Happy 11th birthday, Becca. I hope you eat enough cake to qualify as a misdemeanor.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
There is one thing I want you to remember on this wondrous day:
Whenever you think you’ve had too much cake, whenever you think your tummy can’t hold any more, force yourself to eat ONE more teensy-weensy little slice.
Because one can never eat enough cake.
Being 11 is pretty fun. It is, however, the beginning of the end. Because next year you’ll be 12, well on your way to teenagehood. And you’ll suddenly know it all.
When I was 13, I thought my mother was so incredibly ignorant it was staggering. Then I turned 20 and I was shocked at how much my mother had learned in those seven years.
But you aren’t like me. I was a dense boy. You, on the other hand, are a wise child.
You’ve been through a lot in your life. Your story isn’t mine to tell, but I’ll hit the highlights:
Your biological mother was an addict. You were left lying on your backside for the first several months of your infancy so that the back of your head was flat. You are blind.
But you were adopted by unbelievably beautiful parents, and you have become the most impressive person I have ever met. Hands down.
For starters, after you went blind, you could have given up. You could have quit trying. Instead, you started taking up new life skills.
You tried out for your school play and landed a major role. You wrote poetry. You took up new musical instruments such as the harp, the cigar-box guitar, the piano, and you started taking singing lessons. You started learning braille.
I’ll never forget when we first met. We were at a restaurant. And do you know what I noticed about you first? You laughed a lot.
You laughed without abandon. Without holding back. You cackled good and hard.
At the time, you had a scar on your neck where doctors had removed your lymph node. At the time, you were waiting to learn whether you had cancer. At the time, you had every right not to laugh.
And yet you did. Yours isn’t just a minor laugh, either. It is the kind of laugh where you clap your hands and gasp for air. Sometimes you slap the table.
That day, you ordered chicken fingers and French fries. And I was astounded because THAT’S WHAT I ALWAYS ORDER. And just before I opened my mouth to order a side of ranch dressing—guess what—you YOU ORDERED A SIDE OF RANCH.
At this moment I knew we were blood kin. Because I eat everything with ranch. Even old napkins and pieces of shoe leather.
So anyway, the waitress brought our twin ranch orders, and we toasted French fries. Then, you said a prayer over our meal wherein you thanked God for everything. Even little things that nobody ever pays attention to in life.
And when your prayer finished, several in the restaurant had to blow their noses loudly into their handkerchiefs.
You are a rare person. But you’re more than that. Your specialness, your honest smile, your cheerfulness, it bleeds off onto others. Your perseverance is bleeding off onto me. I can feel it.
Because, you see, I’ve had a rough life, too. Not the same as you. But it’s been difficult. My story doesn’t matter, not for the purposes of this column.
But the point is, I wasn’t as resilient as you. I did not laugh when I was 11. I was somber and serious after the traumas my family endured. I was quiet. I was scared. Sometimes I went whole months without laughing. Years even.
But it’s people like you who have been teaching me to live. Unique humans like you have steadily taught me how to find myself. How to be myself. How to love myself.
And the crazy thing is, wonderful humans like you usually don’t think they’re anything special.
In fact, I’ll bet you don’t think you’re phenomenal. I’ll bet you think you’re just an ordinary 11-year-old girl, having an ordinary 11-year-old-girl birthday party.
I’ll bet sometimes you wake up and have bad days. I’ll bet sometimes you wonder if anyone in this world even notices you.
The answer is yes, Becca. Yes, we notice you. Yes, a thousand times over. Yes, ten times ten thousand. We notice you. And you make us want to be better people.
You make the shriveled heart of this ordinary middle-aged man feel glad. Happy birthday.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: Becca Turns Eleven
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
Happy 11th birthday, Becca. I hope you eat enough cake to qualify as a misdemeanor.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
There is one thing I want you to remember on this wondrous day:
Whenever you think you’ve had too much cake, whenever you think your tummy can’t hold any more, force yourself to eat ONE more teensy-weensy little slice.
Because one can never eat enough cake.
Being 11 is pretty fun. It is, however, the beginning of the end. Because next year you’ll be 12, well on your way to teenagehood. And you’ll suddenly know it all.
When I was 13, I thought my mother was so incredibly ignorant it was staggering. Then I turned 20 and I was shocked at how much my mother had learned in those seven years.
But you aren’t like me. I was a dense boy. You, on the other hand, are a wise child.
You’ve been through a lot in your life. Your story isn’t mine to tell, but I’ll hit the highlights:
Your biological mother was an addict. You were left lying on your backside for the first several months of your infancy so that the back of your head was flat. You are blind.
But you were adopted by unbelievably beautiful parents, and you have become the most impressive person I have ever met. Hands down.
For starters, after you went blind, you could have given up. You could have quit trying. Instead, you started taking up new life skills.
You tried out for your school play and landed a major role. You wrote poetry. You took up new musical instruments such as the harp, the cigar-box guitar, the piano, and you started taking singing lessons. You started learning braille.
I’ll never forget when we first met. We were at a restaurant. And do you know what I noticed about you first? You laughed a lot.
You laughed without abandon. Without holding back. You cackled good and hard.
At the time, you had a scar on your neck where doctors had removed your lymph node. At the time, you were waiting to learn whether you had cancer. At the time, you had every right not to laugh.
And yet you did. Yours isn’t just a minor laugh, either. It is the kind of laugh where you clap your hands and gasp for air. Sometimes you slap the table.
That day, you ordered chicken fingers and French fries. And I was astounded because THAT’S WHAT I ALWAYS ORDER. And just before I opened my mouth to order a side of ranch dressing—guess what—you YOU ORDERED A SIDE OF RANCH.
At this moment I knew we were blood kin. Because I eat everything with ranch. Even old napkins and pieces of shoe leather.
So anyway, the waitress brought our twin ranch orders, and we toasted French fries. Then, you said a prayer over our meal wherein you thanked God for everything. Even little things that nobody ever pays attention to in life.
And when your prayer finished, several in the restaurant had to blow their noses loudly into their handkerchiefs.
You are a rare person. But you’re more than that. Your specialness, your honest smile, your cheerfulness, it bleeds off onto others. Your perseverance is bleeding off onto me. I can feel it.
Because, you see, I’ve had a rough life, too. Not the same as you. But it’s been difficult. My story doesn’t matter, not for the purposes of this column.
But the point is, I wasn’t as resilient as you. I did not laugh when I was 11. I was somber and serious after the traumas my family endured. I was quiet. I was scared. Sometimes I went whole months without laughing. Years even.
But it’s people like you who have been teaching me to live. Unique humans like you have steadily taught me how to find myself. How to be myself. How to love myself.
And the crazy thing is, wonderful humans like you usually don’t think they’re anything special.
In fact, I’ll bet you don’t think you’re phenomenal. I’ll bet you think you’re just an ordinary 11-year-old girl, having an ordinary 11-year-old-girl birthday party.
I’ll bet sometimes you wake up and have bad days. I’ll bet sometimes you wonder if anyone in this world even notices you.
The answer is yes, Becca. Yes, we notice you. Yes, a thousand times over. Yes, ten times ten thousand. We notice you. And you make us want to be better people.
You make the shriveled heart of this ordinary middle-aged man feel glad. Happy birthday.
Remember what I said about the cake.