It was 36 years ago, tonight.
Vivid in my mind, I can still feel the bricks of the hearth under me as I sit, hear the laughter of people I love around me, see the streaks of black and blue on my own right ankle as I unwrap the ace bandage to show my wound—a conscious revelation aimed to gaining sympathy and grudging respect.
The day before, my 18th birthday, I had instinctively moved left, subconsciously reading the changes in the batter’s swing that meant he was going to hit it in the gap between me and the shortstop. It paid off, and I snagged the hard hit ball and went to look back the runner who was on second, before throwing the batter out at first…only to find the runner barreling toward me, only a step away.
He had gambled, wrongly, that the ball was going to get past me and so he took off, wanting to score. But I had him, and he knew it. So he slid—no hope of getting anywhere near third base, but trying to tangle me up and knock me down. I tagged him out, but as I turned and stepped toward first to throw and complete the double play, my ankle collapsed under me in the tangle of our limbs.
Welcome to adulthood, here’s a symbolic limp.
My mom and my two best friends planned a surprise party for my 18th birthday. They invited friends from all the different groups and communities of my life. And 36 years ago tonight, as I sat on the hearth showing off my baseball battle wound and looked around the room, I realized with shock how uncomfortable I was with all those people in the same room, all those people (I now realized with cold dread creeping up my spine) that I had carefully, meticulously, and intentionally kept separate and apart, in spheres that until that night had never collided.
I didn’t know how to act.
It started settling in that my actions were always dependent on a subtle give and take, on carefully calculated words and actions to gain the approval of those who made up the group I was in at the moment. When they were all in the same room, I simply couldn’t morph fast enough to hold it all together.
It was terrifying. And exhausting. And panicky. And empty.
I remember it vividly.
And over the next few weeks, I got to the place where I made a commitment to myself. No more. No more fracturing, no more chameleon, no more twisting and hiding and acting.
I wanted to be whole. I wanted integrity. I wanted to be the same person, with the same values, no matter the crowd, no matter the setting.
While it was a commitment I have had to make and remake and deepen, while I’ve made mistakes along the way, this kind of integrity has always remained my goal.
That means that tonight, I’ve spent two-thirds of my life walking (sometimes with a limp) toward integrity and wholeness. And I hope you’ll hold me accountable to carry it the rest of the way.