If You're Not First, You're Last

I can’t bear to eat oranges. I can’t stand the fleshy texture of an orange, or any citrus fruit, in my mouth. Strangely, I can drink orange juice by the gallon.

When I was about 8 or 9 years old, my aunt made me eat an orange with my breakfast. I didn’t like oranges at the time – I really didn’t like to eat much of anything when I was little. And I was scared of my aunt. Still am.

I puked.

And I’ve refused to eat oranges ever since.

I tell this story over and over again. I even told my aunt about the ordeal and how much it scarred me, years later. She still occasionally asks me if I have yet to eat an orange, and she seems a little amused by the idea that she has formed such an impression on my psyche.

I was a frail, but loveable creature when I was little. Crooked teeth, knobby knees, pointy elbows and poofy hair, I was a tomboy, if not completely awkward. In third grade, I was forced to play with the boys at recess when all my little girl friends moved away. They only played basketball, so I did, too. My dad was probably quaking with joy when I came home asking him to pump up my brother’s old basketball with embossed Larry Bird signature. I was taking that baby to school and I was going to be a legitimate force on the court. Only a fourth grader, seeing how shabby my old basketball was, couldn’t resist making fun of it and pointed out my ineptitude as a ball player. Luckily, my third-grade soulmate stood up for me (Soulmate was an overstatement I now realize: He gained a considerable amount of weight and works in a factory. He also never knew I liked him.).

I think that day, I might have gotten my first glimpse at my own economic status. I later got a basketball from Pizza Hut commemorating the inception of the Big 12 Conference in the NCAA. I was still poor, but it took me a long time to fully realize it.

Fifth grade was spent collecting as many basketball cards as I could get into my polyurethane page protectors. My expansive collection, specializing in the San Antonio Spurs’ star David Robinson, even makes my nephew’s eyes sparkle with jealousy. My basketball abilities improved and I was awarded MVP of the Frisco League that year.

I’m from the country. Raised in the same house all my life, I went to a tiny school and graduated as the valedictorian for a class of 28 kids. I was actually born the day my second-oldest sister graduated from that same high school – my mom missed the whole ceremony. I rarely spent the night at other girls’ houses – I was too nervous and never good enough friends with any of them to make it happen. We didn’t do a lot of phone talking because I was long distance for them. Back then, you didn’t make a long-distance phone call even if your social acceptance depended on it. My few girl friends left from high school are now contemplating having a second child with their husbands.

Somewhere along the line, I developed self-confidence and lost a little of my constant anxiety. My faith played a strong hand in my life and people knew it. My teeth became less obtrusive, but still crooked. My skinny body turned out to be decent at the triple jump and my long hair, which I learned to flip seemingly flippantly, caught more than one young man off guard.

I dated a boy, who I snagged with my patented hair flip, beginning in high school and lasting half way through junior year of college. We were “it.” But all the memories culminated to a trouble spot in our relationship, one of many, and we pretty much gave ourselves the ultimatum: get married or break up.

We broke.

Whenever I was with him, I always felt inadequate. He was from a well-off military family and he and his brothers got everything they ever wanted. I mean everything. He had two Ford Mustangs – a classic black 1966 and a matching black 1996 GT. My dad is a barber and raises beef cattle on the side. Mom is too sick to work. We’re not destitute, but I personally know people who are.

“Dusty, did you get a lot of nice things for Christmas?” the boy’s mother asked me one year when I came over for the evening’s holiday dinner.

I wanted to tell her when your family has no health insurance and your mom has heart failure caused by the chemotherapy she received when she had breast cancer, that Santa doesn’t leave you a lot of presents. I wanted to tell her my liability insurance on my used car, bought in part by my father, was paid for. I wanted to scream at her and tell her my Christmas present was growing up in a house that had no mortgage and having the government and kind rich folks pay for my entire first three years of college.

“Uh, yeah, some really nice things,” I lied, while the boy showed off his new camcorder, DVD player, new collection of DVDs and everything in between.

The shock of my life came about two months ago, when I realized I was alone in a class of 50 people. Mine was the only hand not raised when the professor asked who came from a home where at least one parent graduated from college. Neither of mine have degrees.

I’ve got to prove I wasn’t a fluke in high school. I’ve got to prove I can make a living outside of my hometown. I don’t have to be barefoot and pregnant and bow to my husband’s checkbook – I will be defined by more than my wedding ring. I’ve got to show my parents that hard work really isn’t futile. I’ve got to make up for a brother who has wasted his life in alcohol and drugs. I’ve got to do something big so I leave a positive legacy. When my grandkids go in for Show and Tell, I want them to bring me, the vivacious grandmother who has fulfilled her dreams.

Not many people know what it’s like to beg the dean for a scholarship because you simply can’t pay your bill. No one knows that I often cry out of sheer frustration with my life. No one really knows why I can’t relax when I go back to my apartment at night. No one really knows why I worked three jobs last semester. No one really knows why I refuse to fail.

I refuse to fail because I can’t. I’ve been given a chance to succeed that others haven’t and I’ll be damned if I let them down.

I don’t know how to fail because I won't.

-Dusty