Of Heroes, Uncles, and Grandmothers...

I worked teaching in a high risk youth program for a few years. During that time, I attended several conferences /classes /seminars on working with high risk youth. Something that always stuck out was the resiliency factor. What makes one youth resilient and another not so much? Could be a lot of different things, some internal, some external. A factor that came up repeatedly was the mentor factor.

All it takes is one person who cares, who gets in, who gets it, who makes a connection. Of course, at the time, the point was being made to those of us attending the classes that we (the students’ teachers) could and might very well be that one person.

With hindsight, it made me think about who those people had been in my own life.

I knew in an instant.

Bahquine and Uncle Kent.

Bahquine was what we called my paternal grandmother. Uncle Kent was her oldest son, my father’s older brother.

My paternal grandfather I know only by reputation. He was a drunk, a womanizer. He was someone who was hit hard by the Depression. He left my grandmother and his four children right in the middle of it all. My Uncle Kent, who was in high school at the time, became the provider of the family. He worked two jobs while he finished school, getting up at 4 AM and working one job for two hours before school started. Then, after school, he worked full shifts in a corner market, sweeping up and stocking.

My dad was the baby of the family and nine years younger than my Uncle Kent. By the time my dad was in high school my Uncle was working full time to support their mother and his three younger siblings. He would not let my dad work as he wanted my dad to be able to have a full high school experience. He wanted my dad to be able to play football and he did, becoming quite the football star in high school.

When the United States entered WWII, my Uncle Kent who was nearly deaf since birth, joined the Merchant Marines and served his country. The house he bought in Los Angeles provided a home for his mother, his two sisters, and their two infants (their husbands were also off to war).

When he returned from the war, my Uncle never married. He continued to provide a home for his mother while his younger siblings all moved out and started their own families.

While I was growing up, staying with Bahquine and Uncle Kent for weekends during the school year, or whole weeks during the summer, was a comforting ritual. A forgiving contrast to the escalating drama of home.

My Uncle had a woodshop under the house and would teach me how to use C-clamps, saws, hammers, levels and screwdrivers. I was allowed to make projects at will.

Upon our arrival, Uncle Kent put up a card table in the living room and afternoons and evenings were spent playing board games and card games.

While my father was coming home later and later and was growing more emotionally absent from the family, my Uncle stepped in and talked to me about school, college, life…

Uncle Kent was my Atticus, never talking down to us and always making time for us.

My Bahquine was a sweeter version of Calpurnia. My own comfort station. She taught me to knit, to crochet, read to me, and most importantly, listened to me.

While my mother became addicted to Valium, drank herself into a fit, and spent more evenings than not detailing out loud to her children the ways she planned to commit suicide; my Bahquine admonished my fears of academic success in college and told me I was smart enough to accomplish anything I set my mind to.

While my parents fought and drank and became entrenched in their battles, Bahquine and Uncle Kent provided shelter and emotional safety.

My Uncle and my Bahquine were my resiliency factors. They are my heroes, my role models, and the people I owe for surviving my childhood.

For more spins on heroes, head on over to Sprite's Keeper.