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Think A Journal of Essays

Volume III

2013

Nashville State Community College Nashville, TN

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Think A Journal of Essays

Volume III

2013

General Editors

Michele Singletary Michael Kiggins

Copy Editor

D. Michelle Adkerson

Editorial Board Danan Whiddon

Jeff Green Emily Bush Jodi Evans

Cristina Cottom Connie Mathews

Harlan Pease Bridgette Weir

Amy Bryant Phyllis Gobbell

Liz Norell Kathy Sorenson

Think: A Journal of Essays is a nonprofit journal now

published by the English, Humanities & Arts division. It received its original funding from the

Quality Enhancement Plan’s Critical Thinking Initiative. Nashville State Community College, 120

White Bridge Road, Nashville, TN 37209. ©2013 NSCC

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Cover Art: Web of Resilience

Christopher Walton

Web of Resilience is a piece that I actually started thinking about while I was attending the 2012 Think release. The editors had already told me what the theme would be, which got me started thinking right then. I had it envisioned before I left the room. I had been to the Spring 2013 Nashville State Art Exhibition, and had been impressed by a sculpture a student assembled in the form of a flamingo from an old sewing machine. The luster of the brass fittings really accomplished the work. I decided that I wanted the next piece of art I undertook to have the same effect.

When I began thinking about the theme of Resilience, I immediately knew that I would incorporate the same effect. Web of Resilience achieves that for me. The organic aspect of Resilience is secondary to the initial surprise of finding it suspended among the metal of my back porch. The lamp, tin roof and surrounding environs become part of the installment. I hope that the viewer is taken in by its natural placement and that its external characteristic of resilience, an ephemeral spider web as a work in metal wire, comes as a surprise. It is not a static piece, but assumes a life within the environment. Thus with the

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theme of Resilience, I hope it, too, stands the test of time and the elements that are sure to add to its presentation.

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Mission

The primary expression of thoughts, ideas, and arguments for over three hundred years, the essay remains the communication tool of choice for most college courses, as well as magazine articles, newspaper editorials, and weblogs. The origin of this at once humble and magnificent form can be found in the French term essayer, which means to try or to attempt. It is the essay by which we most frequently attempt to communicate our ideas, beliefs, and principles to an audience. The essay is what we celebrate here. In Think: A Journal of Essays, we publish the best work by Nashville State students, alumni, faculty, and staff.

The theme for this third volume of Think celebrates

success in the face of adversity:

Resilience.

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Contents

Introduction Michele Singletary …..………...….…… Mental Resilience Scott Childers ……………………..…… Ode to My Mother Pamela Gadd …………………….…….. When Struggles Turn into Success Megan Strickland-Gilbert ………..…… The Light at the End of the Tunnel Ashley Boshers ………….………...…… “I’m Going to Be a Big Deal Someday. Just You Wait and See.” Shannon Tolene ……………………..… Resiliency Nicole Sanchez .………………………... We Teach Life Zahra Sharif …………...……………….. Resilience Shelly Bledsoe ……...…………..….…… Overcoming Obstacles Christy Ray ..……………………………

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No Excuses Meredith Pittman .…………………….. Underwater Resilience Blake Cleckler ...………………………... Last Breath Ricky Finch ……...……………………... Three Case Studies: Job, Gollum & George Lucas Michael A. Kiggins …………….……… Inner Strength Kendall Wheat …….………………….... Seeing Possibilities Phyllis Gobbell ……...…………………. Determined to Make It Karishia Patterson ……………………... After the Fall Valerie Belew …………..………............. Bondage Emily Ferguson ……...……………........ Contributors …….……………………….. Acknowledgments ……...……………….

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Introduction

Michele Singletary Co-editor

It’s a bit ironic that I find myself writing about resilience on a day when I really want to just hide in my bed, but the fact that I am at work and writing is in itself a testament to resilience. We all feel this way—some of us more than others—but we all feel it at one time or another. It may be due to illness, death, depression, drugs, military service, disability, or surprising life obstacles, but whatever the cause, when we get over it and continue on through life, that is resilience. I suppose the trick is learning when to give in and wallow in it, and for how long, and when to let the resilience kick in and get us back into life.

Psychologists have said that resilience is not something we are born with; it is a learned behavior, one that develops as we age, build better thinking skills, and begin to understand our emotions. Supportive relationships and cultural or traditional beliefs can definitely help us cope with life’s ups and downs, but resiliency is really a personal trait that we have to nurture on our own. And it takes time, and sometimes lots of ups and downs before we get it right. The key lies in a couple of things within our control: a positive outlook and a willingness to ask for

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help when needed. Sounds easy, right? Well, it’s not.

It is impossible to go through life without negative thoughts—they will happen, they hurt, but they are precursors to positive thoughts. The trick is to balance them out, and then learn to annihilate them, with positive thoughts. For some people, this is not too difficult, but for others of us, it takes practice and a constant consciousness of our thoughts. This can be exhausting! But this is how we learn to be resilient. We will never stop the bad thoughts, and we shouldn’t since we grow and learn from them, but we can’t let them overwhelm us; we must acknowledge them, hide in bed for a day if we need to, but then counter them with positive thoughts.

One friend told me that when he feels down, he looks in the mirror and finds five positive things to tell himself, and after reminding himself of the five positive things, the negative thoughts seem to take a backseat. Another friend writes positive affirmations on her mirror, her refrigerator, the edges of her computer, wherever she can see them whenever one of those pesky negative thoughts starts knocking at her brain.

As silly as these things may sound, they work. These are some of the ways we can train ourselves to think positively, and not only will this help us to learn resiliency, it will also help us to be happy. No one can avoid feeling bad, but the positive thoughts

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will lead to resilience, which will lead to a happier life. Psychologist Barbara Fredrickson calls this the “upward spiral”—we find positive meaning in difficult life events, which leads to positive emotions, which leads to finding more meaning and purpose in our life, which leads to happiness and a positive outlook.

Even though resiliency is a trait that each of us must develop for ourselves, resilient people have a network of support: friends and family are very important, as well as the ability to search out resources and ask for help when it is needed. Everyone has heard the saying: “the one constant is change.” Resilient people accept this and let go of the things they cannot control. They are open to change and willing to talk to their close friends and family when the change is a difficult one. Fostering those close relationships should be a goal for all of us: we need that support and trust to help us through the difficult times; plus, those close relationships help us to feel loved, to have a more positive outlook, and thus to become happy individuals. There are also many forms of support available, from books to support groups to mental health professionals; resilient people are not afraid to get help when they need it.

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The fact is bad things happen; the question is what we do about it. It is okay to withdraw into ourselves for a bit, but then we have to counter the negative thoughts with positive ones, and we must use and rely on our support network. It is a cycle that we go through over and over through life; however, each time it gets easier, and each time we grow and develop into a better human being.

As you will see from the following essays, when people muddle through the hardships of life and get to the other side, they feel better about themselves and life in general. It is very hard and often very painful, but the reward is so worth it.

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Mental Resilience

Scott Childers I have goals that I want to meet. I have always tried to have a goal, as it seems to keep me focused. I have had setbacks and delays, but I try to keep my goals in mind. My current “short term” goal is to earn my Bachelor’s in Business Administration with an emphasis on Health Care. I say “short term” because I work full-time and I have a family that I really do enjoy spending time with when possible. I take only a couple of classes a semester, but I will eventually get there. Once I do, I will develop another short-term goal to attain, probably involving additional education. All of this leads me to my ethereal, long-term goal of keeping my mind strong and never letting it slide into routine.

Life step number one: a job. I began my journey many years ago (I will not mention how many), a year out of high school, with no real idea of how to proceed. I knew I needed to earn my own way, though. I still had parental support. But a job was what I needed, hopefully one that paid well. I went right out and found a glorious factory job, working seven days a week, typically twelve hours a day. The place smelled horrible, and I lost forty pounds within the first sixty days. It was hard work physically but not much of a mental challenge at all. I quickly noticed that

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the people who worked in this place for a while had no further goals. They made enough money to buy themselves a small house, a four-wheel-drive truck, and a bass boat. They were set, and you could see it in their eyes. That lack of motivation on the part of my coworkers and the total lack of mental stimulation made me decide to pursue different avenues.

Life step number two: college. I promptly enrolled with the lofty goal of becoming a doctor. I was good in the sciences in high school and enjoyed the thought of the money and prestige associated with being a physician. The first two semesters went swimmingly well. By the third semester, I began to question my goal but not my motivations. The classes were getting a bit more difficult, and the girlfriend was not enjoying paying for the dinners and movies. Girlfriends can be strong motivators, as well, so I dropped out and got a steady job. This job was not physical, but it was also only mildly cerebral in nature. It also did not pay exceedingly well, even at my age. Not only was I not working toward my motivations of prestige and wealth, but I also did not even make enough to hold on to the girlfriend.

Life step number three: another college—well, more of a trade school. I applied and entered the field of radiologic technology. This was a compromise between my initial goal and my motivations. I was in the medical field, working with physicians, but there was

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not a lot of prestige. The money was better than average for this point in my life, and I had a skill. I did well in school, as it was a much shorter term achievement than the ten or more years of medical school required to be a physician. I needed a quicker payoff for my efforts, and my new girlfriend would appreciate it, as well.

Twelve years, a marriage, and two children later, I realized that this was not my ultimate calling. It is an admirable profession, and I will not say that I did not occasionally enjoy the job. I also quickly learned while working in this field that being a physician is not much different than the folks in the factory. Doctors earn a very good living; they can buy a fancy car to drive back and forth to the hospital at all hours of the day, a large house that they rarely see, and a vacation home on some island. But many of the physicians that I knew looked very much like those people working in the factory, especially in their eyes.

Life step number four, or we could label it step “X,” as marriage and children count pretty high in life steps: I moved over to the health care information technology side. Through a stroke of luck and a hobby, I was able to make the transition. I just happened to be working in an outpatient clinic that was the first in the area to be designed with all-digital workflow. I had developed a fondness for computers over the years and actually took a couple of computer certification classes

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along the way, never imagining that they would help me make a transition. I am still employed in this vocation, and I enjoy my job. I feel that I have found my calling after the few attempts that I have made.

I have noticed over the years that my motivation has changed, as well as my goals. I no longer crave prestige; I am more apt to shun it. Money means enough to me to pay the bills and occasionally go out to dinner with my family. My one self-centered concern these days is to keep my mind sharp. I could stand to lose my physical abilities but not my mental faculties. I believe that continued education not only helps us expand our mind, but also helps the mind accept change. Looking back through my life up to this point, and even through my day-to-day work environment, change is everywhere and it is inevitable. Keeping our mind flexible allows us to adjust to change as it happens. Continuing to learn keeps my mind resilient.

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Ode to My Mother

Pamela Gadd

Resilience: my mother’s face, as she cringes with pain, stepping ever-so-cautiously with a silent prayer that her knee won’t go out from under her again and leave her spilled upon her face. Too, it is the solemn look on her determined, brave face as she braces while the nurse sticks yet another needle into her fragile, tired vein to draw yet more blood. My mother’s second knee-replacement surgery has been put on hold for a much more serious condition that has unfolded. In fear, I silently wonder what will I be like if I find myself one day with the diagnosis of N.A.S.H?

“N.A.S.H?” Mom asks confused, “Well, what in the world is that?” I hear her ask. “Non-alcoholic steatohepatitis. Basically, it is fatty liver disease,” her gastroenterologist explains. Mom sits looking nonplussed as he then routinely explains that her liver is no longer functioning properly. He adds that the N.A.S.H. has damaged her liver to the point that it is filled with scar tissue and that she now has cirrhosis. “Cirrhosis?!” she exclaims. “But, how?” I hear her ask what I am thinking. “I don’t even drink.” My non-drinking mother has cirrhosis, and I am as confused as she is.

That was months ago. Today the family waits at the hospital. After surgery is complete, placing five bands around

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weakened varicose veins in her esophagus, due to backed-up pressure from blood having to reroute its way around her scarred liver, the surgeon candidly shares with the family, “If she was younger, I’d recommend she probably have a liver transplant in about a year.” Why, pray tell, didn’t Dr. S. recommend a change of diet, say, oh, five or ten years ago? I find myself mumbling to my disgruntled, bitter self. How could he not have mentioned that? Fatty liver disease can be reversed with diet change. Cirrhosis, however, cannot. I feel my own resilience melting.

Resilience: my mom’s determined face as she assesses her situation and wonders if they might just possibly be wrong about that. Quivering eyelids close as she swallows yet another syrupy gulp of lactulose so that her food can pass out of her body quicker than it should, and carry with it the poisonous ammonia that will bring on hepatic encephalopathy (confusion) and render her into dementia if she doesn’t take it. And now—as she sits with propped legs to bring down the uncomfortable, swollen edema brought on because the liver cannot keep the fluid from draining into her lower extremities—I look on in silent despair and try to deep-breathe away the panic I feel rising in my throat for the future I fear when the lactulose no longer empties away her confusion. Resilience: her continual belief in the power of prayer (though she admits she

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doubts it really makes any difference). After all, she says, she prayed her heart

out for my beloved dead daddy who died anyway of tragic lymphoma. But she holds on. Forcing tired muscles, with hands clinched tight to her cumbersome, aluminum walker, my courageous mother pushes onward, despair giving way to hope, and hope giving way to the power of suggestion that she might just be able to beat the odds, and go on living.

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When Struggles Turn into Success

Megan Strickland-Gilbert

Go, Dog, Go. Green Eggs and Ham. The

Very Hungry Caterpillar. Corduroy.

“Will you read it one more time before bed?” Those are the very words I remember asking my mother when there was a story that captured my interest. I loved the comfort I felt when she would read to me. She would tuck me in and read to me a book from the bookshelf. Also, there were other times when the library would have a special reading day for the children. I was one of those kids who often attended those summer sessions at the library that would inspire me to read. That’s how I developed a love for reading many different books, which molded me into the reader and writer I am today.

Being deaf, reading didn’t come easily. It was always a struggle for me to understand the concept and meaning of the story. However, every time my mother read to me, that struggle was defeated. The more she read to me, the more it encouraged me to read. I would feel so motivated by reading that I started reading to my little sister some of the books that I enjoyed.

The Boxcar Children. Junie B. Jones. The Little House on the Prairie

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During elementary school my love for reading continued. I would search through that school library for an interesting book. Although I developed a habit of silently reading to myself, I occasionally wanted my mother to read to me because that’s who showed me the pleasure of reading.

Brown Bear, Brown Bear. The Rainbow Fish. The Snowy Day.

Ah! So many books! So many memories! I still remember my favorite books being read to me like it was yesterday. Many different children’s books I recall are what made reading most memorable for me.

My support from my mother, who encouraged me to read, was what made me confident in reading. Reading is what challenged me to stay caught up with my peers because I wanted to be that one who defeated my reading struggle, became successful and went to college, especially since I am deaf.

Defeating my struggle makes it easy for me to say that anyone can defeat a struggle that they face. I now feel more confident in the obstacles that come my way, and I know that no matter what situation one is struggling with, it is possible to overcome those struggles.

A struggle will defeat you when you give up, but a struggle will become a success when you persist.

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The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Ashley Boshers

It has been 99 days, 2,376 hours, and 142,560 minutes since I last hugged him, kissed him, and felt him. It was hard to say goodbye, but it is even harder to wake up in the mornings, roll over, and be reminded that he is not there. It is not that I depend on him; it is just that he is my other half. We have found in each other that once-in-a-lifetime love, and we have been asked to overcome distance in this love. It is not just distance we have to fear; we also have to fear the effects of war, and I have to pray every night that he returns home safe. Every day is another day down, and each day brings new hardships.

Today was harder than most days. Today was the day he is no longer in my reach, the day that an ocean stands between us. I am afraid to take a shower, to brush my teeth, to go to sleep, to do anything that may cause me to miss a text or a phone call. One single message and one-minute calls mean everything to me right now. Some days I wonder how I am coping with the fact that he is gone, and now I am left to bear the burdens of a broken down car, the plumbing leak, and any other problematic issue that will be thrown my way. No longer do I have a man, a

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partner, to help endure life day-by-day; it is just me.

I cry myself to sleep more often than I care to admit; the smallest of things, it seems, will upset me. Most days I don’t want to get out of bed. I just want to sleep until he returns home, but I know that is not an option. Instead, I get up, I put on make-up, and I try to look pretty—to make myself happy, even though on the inside I feel sadness. Occasionally, this works and I can put a smile on my face and pretend that everything is okay. What keeps me going is knowing that this was not the end, and each day I make it through is another day closer to him.

I manage to get out of bed and continue with life. It is important to keep going. I cannot let this battle defeat me. I will win. I will overcome this pain and emptiness because I know it is only temporary. I know he will come home to me. We military spouses must be strong for our soldiers so that they can keep their minds clear and focused. We must exert our energy to being strong, independent women so that they do not worry and let their minds wander in a time of war. All we can ever do is take it day-by-day. And until we see our soldiers again, our memories of them will play fresh in our minds. I will not lose my sight at the end of this narrowing tunnel; I will always see him and the light.

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“I’m Gonna Be a Big Deal Someday. Just You

Wait and See.”

Shannon Tolene

What makes some people overcome obstacles in their path while others seem to reach an impassable block that disables them from achieving their goals or accomplishing their tasks? What makes some trees bend in the wind of a strong storm and other trees break from the stress of the same wind? In short, one determining factor is resilience. This one personality trait can be a big part of not only who you are now, but also who you will become.

Students in my classes who have had difficult times in their personal lives have still managed to graduate from high school, finish college, and become productive members of society, while others seem to use their hardships as an excuse for failure and disappointment. Does this mean I lack sympathy for their circumstances? No, surely not, but it does mean that I admire those rare people who are tough enough to overcome what life has dealt them and use their grit and determination to become something greater than what they ever thought or were told they could become. When other people tell them they are dumb, ugly, or worthless, they

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keep fighting and trying until they prove “everyone” wrong.

The big question in my mind as a parent and a teacher is how can we, as a society, help our students and young people to have resilience instead of giving in to the negative hype around them and becoming depressed or suicidal? If we were able to somehow give this as an endowment to those students who have no support, no hope, and nobody to believe in them, what would happen? Would we have students who were ready to be future doctors, lawyers, and teachers instead of settling for whatever job they felt they were qualified to get?

Would we have students who would become better parents, community members, and political leaders? I would love to see students in high school and college classes have the same light in their eyes as they did in elementary school: “I’m gonna be a big deal someday. Just you wait and see.”

In my life, I have experienced many obstacles that have only made me more determined to be a success. I do not accept giving up, or giving in, as options for someone who wants to make it to the top. This means not taking “no” for an answer. Instead, I have tried again and again until I am satisfied with the result.

People we love do get sick and sometimes die. Pets run away. Bad things will happen to even the most resilient people. What do I have inside me to prevent my circumstances

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from determining whether I am going to keep my head up and fight for what I want or give up and surrender? Can my children inherit this quality, or is it something each person has to determine individually?

I do not like to surrender or give up. In spite of the times in my life that have been painful enough to bring me to my knees in sorrow, despair, and prayer, I have survived and been stronger on the other side of those hard times. I am proud of what I have accomplished and excited about what I will do in the future. Someday is today, and I am a Big Deal, if only to my own family and friends.

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Resiliency

Nicole Sanchez

I was twenty-years-old, and my mother had just given my sister and me the bad news. She had asked my father to move out. Although we had heard them fighting from time to time, we never thought this day would happen. I remember it vividly. I had just gotten home and was sitting on my sister’s bed talking and laughing. My mother walked in with a face as white as a winter’s first snow, and she told us in such a calm manner that it seemed unreal. My heart rate immediately picked up speed, and my stomach churned. Our lives were being turned upside down, and we had no way to stop the room from spinning.

While I was in this moment, it did not seem possible that things could look up. However, resilience allowed me to overcome the sorrow and have a brighter outlook on life. To me, being resilient is when you have the strength to push through the troubled times and come out on the other end with a positive attitude and the determination to get your life back on track.

Although it was hard to find a positive outlook on the situation, my whole family was able to do so. We slowly started living our lives again without the pain constantly ripping away at us. With resiliency and positivity, we were able to see the light at the

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end of the tunnel. A year passed while my parents remained separated. The distance seemed to be good for my parents and for us children. It made us all realize what we had with one another and the love that was between us.

At the end of the year, my father and mother started to see one another again. I was not the only one who was able to power through with resiliency and to find my smile again. What seemed to be the impossible finally occurred, and my father and mother moved in together again. We were the happy family we once were, yet again.

Without the resiliency and drive that I felt in this sorrowful time, I do not think I could have made it through with such a positive outcome. My heart was able to mend, my mind was able to think, and my voice was able to speak without the sound of pain. Our entire family found our way.

The bottom line of my experience is that, along with love and determination, resiliency can help us do the unthinkable. All we have to do is open our mind and let the pain through.

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We Teach Life

Zahra Sharif

Being resilient to difficulties and changes in life, being flexible, resistant, and strong—this is the way to live. To be just like a spring that, no matter how much weight is placed on it, goes back to its original shape. Perhaps to be like a sponge, which sucks liquids but, once squeezed, goes back to being light and fresh, just like new. This is resilience. To embrace life as it is, with its beauty as well its ugliness, its joy and sadness, its thorns and silk—this is life. To hug life no matter what with love and passion, just like hugging your sweet darling babies; this is how we define life. This is how we teach life.

My family lived a very sad story once, but it does not anymore. There were those days when some Arabic country had a war going on. My family and I are originally from Yemen, but my family moved to a country in Africa, Somalia, to run away from the war in Yemen. They decided to go to Somalia because back then Somalia was a very good country, and it was also cheap for living. My older grandfather used to travel all over the world, and he chose Somalia for his family so we could have a better life.

Things were fine at the beginning, and they were just living their lives like anybody else does. My family decided to teach some Arabic classes in Somalia, and they opened

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some restaurants. In time, they decided not to go back to Yemen because they were having a good life and enjoying every minute of it.

Suddenly, everything changed and all the happiness was gone. A big war broke out in Somalia, and the people living there started killing each other. My family wanted to run away to save their lives, but no one would let them leave the country. They were killing whoever left their houses. My grandfather said, “Each time I open the door, there were about ten guys standing there with guns trying to rape all the females and kill their husbands.”

The men killed my mother, even though she was eight months pregnant. They also killed my second grandfather, my two uncles, and my aunt. They came in to our houses and took all the money and gold my family had and beat most of the people to death.

After all those sad moments my family was going through, they finally got permission to go back to Yemen, and others went to the United States. We went back to Yemen. Ten years later the United States decided to bring us here, and that’s when my family life started to change for the better. I was only two-years-old at that time, and I didn’t worry that much about my mother and father because I was too young. Today, I really wish both of my parents were by my side, but life is not always perfect and we only get what God wants us to have. I am glad because God has put my grandmother

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by my side. She has raised me, and I thank her for everything she has done for me and for my sisters.

Today, I am married and have a beautiful boy. Despite the massacre, my family still lives through me, my sisters and brothers. My son will keep the heritage of my family and will carry our family name with him forever. Every morning when I wake up, I look at my son and see the smile on his face, and my whole world shines. I feel like my mother’s soul smiles, too. My family never ceased to exist. All the sad memories did not bring us down; we looked for the life within us. We lived the joy of this life, and we continue to live. We cherish our beloved deceaseds’ memories deep inside. We live our life and dream for a better future. We continue and never stop. This is how we teach life.

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Resilience

Shelly Bledsoe

What is resilience? To me, resilience is having the ability to effectively cope and persevere through adversity. Life can be full of rewards, but at times it can be quite challenging and overwhelming. It is in how we manage these difficult times that our resilience is demonstrated. While resilience may be a natural trait of some, for others it is a skill that must be learned or developed. Unfortunately, it is only through crisis or challenge that we have the opportunity to hone this skill so crucial to our well-being.

As a Registered Nurse, I have seen resilience demonstrated on a daily basis and from many different perspectives. I have seen it in patients who are facing a difficult diagnosis and in their loved ones who provide support through the health crisis. I have also seen resilience in my colleagues, those providing thoughtful and compassionate care to people who are experiencing failing health. In all cases, resilience is a key component to successfully managing the stress associated with major illness. Resilience is something my husband and I never thought about, but we have come to rely upon it through recent health challenges.

Last December, my husband became quite ill when he awoke suddenly one night with

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significant abdominal pain and other symptoms commonly associated with a stomach virus. At the time, we had no idea the rollercoaster ride on which we were about to embark. After two days with little improvement in his inability to eat or drink, I took my husband to the emergency room at the major hospital where I am employed. While tests revealed swollen lymph nodes scattered throughout the right side of his abdomen, we were told there was little reason for concern and were sent home with instructions to return for a diagnostic procedure in three days.

Seventy-two hours seemed a long time when my husband was so ill and weak. It was during those three days when we relied on our resilience to get us through.

My husband continued to weaken as the days seemed to pass in slow motion. On the day of the procedure, we were confident the scope would yield the answers needed to treat and restore my husband’s health. Convinced it was his gallbladder, we were surprised when the doctor told us my husband had a lesion at the opening of his appendix. As a nurse, I was trying to connect why he was experiencing severe upper right abdominal pain when the problem appeared to be his appendix, which is located in the lower right side of the abdomen. Our physician mentioned he had taken a biopsy of the lesion and explained we would likely be referred to a named surgeon for removal. As

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we were heading home, my husband was feeling somewhat relieved and anxious to have the procedure before the rapidly approaching holidays. I, however, was trying not to panic because the surgeon we were being referred to was a name I recognized; it was the name of a surgical oncologist, which could mean only one thing: Cancer.

Armed with the printed results of his scope, I used the hospital’s professional references to learn more about his potential diagnosis, an appendiceal or mucinous tumor. My greatest fears were realized when I learned the fluid-filled mass had a high-risk for malignancy and standard procedure was to remove not only the appendix, but much of the surrounding organs, including the intestines, lymph nodes, and abdominal lining. Immediately calling in a favor, we were able to get a consult with the surgeon just three days later, at which time my fears were confirmed.

By this time, my husband was so weak the surgeon felt he could not withstand such a massive surgery. Instead, he prescribed medicines and a diet designed to build his strength and then scheduled the surgery for the second of January—ten days later.

Our resilience tested beyond limits, once again it helped us endure the holidays and waiting period. My husband underwent the procedure, and for the week he remained in the hospital, I never left his side. In the days after the procedure, he seemed to be getting

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worse instead of better. As a nurse, I intuitively knew something else was wrong and began insisting on more tests, but we were told he just needed time to heal.

On our fifth day in the hospital, our surgeon came to see us with a look of astonishment upon his face; the biopsy results on the tumor and lymph nodes came back negative; there was no cancer! Through tears and relief, we considered those miraculous results against the 98 percent likelihood of malignancy and its associated low survival rate. Our elation was dampened only by how sick my husband continued to be. Two days later, and despite his lack of improvement, we were discharged home.

Resilience again carried us through the exhaustion and stress of the preceding weeks and helped us persevere through the weeks ahead when my husband’s health would continue to decline. Athletically fit prior to illness, my husband had lost 33 pounds and was starting to look emaciated, his skin sallow in color. Multiple blood tests and scans continued to perplex physicians, and it was the end of February before we were first seen by a gastroenterologist.

After examination and listening to our detailed account of the previous ten weeks, she validated my concern of auto-immune illnesses by scheduling my husband for an emergency scope of his stomach the next morning. After the scope and biopsy, she shared that she believed he had Celiac

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Disease, an auto-immune disease that caused his body to attack itself due to an allergy to gluten. Biopsy results confirmed the presence of this disease.

Gluten is a component found in most grains; it is common to all breads, cereals, pastas, and baked goods. Unfortunately, it is also often hidden in items where one would never expect it to find it. The very foods we were having my husband consume, both before and after surgery, were foods containing the ingredient so lethal to him, including crackers, yogurts, chicken broth, and pasta. It has been six months since my husband was diagnosed with Celiac Disease, and we continue in our resilience to overcome and persevere as we learn a completely new way of living, cooking, and eating. Gone are the days of dining out at favorite restaurants; though many restaurants claim gluten-free options, the sudden onset of symptoms deem careful preparation may not always be adhered to.

Parties and other gatherings can be frustrating as he can no longer eat most dishes. It is not easy to eat gluten free; it requires a lot of work, scrutiny, and constant awareness. When considering the odds previously stacked against him, we can only be thankful for his returning health and the deepened love and appreciation of our resilience, which we share as a result of our ability to overcome great adversity!

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Overcoming Obstacles

Christy Ray

Playing sports knowing that you could become injured but being able to get right back out there is amazing. The player that gets out there on that field or court and plays to entertain others, risking injury, is an interesting thing to consider. Now that you have this view in your mind, imagine getting out there on that court or field blindfolded, taking the same risks but with no sight to help you out. This is how many blind or visually impaired individuals play sports every day alongside their sighted friends and peers.

Just like any other group of people, the blind community has athletic groups, too. We can be found on the field or the court playing adaptive sports, or on the track running. To me, it takes resilience for a person to learn how to cope with the loss of vision and still compete like any other person would, if that is what he or she wants to do. Coping with blindness is not an easy task for anyone, but there are not many other choices if you want to live a fulfilling life.

After losing my sight as a young child, I did not cope well with the change. Physically, I appeared as if I were handling it perfectly fine, but mentally it was more than I could handle. The grieving process you go through when you lose something or someone is the

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same with losing one of your senses. I could not figure out how to overcome the immense anger I was struggling with for the longest time. The next part of the grieving process I became trapped in was the depression phase, and I did not even realize I had entered this state of mind. Once I accepted the loss of vision later on, it seemed to become easier for me to do what I wanted to do with my life. In a way, I was finally free to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Learning all the technologies that are out there for continuing education and the adaptations that could be made for me to play sports with my kids and friends made life exciting for the first time in many years. One of my favorite sports is a blind sport called goal ball, and this sport is so intense I never thought I could be that active. It was so much fun; I played once and was hooked. I went from there to cycling, running, and anything I wanted to do with my life.

I have learned I can probably find a way to adapt to anything I want or need to do, and I no longer let anything stand in my way. That includes going back to school to further my education. Now, my goal is to continue to become healthy and help others be healthy, too. I want to help increase the understanding that the blind community is not as different as people may think. We do everything everyone else does; just a little adaptation is necessary.

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Resilience is overcoming obstacles that life may throw at you and rising above these challenges; that is what I feel many groups, including the blind, do every day. To be happy and a productive part of society, it is important to be strong and do what you know needs to be done to continue moving forward in your own life. Many people have a piece of them that is incredibly resilient. Some people do not even realize they possess this quality.

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No Excuses

Meredith Pittman

My friend Megan lives in a world of almost complete silence. Contradicting the old adage that silence is always golden, she walks the halls not knowing the difference. When I first met her, it was in an English Comp class. Upon first sight, she seemed like every other scared person in the class surveying their surroundings of the unfamiliar world that would be full of essays and critical thinking. That particular day, her interpreter was late, so by the time we were all subjected to the awkward first day of class introductions, none of us knew that the quiet, country voice we all heard was in fact from a person who had never heard the sound of her own voice.

She and I became fast class buddies due to two things: one, we were both extremely anal retentive about turning in assignments on time and doing our best; and, two, I was intrigued by her world. I was fascinated that this nineteen-year-old was so mature and seemed to have things more figured out than I ever have in all of my twenty-eight years. When talking to her, anyone can easily pick up on all of the things that are, in essence, being nineteen: a new fiancé, excitement over the color pink, and a love of trips to Gatlinburg. But what people fail to remember is that she is, in fact, deaf.

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My high school was one that had a program that integrated the deaf kids into hearing schools, so I was familiar with seeing interpreters in the classroom. However, the difference that I have found between the two schools is that in high school all of the deaf children stayed within their social bubble. They did not really associate with the hearing kids, simply because they could not communicate with us, nor us with them. Sign language was not offered as a class option, which left a giant barrier between the two worlds. I do remember at one point being intrigued by the various hand signs that meant nothing to me but everything to the people who were using them. Then I learned what I could and eventually started using sign on a daily basis. I knew enough to carry on a conversation, but as the years went by, things were forgotten. So naturally, ten years later when confronted with a situation where my former skills proved to be of use, I was excited to show them off.

Automatically, I tried to communicate with Megan using American Sign Language, but what I found so compelling was that she did not wait for people to try to communicate with her in order for her to interact with them, which is amazing, especially for a nineteen-year-old when it is so easy at that age to feel the end of teenage blues that I know I suffered from all the time. As in-class protocol goes, we would discuss the reasons we were in school, and I was shocked. She

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wanted to be an ultrasound technician but also an interpreter for the deaf and hard of hearing. I learned that she was getting a cochlear implant, a gadget that would raise her hearing to the 95th percentile so she would be able to reach her goal. I have learned that getting the cochlear implant is a huge decision for the deaf and hard of hearing not only because it is quite literally a screw into your brain, but also because it takes you from one extreme to another very quickly. The deaf are part of a very exclusive community where their pride for being deaf overshadows any pride that hearing people have for theirs. However, Megan believed that she was never really part of any type of deaf community growing up.

Megan was born deaf. Her mom, dad, and little sister do not know ASL. Therefore, while growing up, she had to be the one to find a way to communicate with the outside world. While most parents of a deaf child would do everything in their power to communicate with a child who was born hard of hearing, Megan’s parents opted not to. Four of her cousins in her family are deaf, and still they refused to learn.

As Megan grew up, she was the one who started venturing out into the world and realizing that there were other kids like her. Instead of ASL lessons for her, her parents enrolled her in Speech Therapy, which explains why she speaks so clearly and can communicate with hearing people so well.

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During school, Megan wanted to attend Tennessee School for the Deaf, but her parents did not want her to go simply because they felt that she would not get as good of an education there as she would in mainstream schools.

Into public schools she went, walking the halls in complete silence. She was, essentially, an outcast. She recently told me something that I still cannot get out of my head. She told me she is not allowed to use any sign language in her house. Her father doesn’t like it and has always refused to learn it. He is convinced that Megan is not really deaf, simply because of the way that she speaks, even though thousands of tests have proved him wrong. In her own home, Megan does all of the work, which she has told me is exhausting. Trying to read lips all of the time and struggling to catch 80 percent of what someone is saying takes great effort.

While studying one day, I asked her why she was at Nashville State and why she had not applied to a four-year university. She said that she had really wanted to attend Gallaudet University in D.C., which is a renowned university for the deaf and hard of hearing, but she also said that it was way out of her league financially. I look at this little girl who has succumbed to everyone’s way and think that any university would be foolish not to want her. She has maintained a straight-A average in a hearing school. Hearing kids struggle to accomplish that.

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And let me just say that in no way, shape, or form are deaf kids given special treatment when it comes to grading. She was graded just as hard as the rest of us were and continues to thrive.

While I agree that there are far worse things in this world than being deaf, I think sometimes society overlooks the remedial problems and automatically jumps to worst-case scenario without even considering the hardships of the latter. I admit it, I do as well. I am always catching myself telling myself that my life is not hard; I haven’t had to go days without eating and drinking, and I have never seen someone killed or been raped. But I think that it is far easier to say those things because I, as a human being, cannot even fathom that kind of sadness. However, due to the overcompensating of one struggle over the next, the everyday challenges of people who happen to be on a smaller scale are overlooked. Megan is one of those people. I am not sure if she is truly comfortable being deaf simply because she has to make all of the effort in a hearing world. She has expressed that she would prefer to sign on any given day because it is just easier for her to communicate, and I feel terrible that I cannot.

If anyone deserves to be successful in life, it is Megan. She works hard and makes no excuses for herself as to why she cannot do something. And that, my friends, is the ultimate definition of resilience.

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Underwater Resilience

Blake Cleckler

The term resilience is defined as the ability to recover from, or adjust to, misfortune and change. Submarining, or serving on board a United States Submarine, demands resilience to cope with the mental gymnastics one has to perform in what he considers everyday life. Submarining is a very secretive profession, so the public knows very little information about the true nature of the business. Moreover, what is outlined below is a microscopic fraction of the many stress factors faced every day by submariners. I would also like to point out that compared to the Submariners of World War II, who lived under the most stressful and horrible conditions imaginable, all modern submariners live a life of luxury.

Our story begins with a man sitting alone at a table, his face buried in his hands. A million thoughts race through his mind. Most of the thoughts play out like scenes from a movie: “I love you,” she says, and looks at him with a tunnel vision that could only come from Eros himself. His hands are shaking now, shaking with a raw hatred that he did not realize he could possess. How can a person hate another person so violently without even knowing him? He scans the mental image of the email over and over,

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irrationally looking for a sentence or two he could have misread.

Although the medium of delivery has changed, the modern-day “Dear John” letter still has the same meaning, the same absolute destruction of a thousand little promises and the shattering of a million dreams. The weird part is, he is not sure whether the hate is meant for himself, his situation, his soon-to-be ex-wife, or the man she is most certainly in the intimate company of at this very moment. All of this was the case of my friend Lance.

Lance’s story, however, is not particularly special in our line of work. There is a daunting certainty that about five other people on our submarine were going through a similar situation. Besides his wife’s just letting him know that she was leaving him and selling his dog, and that he might want to pay off some of the $15,000 in credit card debt she had just accrued, Lance had other random stress factors. For one, he was trapped in a technologically advanced steel tube about six hundred feet under the water. He also had not seen anything but men, halogen lights, and stainless steel for over seventy days with no sure end in sight. However, he was not alone—one hundred thirty other men were down there with him.

Being on a submarine underway is like being on another planet. Imagine, for a moment, that you go in to work, but instead of coming home, you stay at work for months at a time. You sleep at work, eat at work, go

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to work, get off work, and repeat this cycle every day. Actually, not even every day: Every eighteen hours, it is possible to go to sleep and wake up for work on the same day; this can be very demoralizing! Sometimes, while you are sleeping, your boss comes and tells you something is broken and you have to get up to fix it. You see your coworkers, most of whom you are quite irritated by every day, and there is nowhere to get away. The psychological ramifications of being trapped under the water with the same people for months on end are indescribable.

On top of that, there is absolutely no communication with the outside world. There are no cell phones, and email is rare while on deployment. Oh yeah, and your location and activities are “classified,” so even when you speak to your loved ones, you cannot tell them what you have been doing.

However, unlike soldiers deployed in the Middle East, submariners have no fear of getting shot or stepping on an IED (improvised explosive device); the dangers faced on a submarine deployment, besides the obvious one of being under the ocean in a piece of heavy machinery, are limited to industrial workplace hazards. For example, oil pipe ruptures, air header ruptures, hydraulic malfunctions, and so forth occur; but in a submarine, if one of these things happens, and a person does not know how to respond, then it could mean “water in the people tank,” which is bad.

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Submarining is not a physical challenge; it is a psychological roller coaster that demands constant attention to detail at all times. The worst part is not knowing anything about what is going on at home. It is easy to let the imagination create ludicrous scenarios, and if anyone lets this happen thirty days into a ninety-day underway, then those last two months are going to be long as hell. The men and now women (submarines just recently became integrated, but this does not yet affect all classes of submarines and applies only to Supply Officers) of the United States Submarine force live a unique life and deserve more thanks than they get. The submariner effectively epitomizes resilience every day he chooses to come to work.

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Last Breath

Ricky Finch

I watch as Mom takes one last breath, her strength and resilience extinguished by an unforgiving disease. Pancreatic cancer had become the battle for her life, but it was one that she could never win. Inside a dim, sterile hospital room, her life ended like the last brilliant flash of light as the sun sets. For over a month, she had wrestled with the pain of this disease, pain that had become so intense not even morphine could quell its unforgiving rage. She waged war against the sickness that was consuming her body. She would not give up on the life she had struggled so hard to build. She was resilient, but on this day angels descended upon her and eased the agony that she felt.

The following day Mom was honored at the hospital where she had worked for thirty-eight years. They spoke kindly of her, tears were shed, and flowers were given. On the third day, I stood in front of loved ones and gave Mom’s eulogy just as she had asked. For a single moment, I was strong, I was proud, and I told the world of her greatness. Soon after, she was carefully lowered into the ground, and I sat solemnly as each shovelful of dirt covered her grave. The last wreath was placed on top of her grave, and as if I were hit by a bolt of lightning from Zeus’s hand, I disintegrated into a squall of tears and

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heartbreak. The misfortune of this moment was that the easy part was over. In the coming days, the challenge of my loss would overwhelm my life.

The days began to hazily pass as if connected one to the other, unchanging and hollow; I gave up on life, myself, and the world. My waking hours were like being trapped in a bad sitcom rerun, the events playing out over and over—never ending, just airing on a different channel and time. I gazed through the window wondering when, or if, I could find any joy in life again. There would not be a single defining moment that brought my life back into perspective. No happy ending to wrap up the show. My soul faced a bombardment from a cruel unrelenting grief. Each moment I would sink deeper into a somber abyss of pain and depression. I faced a mundane and lifeless existence.

Then early one morning, I stopped and looked around the house that Mom had made a home for so many years; dust had collected on the shelves where she had kept all her collectibles, fingerprints streaked the windows of the china cabinet, and her uniforms were still hanging in her closet waiting to be worn. I opened a photo album she had kept in her locker at work, and I found a picture in which I see her crooked smile and sparkling eyes, and I cried like never before.

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I rummaged around and found other photo albums. In these photos, I saw a girl who left home at an early age to chase her dream of being a nurse, a young lady who worked twelve-hour shifts to make sure her four children always had what they needed, a mother who went back to school to get an RN degree in nursing, a grandmother who loved and spoiled the grandbabies, and the woman who fought so bravely against a disease that could not be conquered. I found pictures of a person who had battled her entire life and had never given up: a life filled with many examples of resilience.

In that moment I had a choice to make: I could either sink into the shame of what my life had become, or I could do as my mother had done so many times in her life and rise from the ashes like the mighty phoenix. That day I took a small step out of the dark foggy past and into the glow of an unknown future.

The first step was accepting that I could not change my past, but I could have the future that I wanted. Over the following months I began the difficult process of healing. I went to visit Mom’s grave, placing red roses on her headstone, and I took another step towards a resolution of her death. I allowed myself to find joy in life. Methodically, I moved forward, every day facing each challenge with the resilience that Mom had taught me. I found strength inside me that I had never known existed.

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Resilience was not about just getting up, but having the courage to learn, grow, and overcome the worst that life had given me. I set goals for myself. First, I would not sit on that couch; I would go back to school to begin working towards a Master’s degree in English; I will become a writer, and I will be strong, resilient, and proud. My goals for life began to take shape; the steps I had taken led me to the campus of Nashville State.

On a cold, January morning, I stop to look at how far I have come; I take one last breath and walk into my first college class in fifteen years.

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Three Case Studies: Job, Gollum & George Lucas

Michael A. Kiggins

Growing up in the South, I frequently heard about the patience of Job—about how resilient he was. So when I finally read that appropriated folk tale (Job is not an Israelite, much less Jewish), well, I was nonplussed.

Patient? Really? He cursed the day he was born from the first verse of chapter three until God’s theophany in the first verse of chapter thirty-eight (thirty-seven chapters out of forty-two total). All the while his supposed friends tried to convince him that he was in the wrong based upon the ancient certainty: Tragedy is the direct result of one’s sins.

In this case, resilience served a purpose. It reaffirmed Job’s faith in God’s providence, and it rewarded him with more riches, more children, and a new wife possibly. But this book’s message has a woeful history of being misinterpreted to justify spousal abuse by people who, like Job’s human interlocutors, would pretend to be the abused person’s “friend,” who would counsel the abused to suffer in patience for some reward whose arrival is always rescheduled for a later date.

But at what point does resilience become as counter-productive as a scratched pair of three-year-old glasses? Where is the line past which one just cannot “keep on keeping on”?

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A few times in my life, I have listened to such questions, turning my back on whatever habit, activity, and, once or twice, a job I was stubbornly clinging to. In these cases, there were always people, some very dear to me, who advised me to be patient, to be cautious—or who, with good intentions masquerading their own indecisiveness, rationalized that I didn’t need to quit X, Y, Z. Long after the fact, I’m glad I’d listened to that whispered refrain running through my mind while I patiently endured often unwanted and unwarranted advice.

Why? That’s not an easy question to answer. One of the first stories I learned to read was “The Little Engine That Could.” For young children, that lesson is invaluable; for adults, sadly, it can be a source for delusional self-confidence. As we get older, the mantra “I think I can, I think I can” gets supplanted with Vince Lombardi’s nugget: “Winners never quit, and quitters never win.” What most of us don’t recognize—what we’re not taught—is that the tautology that maxim encapsulates is little more than a way to bully ourselves, a taunt to remind us how we have failed to measure up to often arbitrary standards. And worse yet, once we have acknowledged that we, apparently, can never measure up, we are maligned for “giving up.”

But for those who don’t quit, Lombardi’s motivational nugget can manifest in self-destructive ways. Consider Gollum from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the

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Rings. He is an exemplar of what can happen to us—figuratively, of course—when we refuse to recognize that we should have long ago simply let it go. Gollum’s failure to do so—spoiler alert—wrecks both his body and mind long before it leads to his death.

Or should I give a real-life exemplar? Well, that’s simple. This person is a comic example, in that oh-so-German notion of Fremdscham (that is, being embarrassed for someone who is too stupid to realize he or she should be embarrassed. Leave it to the Germans to coin a word for vicarious embarrassment). Consider the “resilience” of George Lucas, or Mr. It-Will-Never-Be-Perfect.

Those of us old enough to remember seeing the original Star Wars trilogy in the theatre and to own those movies on VHS—before they were molested (I mean, improved) and earned Lucas millions through re-re-release—have fond memories for films that looked, sounded, and felt authentic with special effects which were ground-breaking for their era.

But Lucas has tinkered with these movies so much that they now appear less like films than an obsessive-compulsive’s desire for a perfection whose definition is routinely changed, updated, improved.

Apparently, he also destroyed the original film negatives in the process. That may seem like an after-thought, but consider how desperate that act was, and consider how that

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desperation fed into his compulsion. It seems no one sat Lucas down and said, “Look, the more you try to fix what wasn’t broken, the worse it becomes. Sure, you’re an auteur, but you can’t control everything, nor should you ever try.”

Nowadays, not much separates George Lucas from Guns-N-Roses’ notoriously mercurial front-man, Axel Rose (terminal waddle excluded from the equation), besides a probable absence of liver disease, a deft handling of marketing, some awareness of audience expectations, and the capability to deliver an “artistic” production on a reasonable time table. Honestly, a part of me cannot blame Lucas for refusing to let go. The Star Wars franchise is incredibly profitable, but his resilience is not commendable, for it represents an inability to recognize that maybe, just maybe, those films would age better had he just left them alone. They, collectively, are his “Precious.” (Let’s hope he doesn’t back-flop into a lake of magma.)

So resilience in the face of adversity is a commendable thing, and it can inspire others to attempt things that are so daunting as to seem impossible.

However, the true measure of resilience is not predicated upon duration but, instead, upon motivation. The question we should ask is not the simplistic “How long can this person go on?” but “What is it that’s keeping this person from giving up?”

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Inner Strength

Kendall Wheat

When you get into a tight place and

everything goes against you until it seems as though you could not hang on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.

—Harriet Beecher Stowe

(emphasis added)

This quote helped get me through a very difficult time in my life. I have struggled with depression for years. It’s safe to say, I plummeted to rock bottom. I was suicidal. I felt like I had no purpose, no passion; I was only nineteen-years-old, and I was exhausted. My life growing up was full of abuse, self-hate, and a broken family. I was constantly on this search for “happiness.” I always felt like I had a character defect—that everyone on this planet had figured out life, and I was never going to. The best way to describe how I felt is this: It was as if I had a toxin in my body, which controlled my thoughts, my emotions, and my entire life. That toxin was me. I was the enemy to my own story, but I was also the hero.

“Be kind;” Plato taught us, “everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” It has taken me years, and it still is an everyday struggle, but I realized that I’m not the only one going through difficult times. I had to dig deep

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inside myself and find my inner strength. No one was going to show me I was worth it, no one was going to show me I had a purpose, and no one was going to love me as much as I would love myself. I had to decide whether I was going to survive. It’s not what happens to us that matters; it’s what we do with what happens to us.

Ever since then, I’ve been committed to helping others and raising awareness about depression and suicide. Only I can control my reactions to events that take place in my life. I would never want someone to feel the way that I did, but I know it happens. I want to be able to give someone else hope. That’s resilience to me: Having that hope is the fuel to get me to my next destination.

It’s amazing the limitations we put on ourselves and how depriving of life those are. This world needs people with resilience because that will motivate others and create a chain reaction. I would never tell my future children to give up on their dreams or goals, but I have to be a living example of that. If there weren’t resilience in this world, there would be nothing to look forward to. Everyone would just give up. Look at the athletes who have physical disabilities: They didn’t let their limitations affect them. That’s a huge statement. Actions speak louder than any words.

As Walter Anderson said, “Bad things do happen; how I respond to them defines my character and the quality of my life. I can

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choose to sit in perpetual sadness, immobilized by the gravity of my loss, or I can choose to rise from the pain and treasure the most precious gift I have—life itself.”

People don’t have determination and perseverance by chance. Resilience is a choice.

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Seeing Possibilities

Phyllis Gobbell

Once, after a string of losses, I went to a grief counselor for several sessions. I was feeling stuck, wondering if I’d ever get myself out of the deep hole of sorrow. She promised that I would. “You are resilient,” she said. I don’t know if she saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself or if her pronouncement was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I did get unstuck.

My experience gave me a new appreciation for the word resilience. Finding a way out of the muck of sadness, anger, or fear doesn’t necessarily mean “bouncing back.” I didn’t bounce back. I would never be the same person I had been. But I moved through the grief process and beyond, to another place. In some ways I was a stronger person, a better person.

Resilience is what we saw in Malala Yousafzai, the Pakistani girl shot by Taliban gunmen because she spoke out for the right to education for all children. “They thought that the bullets would silence us,” she said in her speech to the United Nations that marked her recovery. “The terrorists thought that they would change our aims and stop our ambitions, but nothing changed in my life except this: Weakness, fear and hopelessness died. Strength, power and courage was born.”

It is what we Americans have experienced when terrorists take down our towers: We

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build them back. For all the disagreement and division in regard to policy, we are a resilient nation. When evil showed its face on American soil, our citizens found rare moments of unity and reaffirmed what is good about our country.

My most recent lesson in resilience came from one of my students. In our first class, I asked students to tell something about themselves that would surprise us. This student said, “I have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.” I stumbled for words, saying, finally, that I admired him for taking the class. Later, when we spoke privately, he said he was about to begin treatments and didn’t know how he’d respond, but he hoped he could finish out the class. I wondered why taking English Composition seemed so important, in the face of his much greater challenge, but I assured him I’d help any way I could. The first writing assignment was on “resilience.” I expected him to write about how he was coming to terms with cancer. Instead, he wrote about becoming the father he’d always wanted to be.

Midway through the semester, as his treatments progressed, he had to withdraw from the class. I told him I understood. He needed to take care of himself. He said, “I need to spend time with my family.”

We spoke for a long time that day. He told me he’d made A’s in math, that he had come to college hoping to get into the nursing program. I felt I was getting some insight into

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his spirit, his determination that something besides cancer should define him.

As he was leaving my office, he said, “I’d like to take your class again.” I told him I would like that, too.

I have come to believe that resilience is about seeing possibilities. Some extraordinary people look for possibilities even in dark places; they move like moths toward the light, even if the light is the size of a pinpoint.

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Determined to Make It

Karishia Patterson

Resilience, by definition, is the ability to recover from difficulties or adversities. For me, when I think about defining resilience, I think about the time I served in the military. The first step I took off that charter bus at Fort Jackson, SC, I was in total shock and had no clue about the roads ahead of me and what they held. The first night alone, away from my family for the first time in twenty years, I lay there unable to think about what would come the next day. I awoke to loud noises at 4 a.m., screaming and yelling, “Wake up, privates! You have five minutes to get dressed and in line for chow.” The day was long, and by noon I was ready to go to bed, but that was not going to happen.

I spent eight long weeks at basic training there in South Carolina. The weather was hot, and we had to run or ruck march anywhere and everywhere. Ruck marches were the absolute worst, walking in rain or shine, sand or pavement, through wooded areas or clear areas, all while carrying thirty-plus pounds on our back. Talk about being a tough girl. There were things I had to do in the Army that I never in a million years would have thought about doing. The most memorable event that occurred, one in which I even surprised myself, was the obstacle course. In the first part, you would climb a rope to get to

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the next level and balance yourself on a rope ladder to get to the third level. Once you were at the top, you had to rappel seventy feet, which was the only way down. I was scared out of my mind, and my drill sergeant threatened to push me if I did not jump. After about five minutes of heavy breathing, I took that last breath, let go of the edge, and rappelled down.

Reaching the bottom, I have never felt so proud of myself. My fear of heights finally faded; it was not a fear anymore. I conquered it with flying colors, with red, white, and blue on my shoulder.

After a long and grueling eight weeks, I graduated basic training. When I saw my family on graduation, I cried more than if I were at a funeral. My mother looked me in the eyes and told me how proud she felt that I was her daughter. I knew how proud she was because I felt that for myself. Family and friends had told me day after day that I would never make it in the Army—that the Army was too hard. However, I proved otherwise.

Looking back on the four years I served, I think, “Wow, I accomplished something that a lot of individuals cannot!” I can honestly say that the Army taught me a lot about life. I learned responsibility, discipline, loyalty to my country and to others, and integrity. Serving our country showed me to never give up on something that seems so far out of reach. Most of all, the Army taught me to be

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resilient to any situation that could possibly be thrown my way because sometimes you have to be able to quickly bounce back from any situation. That is what resilience means to me.

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After the Fall

Valerie Belew

If you have a weak stomach, you should not read this. I mean it. Really. Don’t read it. There are medically gross parts.

Historically, I have rolled right past the word resilience as, I imagine, did most of the people in my life. Offhandedly, I have always thought of myself as being a resilient person … well, whenever I thought about it.

We’ll see. Almost two weeks ago, I found myself

laid out on the concrete floor in our garage, screaming through a pain that surpassed all mortal comprehension and gasping for air between my shrieks. When I realized I could move the bones around in my left leg with my hand, it was clear the fall down the concrete steps had caused more than my traditional sprained ankle. I had no idea what this injury would mean for me or, in retrospect, why I would possibly have thought that touching my leg would not increase my pain.

My husband had no idea that the forty-five minutes it took for him to get home and get me to an ER, me screaming the entire time, would ultimately result in his dealing with numerous bodily functions, monitoring my pain levels (1-10), trying to forget what it felt like not being able to get to me to help me

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immediately, and learning to help me maneuver a wheelchair.

On a good day, I am a bad driver. And yes, all the health care experts, and even a few friends and family, told us we should have called 911. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. I don’t ever intend to attempt steps in the dark, with my arms full, wearing cute but hazardous thong sandals ever, ever again, so skip the proselytizing about 911 emergencies, people, and get the damn IV pain meds going.

Anyway, emergency surgery left me with several pins screwed into my left leg, metal plates, and some kind of external apparatus that is about a ten-pound total bitch-of-a-mechanism with which I must contend for even minor movements and tasks. Having this thing screwed into my leg bones hurts like—well, you can fill in the blank—when I move it, and it sucks. Being intubated and losing my voice at what could easily be one of the most crucial speaking/yelling moments in my life sucks. Having to change nasty dressings every day sucks. Spraining my right ankle, my only chance for weight-bearing movement, sucks.

At first, during the glory days of Morphine, Dilaudid, and Percocet, I was trying to look on the bright side. I would be home at least a month, likely two, immobile and unable to bear weight on my broken leg but nonetheless free to read, write, research, plan my classes for spring, and watch my favorite TV shows. My list of pluses,

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however, has waned as the medication decreases and the reality of what lays ahead starts seeping into my consciousness. It, too, will likely, on several levels, suck. There is no amount of HGTV that is going to mitigate the pain from a second surgery and the ensuing brutality of physical therapists. (In my experience, they don’t really care if standing up makes one want to hurl, and they are impervious to aural cues that the patient is in an unusual amount of pain.)

Our bedroom now looks like a medical-equipment-sales-floor/pseudo-hospital room: wheelchair, walker, bedside commode (I adore whoever invented that sucker!), antibacterial products, muumuus (ask your grandmother or a Hawaiian ancestor about these), blankets, and a store of beverages, cards, flowers, gift cards, treats, and multiple pillows (including two we “borrowed” for the ride home in the van), just to name a few.

A colleague sent me a Tigger, and he, Tigger, has been surprisingly comforting and truly is “a wonderful thing.” When I think of all the people who rushed to my side; sent cards, emails, and presents; and quickly organized my “care team,” I am both humbled and overwhelmed. To be wrapped and gently held by such kindness, support, compassion, love, and humor diminishes the bad stuff and gives me strength, courage, and, yes, resilience to try to approach each day as a blessing beyond compare. That people care so much about me is still astonishing.

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And I don’t need some scientific study to tell me that prayer, indeed, makes a difference.

So back to resilience. Perhaps resilience is, by working definition in this case, not whining incessantly or being demanding. Maybe it is knowing what is ahead and being willing to suck it up regardless. Maybe it is being willing to be helped even when you are not used to it. Maybe it is launching an all-out internet search for one of those grabby things that lets you snag stuff from a distance so I can reach my face cream … and bookmarking Amazon.com’s “Adaptive-Daily Living” section for future reference. Maybe it is being inspired by the many cards, flowers, gift cards, and treats that guard the dressers around my bed. Maybe it is someone saying, “Just let me know when you need me. I can do anything you need,” and meaning it.

Maybe it is making each other laugh. Maybe it is being incredibly grateful that there was no head injury or paralysis. Maybe it is a friend looking at my leg with its aesthetically displeasing gizmo attached and saying, even though it makes him feel like puking, “It’s looking good … real good! There isn’t so much blood around the rods today.” Maybe it is telling myself and everyone else that what seems overwhelmingly impossible is, in fact, possible, and having friends already planning to make sure I get off of my bum to make it happen.

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Maybe it is the love of my life believing through his own fears and exhaustion that the broken-legged person in his bed will fully recover and once again ride the bike he gave me for my birthday.

Yes, it is true that my examples could clearly define words such as courage, friendship, compassion, or that lovely phrase “looking at the sunny side.” But I do think that these, as many other traits, can wane in the face of the long haul. Emptying the bedpan is kind of cool for right now, but what kind of resilience is that going to require in the coming days? How many times can you drive an hour to help out before it becomes tedious and you are compelled to create new profanities for the traffic you encounter? What will happen in a month when I have to schlep around the house in a wheelchair, and I am disgusted by TV homebuyers redundantly whining about the lack of granite countertops in potential homes? What if the cast is really not that much better than the contraption poking out of my leg?

In the coming weeks and months, I know that my family and friends will continue defining the word resilience for me on a daily basis. I just hope I can live up to the examples that they are setting for me.

And any way you cut it, recovery is going to be a bitch. I just hope I am not. I hope I will be resilient.

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Bondage

Emily Ferguson

Dedicated to my mother, who never gave

up on me. And to Mary, who saved my life.

People like to reflect upon the things that make them happy: the thought process of enjoying the first cup of coffee in the morning, how the touch of someone loved makes existence feel absolutely spectacular, even things like confidence or saying thank you and meaning it or being the slightest bit appreciative of having parents who love you. These are luxuries to people like me. Three years ago, I had none of these things. I had no senses.

Resilient was never a word I would have used to describe myself. Drugs ruined my relationships, my health, and my reputation. Although these things were never priorities, morphine and needles were at the top of my list. Weed was breakfast, Xanax was lunch, and morphine was dinner. The thought of any sort of normalcy could not have mattered less. I’ve always been rather skinny, with long blonde hair, and big brown eyes; I was a beautiful disaster. The downward spiral started at six years of my life on Earth. Horrifying events such as divorce, sexual abuse, and exposure to drug use at six-years-old will more than likely screw up anyone’s

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life. My life on “Earth” ended at thirteen, sailing through a galaxy of weed, pain killers, and liquor. Finally, at age eighteen, I was catapulted to Planet Junkie. Happiness was only a poke away. Magic happened, and I was in love. Dope was slowly shoving aside any concept of normal human behavior.

What used to be important to me wasn’t anymore. Things I used to love were no longer interesting. People I used to treat with respect, people I considered close friends, were treated like acquaintances and put on the back-burner. Everything that was ever positive about me had deteriorated into an empty shell. I was an abandoned city, and what was worse: Those close to me had begun to notice. They watched their best friend, their daughter, their little sister slowly wither away; but the deeper the needle goes, the deeper the thoughts, and there’s no more pain. I was oblivious to my own demise.

The main reason I am alive is because these people noticed the infinite circle of Hell I was well on my way to. My skin, once pale pink and soft, had become almost like paper. It felt like an old newspaper that someone had crumbled. My eyes, once light brown moons resting beautifully on either side of my nose, turned into desolate, bloodshot windows into my frightening experiences. My hands and feet remained purple due to poor circulation.

The disease of addiction tricked me into legitimately believing that food was

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ultimately unnecessary. I didn’t need it, as if I were worthy enough to eat food, as if I had money for it. All self-worth was gone, and all the money went straight to the dealers. Depression and self-loathing don’t start right away, though. It’s all fun at first. After the first year of shooting up, I didn’t get high anymore. Finding dope didn’t mean fun anymore, but only the comfort of being “well” again. I remember being sick a lot more than I was high. The sickness would set in slowly, introducing itself with cold sweats. My skin was a boiling furnace, while my insides would vibrate from being so cold. My legs would squirm throughout the night, making sleep impossible. Vomiting reared its ugly head around the third day without dope.

It wasn’t like I was self-conscious about my weight; my body just rejected anything healthy. My weight was a recurring issue, though. I legitimately started to believe that I was fat; mind you, I weighed approximately ninety-eight pounds upon entering treatment. My admission to detoxification and treatment for drug use was the only time I had ever stepped on a scale.

Upon entering treatment, I was considered underweight and malnourished. I was set on a very strict regimen of Phenobarbital, Ativan, several vitamins, and a not-so-pleasant nutrition shake. I was at an extremely high seizure risk, and I was severally dehydrated and weak; my body had no idea how to handle it. I had no idea these

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things were happening to me on the inside, although it was painfully apparent on the outside and to everyone around me. I chose to believe that even though everyone had the same stories and the same things to say, they were all wrong. I was fine, and no one was going to convince me otherwise.

When I look back at pictures of myself as an active intravenous morphine user, I see skin and bones. I don’t see the resilient person I am today. I see only an entity. I have before-and-after photos that would shock most people. When I left treatment, I weighed one hundred twenty pounds. I haven’t touched a needle in almost a year, and what gets me through every day is knowing that I never have to live that way again.

My decisions and my actions back then brought about consequences few could comprehend, but I am grateful for them. In the sequence of events that is my life, it has always been I who formulated the disasters I’ve experienced. I might not have lost material things like most drug addicts have, but what I lost was much more valuable. I lost my dearest friends and family members, my self-respect, and who I was, completely. It took three detox attempts, thirty days in a treatment facility, and six relapses to make it to seven months clean and sober. Throughout my time in sobriety, I’ve experienced deaths of very close friends, miscarriages, and encounters with people whose sickness goes far beyond drugs and alcohol.

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I am a daughter to a wonderful woman who is ultimately my powerhouse and my biggest fan, no matter how many changes in direction I face. I am a daughter to a spiritually intelligent man who wants nothing but the best for me.

I am a friend to a beautiful mother-to-be who has cheered me on throughout everything. I am a friend to the woman who saved my life by giving me a second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth chance because she always knew who I was inside. I am a friend to a free spirit on this Earth, who taught me to find beauty in every situation I encounter. I am a friend to a unique soul of a woman who has stood by me for nine long years.

I am a sister to two highly intellectual people who always saw right through me: a big sister who has taught me more than I thought I could learn and a big brother who was always rooting for me.

I am a girlfriend to the love of my life, who sees every imperfection as beautiful. He complements my character in the most magnificent ways and emits more courage and strength into me than I ever thought possible.

My name is Emily, and I’m a drug addict. Drugs were the other half of me, feeding on me, slowly taking me over. I’m free today. I am free from the one thing that always held me back, and that was me. I have always been the only thing that ever held me back. The tunnel had always been dark, and the only

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light I had was inside of me. However, I could never have done it on my own, and I am forever grateful to those people who saw me for what I was: a terrified girl with everything to live for.

Besides, religion is for people who fear Hell. Spirituality is for people who’ve been there, and resilience is only for the people who are willing to come back.

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Contributors

Valerie Belew, Associate Professor of English, has worked at Nashville State for 26 years. She loves watching sunrises and sunsets, her amazing husband, her family and friends, her quirky cats, Mackinaw Island, nurturing her flower gardens, and a good cup of coffee. Her favorite movies are Avatar, Somewhere in Time, and Wedding Crashers. Maya Angelou, Margaret Atwood, Elizabeth Gilbert, and Gloria Steinem are her sheroes, and she often asks herself, WWMD (What would Maya do?). She has a novel lurking around in her head with some parts already scribbled on scraps of paper here and there. She has kept a journal since she was 10 and finds great joy and meaning in writing poetry and, apparently now, essays. Shelly Bledsoe, age 44, is happily married to her husband, Tracy. Now fully recovered, Tracy recently rode his bicycle in a 62-mile event through the hilly terrain of east Tennessee. Shelly has two daughters of her own, both full-time college students, and two step-sons, one who is in the Air National Guard and also a full-time college student, while the other is an electrician with a family of his own. A full-time Registered Nurse at Vanderbilt, Shelly is completing the final general education courses needed this

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semester (at Nashville State) to graduate from Aquinas College with her Bachelors of Science in Nursing. Shelly has already applied to graduate programs and plans to pursue dual degree studies to earn both a Master’s of Science in Nursing and a Master’s in Health Care Administration. Shelly successfully pursued her studies throughout her husband’s illness and has a 4.0 GPA for all BSN courses. Ashley Boshers, a 20-year-old born and raised in Nashville, is pursuing her bachelor’s degree in Nursing while working full-time as an Office Coordinator. She was asked to marry the love of her life in May 2013, and one month later, in June, he deployed and is now in Afghanistan where he will be until next year sometime. She lives amongst her two cats and dog. In her spare time, she likes to read and write short stories, as well as poems. She enjoys going to school and working hard towards her dream. Scott Childers is a 42-year-old IT professional in the healthcare field and an adult college student. He has a lovely wife of 17 years and three beautiful children. He works for a local hospital system in Nashville and has worked with that same company for 21 years. He very much enjoys school, and continuing his education helps Scott keep his mind both fresh and active.

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Blake E. Cleckler was raised in the small town of Hatton, Alabama. He attended Hatton High School and graduated in 2005. Afterwards, he proceeded to Martin Methodist College in Pulaski, Tennessee, and performed poorly for two semesters. After feeling like he had let himself and his family down, he joined the Navy as a Culinary Specialist and volunteered for Submarine duty. In the fall of 2008, he met his best friend whom he eventually married in the summer of 2012. After serving his first tour on the USS Miami, he and his wife decided they should get out of the Navy to avoid the uncertainties that come with military life. He is currently in the pre-engineering pipeline at Nashville State and earning his keep at home by cooking and cleaning. His goals for the future: complete his bachelor’s and get a job. Emily Grace Ferguson, a 21-year-old freshman at Nashville State, is majoring in Secondary Education. She hopes to attend Vanderbilt University in the fall of 2015. She was born and raised in Memphis and bounced around between the suburbs and different schools. She currently lives in Dickson, with 13 exceptional roommates. Ricky Finch is a native of Nashville. After 15 years in retail and food service management, he enrolled at Nashville State to pursue an Associate of Arts degree with a concentration in English. He plans to transfer to MTSU and

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eventually gain his Master’s Degree in English. Finch is Editor-in-Chief of The Bridge, Nashville State’s student newspaper, and an active member in the National Society of Leadership and Success. Inspired by a great mother to chase his dream of writing, Finch is an aspiring scribe of tall tales, fables, and short stories. Pam Gadd grew up in Independence, Kentucky, determined to play country and bluegrass music for a living. She moved to Nashville in 1987 and signed a contract with Capitol Records in 1989 as lead vocalist with the band Wild Rose. She also had stints with Patty Loveless and Porter Waggoner and has released eight album projects. Since 2001, she has worked at Nashville State, currently in the library, and enjoys the students and her colleagues. She graduated with an Associate’s Degree in Psychology in 2012, and is currently studying sign language. Phyllis Gobbell teaches English at Nashville State and serves as editor of Tetrahedra, the college’s journal of creative arts published each spring. Her published works include short stories, creative nonfiction, poetry, and two true crime books based on high-profile murder cases in Nashville. She has a mystery novel in progress, a fun undertaking following her research on true crime cases. Recently she was a winner in the Knoxville Writers’ Guild contest in short fiction and in

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creative nonfiction. She has taught creative writing most of her 11 years at Nashville State, and working with students who love writing is one of her most favorite pastimes! Michael A. Kiggins, Assistant Professor of English at Nashville State and Co-Editor of Think, has taught English and Philosophy here since the fall of 2003. He is primarily a fiction writer, and his short stories and excerpts from his not-yet-published novel have appeared in The Citron Review, A&U Magazine, and Skive Magazine, among others. Karishia L. Patterson served in the U.S. Army from 2007 to 2011 where she received two Army Achievement Medals. She served one tour in Iraq from 2009 to 2010 where she received an Army Commendation Medal. She currently lives in Nashville with her husband. Karishia is studying Criminal Justice and plans to attend law school. Meredith Pittman has been a Nashville State student for almost a year. She is in pre-nursing and hopes to attend Belmont in the fall of 2015. Additionally, she works full-time as a Cheeseologist for a local grocery store. In her spare time, when she has any, she enjoys hanging out with friends, writing, and being sadly, yet thoroughly, amused by YouTube. She hopes to attend the Iowa Writer’s Workshop next summer in an effort to nurture this fairly newfound passion. She

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would very much like to thank her teachers that she has been so fortunate to meet throughout the year. They are all the engines behind her drive. Lastly, she would like to thank Megan, the inspiration behind this paper, for allowing her to use her as her subject. It truly is Megan’s resilience that continues to inspire her every day. Christy Ray was born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee. She started losing her sight at the age of 10 and was diagnosed at the age of 15. She went to a regular public school and received tools that helped her with school work, such as magnifiers, braille lessons, and large print books. Christy graduated in December 2000. She decided, when her daughter started kindergarten, she needed a life. She once again started looking for tools that would help her not only for school, but also in her everyday life to be a more successful person. Christy is happy with the person she has become: a student, athlete, mother and an expecting mother, and is planning to continue to grow in all areas. Zahra Sharif is a student and a dedicated mother and works as an Interpreter. Her name is UM Nasser—UM is the Arabic word for mother. In Zahra’s culture motherhood is sacred. Therefore her surname is always linked to the word UM. She is studying to be a better mother for her son Nasser. She wants her children to be proud of her. She feels

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blessed because her essay is being published in her college’s journal. That essay is dedicated to the memory of her mother, who sacrificed her life for her, and her grandmother, who dedicated her life to raise Zahra. They are both her source of inspiration. It is because of them that her essay is being published. A big dream of hers has come true, and she is looking forward to a better future. Zahra thanks her teacher Ms. Adkerson, with whose guidance she is able to be the writer she is today. Megan Strickland-Gilbert wrote this short passage for all of those who have a struggle that they can overcome. As you have read in her essay, she is obviously deaf, but to be more specific, she was diagnosed with a rare syndrome called Treacher Collins, which caused her to be deaf. But her struggles did not limit her future goals and dreams. Originally from Monterey, Tennessee, Megan is now a student at Nashville State. Her goal is to finish her degree here and transfer to a university to pursue her career as a Speech Pathologist. That is her goal for now, but Megan’s goals and dreams may change; since she made college possible for herself, she believes anything is possible. She enjoys participating in many activities during her free time and stays so busy that she often wonders if it is even considered free time.

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Shannon Tolene teaches junior English and yearbook at McEwen High School. She has taught public school for the past 13 years in Humphreys County, Tennessee, and also teaches as an adjunct for Nashville State’s Humphreys County campus in the area of education. She is married to her husband, Jeremy, and they have two sons. They are all involved in youth soccer. Shannon enjoys reading and writing as hobbies. Kendall Alicia Wheat was born and raised in Northern California. She moved to Nashville in March 2013 and currently attends Nashville State for nursing. Her long-term career goal is to become a Registered Nurse and work in Post Op, which is after-surgery care. Kendall works at a daycare here in Nashville. She absolutely loves working with kids and enjoys what she does. She loves running and being outdoors. Dancing is a huge passion. All of her friends call her the Dancing Queen. She hopes she inspires people. Even if it’s just one person, she wants someone to look up to her and say, “Because of you, I didn’t give up.” That’s what she believes her purpose here is. She wants to be a positive influence on the world.

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Acknowledgments

Many people contributed advice, time, and resources that helped us get this Volume 3 published. The editors extend a special thank you to the following members of the Nashville State community: x George Van Allen, President, for his

encouragement for our special projects.

x Valerie Belew, Dean, English, Humanities & Arts, for her interest in, encouragement, and endless support for all the extras faculty do in addition to our teaching.

x D. Michelle Adkerson, Professor of English, for formatting and copy-editing, and for her willingness to help us in any possible way we could think of.

x The Editorial Board, who dedicated their time to reading and selecting the essays included here, while still tackling their own responsibilities for the classes they teach.

x Destiny McGregor, Student Worker, for doing whatever we asked of her with an attention to detail and a never-ending source of energy that was nothing less than inspiring.

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x Susan Tucker, Secretary, English, Humanities & Arts, for always being there to help with whatever we needed, including last-minute updates for us.

Above all, we thank all the writers who took the time to write the essays and share their beliefs, experiences, and ideas with us.

You are a great inspiration.

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Think about your passion!

Think about your future!

Think about your resilience!

Visit ww2.nscc.edu/Think!

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handle inquiries regarding the non-discrimination policies: Director of

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