Bravery

I wake up to a miracle.

Snow, in Texas: real snow, not merely a listless splatter of ice and sleet. There must be two inches now, at the least.

Normally, I would be meeting patients, straining to hear narrowed valves and weakened lungs through the prim aluminum of my stethoscope. First, I would make a painless remark to help smooth the shift to the paper-lined examination table; something about the weather, probably. There’s always something to say about the weather.

I have never been a brave person. As a little girl, the monster under my bed—a creature I knew was real—prevented me from sleeping or gave me nightmares when I managed to drift off. That monster morphed into peers who intimidated me with their confidence, their ability to flirt with boys, their freedom to jitterbug on the dance floor. Heights, reptiles and bridges over water continue to frighten me. I guess I am a weak person wrapped in a tall, seemingly strong frame.

Dear Readers,

It’s winter of my senior year of college. I’m returning to my dorm one afternoon and am startled to see its three-story brick edifice almost hidden beneath a blizzard of bedsheets, banners and placards. Is this some kind of celebration?

Drawing closer, I make out the bold letters on  these makeshift signs: “NO CO-EDS IN SAGE,” “KEEP CO-HOGS OUT.”

This isn’t a party; it’s a protest.