The little sister

 The summer I was fourteen, I went to youth conference at BYU.  Marianne had gone for two years previously and had regaled us with tales of youth conference.  One thing she loved was the huge dance they had in the Wilkinson Center ballroom.  Hundreds and hundreds of kids from all over packed into the ballroom.  Marianne had been asked to dance again and again.  It seemed thrilling to me.

Alas.

I stood awkwardly with a group of friends until they were gradually asked to dance, one by one.  I moved miserably to another group until they were gradually asked to dance, one by one.  It was humiliating.  I felt ugly in my glasses and braces and completely wrong with my inability to be even a little bit flirty.  I was a failure, I was sure.

My mom happened to be a chaperone for youth conference that year.  She watched me and could have chalked it up to no big deal.  How important is one youth conference dance in the scheme of things?  In reality, not that important.  The reason I remember the night so clearly, the reason it stands out from other occasions of social awkwardness, is because my mom didn't just assume I'd be fine.

She witnessed my mortification and asked me if I wanted to go get ice cream.  We left the dance and went to buy a scoop of the BYU Dairy's best.  Then, we walked around the Wilkinson Center and my mom didn't give me any platitudes about how this dance's success wouldn't make or break my life.  I don't remember her saying anything about it.  We just walked around and chatted and she showed me where she used to sit in the Wilkinson Center and the ways it had changed and the ways it had stayed the same.

She saw me.  I was good enough.  

A few years later, I was in Mr. Swabb's history/government classroom.  At our tiny school, he had taught Marianne in the same class.  Marianne, who would go on to get a degree in teaching speech and debate, loved sparring with Mr. Swabb.  I think he loved it too.  

He didn't love that I was quiet.  I had no beef with anything he said, I just drew flowers in the margins of my dutifully taken notes.  At parent teacher conferences, Mr. Swabb told my mom that he wished I were more like Marianne.

My mom said, "We already have a Marianne.  We want Thelma to be like Thelma."

My mom told me about the conversation when she got home.  She knew full well that everyone at our school compared me to my successful older sister, including me.

She wanted me to know that she didn't.

She saw me.  I was good enough.

Today is my mother's birthday.  I will never forget how she made me feel.  I will never forget that she wanted Thelma to be Thelma.  I will never forget that she saw me.