When we’re young, people ask us what we want to be when we grow up and the answer’s often a model, a magician or president. These are whimsical careers, so as the years pass, we find professions to fit the persona we’ve grown into.
As a child, I wanted to be a cowgirl. My bike was my trusty steed, and we circled the block – or the ranch as I liked to think – hundreds of times, always on the lookout for varmints. When I grew up, I realized I was scared of horses, so being a cowgirl was definitely not a vocation for me.
When I was a teenager, I wanted to be an airline stewardess. I wanted to visit exotic places, and I thought a career with an airline would allow me to see the world with someone else footing the bill.
As I took a responsible job as a secretary, I watched that dream of jetting away to Cairo, New York City and Paris dissipate like the long-ago dream of a little girl wanting to be a cowgirl.
Motherhood came along and, over the years, I gladly accepted three blue bundles even though I was filled with terror, knowing I was responsible for those little lives. As time went on, I gradually felt more comfortable changing diapers, dispensing advice and protecting my boys from the cruelties of the world.
We wanted to let them experience the fun of travel, so we’d occasionally fly to a colder climate during spring break. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d watch the flight attendants, wondering what faraway places they’d been to and where they were headed.
A chance came along to work at a newspaper, and although I loved reading novels like “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and “Don Quixote” and had dabbled in a little bit of writing, I never thought I could be a writer because the responsibility is solemn.
With a few well-placed words and phrases, a writer can squeeze hearts, open eyes or move mountains. Whenever I write a column, I say a quiet prayer that my words are helpful, not harmful. Even though I’ve been occupying this space for over 10 years, I still gnash my teeth and agonize over what’s printed in this slot.
More than just shouting into the wind, I fervently pray that if I’m writing a humorous column, someone will read the words in the midst of sorrow and a smile will sneak into their hearts.
If a young mother is feeling overwhelmed, I hope reminiscences of my sweatshirts decorated with spit-up and linoleum floors that didn’t see a broom for weeks hits home.
More than that, though, I want to keep stoked a perpetual fire in my heart to remember the real job of a journalist: to report the truth. Those of us who write must always remember that words are the most powerful weapon in the world.
I’m reminded of that fact when I hear “America The Beautiful” and “Danny Boy” and the tears well in my eyes over those simple yet stirring lyrics. As I watch television shows like HBO’s “Newsroom” and reruns of “The Wonder Years,” I know there are talented and unsung wordsmiths out there igniting our brains and our hearts.
To this day, when I watch women riding horses, I marvel at their grace and agility. When I’m on an airplane and watch flight attendants going about their tasks, I’m grateful they can gracefully handle emergencies at 30,000 feet in the air.
I’ll never be a cowgirl or a flight attendant. I’ll never walk a runway in a $3,000 designer dress nor will I preside over the United Nations. But in my mind and from my keyboard, I can climb on a mythical white steed and, like Don Quixote, fight the windmills.