From Saturday's Briefing:
When I received word that my beloved grandmother died 13 years ago, I was on deadline in the middle of the newsroom. One of my editors, a dear friend, was by my side immediately.
I'm certain that Sharon shared a deep well of comforting words, but the only ones I remember are those that helped to sustain me through the next few hours: Your grandmother was proud of you.
I've returned to that phrase countless times since.
I was thankful in the moment for someone who recognized my profound loss and offered words that I didn't even realize I needed to hear.
As a mom, I've thought many times since of how my grandmother's love never wavered, despite actions and words that surely disappointed her.
When I'm struggling with a creative endeavor, I think of Gramma's belief in me. She was a poet and a dreamer and a problem-solver, and though I can't hear her Alabama-bred voice anymore, I stored up enough of her musings and snippets of verse to last a lifetime.
When I see one of my students struggling with self-confidence, I wonder who whispers words of pride to that child at home.
When one of my own children makes a poor choice, I wonder if I've shared "I'm proud of you" often enough.
Maybe all those children — yours and mine — aren't always listening. Or perhaps we adults aren't always skilled at expressing love and pride while at the same time correcting and guiding.
My love for Cooper and Katie doesn't change based on a test score or report card, a solo performance or a 5K time. And though I'm proud of them when they work hard and proud of them when they perform better than the last time, my pride doesn't falter when they have a bad day or a bad week.
I cherish and value these children entrusted in my care, and I want them to believe in themselves as much as I do.
Yet there are moments when I question every parenting decision I've ever made, when I wonder, "Who are these creatures and what have they done with my actual children?"
In those moments, they may not be aware of the full depth of my pride.
One of my goals this year is to be more deliberate about expressing my unabashed pride and devotion, even in the middle of one of the inevitable lectures necessary in the raising of young people.
I have a similar goal with my students, that each of them know I'm one of their biggest fans — even when they turn in assignments late or forget to study for a quiz or spend more time talking than working.
Imagine a world in which every single child knows without question that a whole crowd believes in them, cherishes them, loves them — even in the middle of apathy or poor judgment or turmoil.
It's the kind of world I dream about, a legacy from that poetic grandmother of mine.
Some days, for no discernible reason, a couple of lines will pop into my head. They're from a poem Gramma Kathryn wrote about me when I was tiny:
A package full of dynamite,
A bundle full of charm,
It takes a lot of dousing
For a fire that's five-alarm
That's how she saw me — spunky, engaging, determined. Those words, penned in the 1970s, have shored my confidence on rough days ever since.
Each of us has the same power, to offer words that echo warmth and comfort and love, long after we're gone. It's a gift we should lavish with abandon.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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