The Greatest Thing Since Swiss Cheese
The Me I Strive To Be
Every time we climb into our blue Honda Odyssey at the conclusion of a Kentucky trip, my mom cries. It’s a sadness that we all share, but she’s the only one with tears spilling down her cheeks. Like my mom, it doesn’t take much to make me cry, but she’ll cry openly and in front of anyone. Her feelings are on the surface, and she doesn’t hesitate to talk about them with those around her. I keep my feelings deep down inside. I don’t like to share them, and I don’t like to talk about them. I’m a closeted crier. If I feel the burning sensation in my eyes signaling a big ol’ cry is coming on, I’ll quietly excuse myself to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and only then allow my emotions to surface. If I’m seeing a sad movie, I make sure to sniff a few times in the happy parts so when I unavoidably sniffle during the sad parts, hopefully no one will notice. Crying is something that my mom and I share, but it’s also one of our most stark differences.
Every part of me connects me to my family or sets me apart from them. My frizzy, curly hair is a carbon copy of my mom’s. My artistic ability, passion for writing, and love of baseball I share with my dad. An affinity for music is something my sister and I have in a common. But I’m different from them. We disagree on lots of things, handle situations differently, view the world in different ways. Though I consider myself incredibly fortunate to be one of these people, to share DNA with ancestors that I’m honored to be descended from, I’m also proud to be able to make my own decisions, form my own opinions, and become my own person.
When I was little, the leaving-Kentucky-sadness was equivalent to that of a kid leaving Disney world on the last day of a dream vacation. I would miss the freedom, fun, and family that I had just enjoyed for a week-long break from everyday life. Rather than sadness, it was more like disappointment that the week had come to a close and despondency upon returning to plain, old, boring home. Now, the sadness is entirely different. It’s anguish. It’s sorrow. It’s grief. It’s premature mourning, because we never know which trip will be our last. We don’t know who will be on speaking terms with who next year, or who will have cut themselves off from the family next time. It’s always something, and it’s truly heartbreaking to step back and see how the sadness has evolved. My mom’s is expressed through tears. Mine is expressed through silence. Different, but the same.
I am equally proud of both of these aspects of myself. I cherish the parts that I share with my family, because they remind me that I am part of something bigger than myself, that I am the product of many sacrifices and struggles of those that came before me, that my support system, my roots, are deep and strong in times of trouble. I’m also proud of my differences, of the ways that I have broken the trends that needed to be broken, and of what I have learned from the life that I’ve lived so far.
And throughout that life, I strive to be the best version of myself that I can. My Catholic faith is extremely important to me, and I try to let each day take me one step closer to God, by glorifying Him in all that I do. One way I do this is to try to be the person my grandmother thinks I am. She doesn’t see all the mistakes I’ve made, or, at least, she sees past them.
She once told me that I was the greatest thing since swiss cheese.
I wake up everyday and try to live up to that esteemed title, not in a prideful, conceited way, but rather in a humble, optimistic way. I frequently get caught up in life’s roadblocks or in my own flaws, but it’s important to remember that God created me exactly the way He wanted me, and put me on the exact path I need to be on. He thinks I’m the greatest thing since swiss cheese, too, even when I don’t think that about myself.
It’s really easy to focus on the negatives in life, in yourself, in your family, but that’s not the life we are supposed to live! It’s the struggles we all face, and the flaws we all have, that unite us as people, that let us empathize with others, help each other out, and love those around us.
Instead of denying the flaws we all share, we need to embrace them. My family is flawed. While you might think their flaws would make me love them less, in reality it does the opposite. It makes them harder to love, which makes the love that much greater.
Like my family, I am flawed. It’s just one more thing we have in common. I know I’m not perfect, and I think I’m finally in a place where I can recognize that. But in my grandmother’s eyes, I’m perfect. And in God’s eyes as well. The me they see is the me I strive to be each and every day of my life.
