dresses, even fancy ones, so it never occurred to me that I should buy her a dress. With six children, we didn't have the money for it, anyway. I offered to make her a dress, but only halfheartedly.  I really didn't like to sew.  But Linnea's best friend had a mother who had kept all of her Prom dresses. The girls used to enjoy looking at them, so when the time came that Linnea needed a dress, she immediately thought of those gowns.

“Becky's mother says I can borrow one of her dresses,” she told me, when I asked her if she would like me to make her a dress.

“Oh,” I replied, a little surprised. “OK. That will be easy.” And it was.

Linnea looked lovely when she came upstairs on the night of the dance, wearing a deep red velvet, princess cut dress. I thought she would be the bell of the ball. Only later did she admit how out of place she felt when she walked into the dance to find every other girl dressed in gorgeous gowns bought special for the evening, and she realized her twenty-year old dress was not even in the same category. Retro was not IN in those days. She felt like she stood out like a sore thumb, and suddenly telling herrself that it's OK to do your own thing didn't help make her feel less out of place. Still, she held her head up, smiled, and never let anyone know how insecure she felt inside.

The interesting thing was, for Prom she borrowed another dress, and had the same experience all over again. Looking back now, there's a part of me that wishes I had splurged and bought her a beautiful prom dress, just so she could feel like she was as pretty as the other girls. But what if I had?

Linnea may have felt like everyone was staring at her; she may have thought they were all wondering why she would wear an old fashioned dress; she may have wished she could blend in with the crowd and be just another pea in the pod; but it was experiences like that that gave her the courage to go out on a limb and take on the world of medicine today. She may still feel like a character, a misfit, but in my book, she is a heroin.