The Weird Concept of Pride

So, today in class we asked our students to journal about what they are proud of, and we wrote about it too.  I started with just a list before I settled in to explore one of them.  Here is my (surprisingly) short list:  my kids--the relationships I have with them, my extended family, my ability to use language, my career--for the most part.  That's all I could come up with.  Why?  In theory if someone asked me if there were a lot of things I'm proud of, I would have had a resounding "yes!"  But when it came to actually articulating what they are, I was stumped.

I'm not sure why this is so hard for me.  Pride is a weird concept or word.  I don't think I understand it the way a lot of other people do.  I don't take pride in others' accomplishments or abilities when I have nothing to be credited for regarding the accomplishment.  For example, I was watching America's Got Talent the other night and Heidi Klum was gushing over some act that has made it all the way to the semi finals, an act she has liked from the very beginning.  She said, "I'm so proud of you."  What does she have to do with how far they've come?  Does she means she's so happy for them?  That, I get, but she hasn't done anything to get them where they are.  I'm proud my dog, when he does a trick because I taught it to him, and his actually sitting down when I tell him to reflects on MY efforts.  Heidi Klum didn't have anything to do with how great that cute little girl belted out a power ballad.  

Am I wrong? 

LuAnne Erickson

I wrote this piece more than 5 years ago when I was participating for the first time in the Nebraska Writer's Project through UNL.  I think about this every year though.  The names are not accurate; I don't remember the actual names but created ones that were typical of the Scandinavian names I knew from my childhood.  In a sense I wish I did know the actual names; I would go back to the Minneapolis Star and research it.  I'm curious to know how accurate my memory is, and perhaps I could put this memory to rest.

LuAnne Erickson

       I am little, maybe nine or ten, eleven years old at the most, and it is Christmas time.  At the north end of our long family room in our home in Minneapolis, I am quietly working alone at a card table wrapping gifts.  I am absorbed in my project; I love to wrap presents, and all around me are bright bows and curling ribbons, papers, boxes, rolls of tape, extra scissors and tags.  Some of the gifts I am wrapping are even for me; my mom seals them and I wrap them because I love to.  It is the slow, methodical counterpart to the rush and hassle of Christmas that even I, as a child, know and sense in adults around me.  I can take my time and pay attention to every detail making each package unique and beautiful. 

       Separating my work area from the television are is a black vinyl love seat and our Christmas tree decorated with dozens of ornament old and new, purchased and hand crafted.  The colored lights blink a changing, yet repetitive design on my finished packages stacked on the corner of the table.  The coziness of the room belies the cold and snow raging outside.

       Over the back of the couch I can see the television and am listening to it as I work quietly at the card table.  It's late for me, 10:00 p.m and the news comes on:  they found LuAnne Erickson.

       I know all about LuAnne Erickson's disappearance two weeks earlier.  What details I missed on news reports I caught overhearing the hushed conversations between my parents about the Minneapolis girl who had disappeared two weeks earlier.  The holiday season had been marred in the Twin Cities with updates of empty clues and frustrating speculation as to what had happened to this local teenage and neighbor boy who disappeared shortly after she did.

       Now I pause and listen, watching the newscaster intently, the horrible story unfolds.

"Minneapolis police have confirmed the discovery of LuAnne Erickson's body in a south Minneapolis home.  Reports indicate that Erickson and 15 year old Bradley Swanson had been chained in the basement of the house since their disappearances two weeks ago.  Both had been beaten repeated, Erickson had 

. . . to be continued