The Hard Way

It was the end of the eighth-grade school year. I stood in the garage in tears, pleading with my dad while he folded his laundry. Before that day, he’d agreed to let me go on a three-week vacation to Iowa with my best friend and her family. I know, I know—Iowa—for vacation? When you’re fourteen, and your friends invite you to go somewhere, it doesn’t matter where you’re going or what you’re doing. What matters is that you get to hang out with your buds. Three weeks of uninterrupted hanging out would be pure bliss, and the thought of missing that was inconceivable.

That day, standing in the garage, I felt desperate. I’d just broken the news to my father that I had failed the eighth grade. I didn’t care that I’d flunked; the critical issue at that moment was whether I would still be going to Iowa. He was talking about summer school, but if went to summer school, I’d miss out on the trip. I said I didn’t mind repeating the eighth grade, and that I’d work extra-hard next time, just please, please let me go on the trip.

That moment, when he gave in and agreed to let me go on the trip, was the moment I believe my dad (unofficially) gave up on me.

That school year, he had done everything he could to help me succeed. Algebra was my arch enemy. He’d attempted to help me with homework, but he wouldn’t follow the steps the teacher required. For him, the solutions came easily without the steps. For me, nothing about Algebra came easily. I simply didn’t get it, and his well-meaning attempts to help me always ended with a fight. Eventually, he even paid someone to tutor me, but I still couldn’t grasp the concepts. Maybe if I had cared at all, I would have had a fighting chance, but when you don’t care enough to try, you inevitably fail.

That day, when my dad threw his hands up and gave in, was one of the defining days that would forever change my life. I’ll never know the reason he gave in; it may have been because he was tired of arguing, maybe he didn’t want to pay for summer school, or perhaps he knew by then that the only way someone like me was apt to learn a life lesson, was by learning the hard way. Whatever the reason was for his decision, I know now that it was the right one.

I went on the trip to Iowa that summer, and I had a jolly good time. Almost forty years later, I still remember that trip like it was yesterday: listening to 80s hits during the long ride in the back of “Daddy’s” van, parents up front (and probably ready to throw three kids out the window), my friend and me in the back with her sister (who, although only a few years older than us, was infinitely cooler). I remember laughing at Junior (a cousin), when he said, with an unforgettable Iowan drawl, “Let’s go down to the pahhhnd and shoot some frahhhgs.” I remember my friend’s grandma getting extremely annoyed with us when, out of sheer boredom, we sat around making various gun noises using farm animal sounds (think “Moo moo!” in place of “Pew pew!”), and I’ll never forget how much fun we had at the state fair.

I also remember what it felt like when summer was over; it was the first day back to school, and as I walked through the middle school doors that morning, it hit me that if I had tried even a little the year before, I might be walking through the high school doors instead. I had a few friends in the eighth grade that year, but most friends I’d known since kindergarten had moved on without me. And that was my fault.

I’d never catch up. I wouldn’t graduate with the class I was supposed to graduate with, and while those kids’ parents proudly wished them well on their first day of work, or helped them pack to head off for college, I’d be getting ready for my last year in high school. That day—the second time I entered middle school as an eighth-grader—I finally realized the consequences of my poor decisions and skewed priorities. That was the beginning of the many occasions I learned things the hard way.

You may be wondering why I would say that my dad made the right decision by letting me go on that trip instead of going to summer school. It’s a good question, and one that I now have the answer to.

That day in the garage, he unwittingly handed the reins of responsibility to me. I was the one who was responsible for my grades. If I failed, that was on me; but if I succeeded, that was also my doing. I couldn’t blame anyone other than myself for my failures, and nobody but me could take credit for the good grades I might earn. I can tell you right now that being proud of yourself for your accomplishments feels much better than being ashamed and remorseful when you fail at something and have only yourself to blame.

I’ve learned a lot over the years, and more often than not, I learned the hard way. Sometimes, the best way to learn is to struggle through the consequences of unwise choices. When you come to a fork in the road with no signs, you may choose one route over the other simply because the pavement looks smoother. When you reach the end of that road, you might find yourself at a dead end—but after having wasted the gas and time to go down that dead-end road, you’re likely to remember that the easy way isn’t always the best.

My dad did his best as a single father raising two teen girls. I think he sometimes felt like a failure, and I wish I could talk to him today because I’d tell him that although he messed up sometimes (don’t we all?), he also made decisions that would teach me lessons I’d never forget. I’d say, “Remember when you let me off the hook for flunking the eighth grade by allowing me to go to Iowa instead of making me take summer school classes? I don’t know why you made that decision, but I’m glad you did.”

We can’t force anyone to learn anything. People have to learn things for themselves. And while it may be tough to sit back silently and watch those we care about make mistakes, sometimes we need to let them make mistakes so that they will learn–even when they have to do it the hard way.