While attending high school, I enjoyed the days when my mother was at work because I had a chance to talk to my father, who I discovered was a real human being when she wasn’t around. My father taught me how to cook, and we talked for hours. Based on reports from other people, the relationship I had with my father during those adolescent years was quite unusual. I felt I could tell him anything. And I could. This did not mean he would honor any request I made, though.

One afternoon we stood in the kitchen preparing a gourmet meal. I told him I wanted to be a skater. He had heard this crap before. My sister passed through the skater phase when she was six or seven. She also wanted to be a skier. Since she had never skied when she made that remark, my father didn’t take it seriously. He facetiously suggested she become a “figure skier”. Carole thought that was a sage suggestion. Her interest in winter sports vanished as quickly as it appeared. When my father cast off Carole’s comment without much contemplation, he made an appropriate decision. As my sister matured, she never longed to ice skate or ski. Like many people, she took an occasional ski trip with friends and later with her husband. However, she did not bother to pursue these childhood notions with any vigor. If asked, Carole would probably not remember saying that she wanted to be an athlete or she would dismiss it casually. Many children envision themselves becoming athletes, astronauts or firemen.

In my case, I pursued my commitment to skating independently. I didn’t even require transportation to an arena to show my family that I maintained sincere interest in skating. After years of garage practice, I believed I had proven my devotion and deserved to be rewarded with real lessons. Skating was not a passing fancy for me.

“I’m a good skater,” I insisted. My father made a condescending comment like, “You’re not that good,” or “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re good”. Because my father’s work occupied most of his time, he may not have been aware that I had been skating for several years. My father lived in the real world of hard work and inconsistent luck. He did not consider skating more than child’s play. Even if he watched me skate, he would not be able to evaluate what he saw. Considering my entirely self-taught situation, I thought I possessed an impressive repertoire, which was worthy of expansion.

For weeks I rehearsed how I would confront my father to ask for lessons. While my mother was at work, I would find the perfect moment to broach the subject. If she were not around, he would listen to me. We could discuss my goals like adults; the way we discussed other topics. I pictured my father sitting down with me at the kitchen table, perhaps writing out a list, as he did when making any important decision. We might even consider a budget or commuting schedule. If all went according to plan, he would reach over to the phone on the kitchen counter and dial the number for the roller rink. Then I would have an opportunity to pursue my dream of becoming a legitimate skater.

At this point, I was engrossed in roller-skating and convinced that artistic roller would become an Olympic sport in the near future. I intended to be ready when it did. This was little more than fantasy, because becoming a world class athlete in any disciple takes years of training. Most skaters begin their preparation when they are significantly less than fourteen years old. However, I did not know this and had confidence that my love of skating would be the necessary element for success. I thought a few years of lessons would prepare me to take my place among the first Olympic roller skaters. After all, I could do an illusion without ever having the benefit of a real lesson.

My father was in as fine a mood as I could expect. Several pots simmered pleasantly on the stove, and he had just shown me the proper way to mince an onion. This was the moment I had anticipated. My mouth opened then closed again as I turned to the sink to rinse my hands and gather my thoughts. I counted silently to three then blurted: “I want to take roller skating lessons.”

“You’re not going to do that,” he responded quickly and left the room to light his pipe.

I started to follow him. This was not how it was supposed to happen. My mother was not here to poison his imagination. I did not know what to do. “But, I’ve been practicing all of this time.” My voice became increasingly desperate.

“I said no, Katherine.”

That was it. There would be no discussion, no case to plead and no compromises. My father explained the incredible odds against me ever becoming successful as a skater, and roller skating was not even an Olympic sport. The rumors I had heard that it might become an Olympic event in 1980 had not materialized. Although many sports have been added to the Olympic schedule, roller skating of any sort is still not among them. California did not have a state lottery at that time, but if it did, my father would have suggested I buy a lottery ticket because the odds were better of me winning a million dollars than winning a medal that would catapult me into an skating career.

I may not have ever expected to be a champion. Being a world class athlete is probably a concept most kids fantasize about, but I just wanted to indulge my love of skating and entertain the limitless possibilities. I believed I had displayed my commitment by continuing to skate with virtually no support. I felt I earned the lessons. My father undoubtedly gave me some line about the expense of lessons and the fact that he could not afford to spend that amount of money on both of us. If he gave to me, he would have to give to Carole also. While we did not really know what lessons would cost, my father was not interested in finding out. I developed a complex that my parents did not think I was valuable as a person because I was not worthy of a financial investment. My father explained that he preferred to spend the money on college, which might actually do us some good in life. That was a well-rehearsed explanation that I later found to be completely empty. I did not go away to college nor was it an option. My father said the best I could hope to achieve as a skater was to get a job as a chorus girl in a traveling show while some famous name consumed all of the glory. It never occurred to him that I might be the celebrated skater starring in the production. That comment may have hurt me more than his refusal to enroll me in lessons, because he seemed to think I could attain no more than mediocrity. This conversation ended with me running to my room in tears.

The Friday afternoons changed after that brief conversation. I discovered boys and began to head down a path of rebellion. I dyed my hair black, pierced my ears, glued on long fingernails and started wearing strange clothes. I suppose I felt betrayed and worthless to my parents. I sought attention in less positive ways. Since my parents did not believe I was worthy of their love, kindness and commitment; I looked for someone who would.

While I continued to skate after that fateful afternoon, the time I spent practicing decreased as the months passed and I became involved in complex teenage relationships. I found that I excelled in foreign language study and thought I could pursue a college education in that field. Fantasies of championship skating dissolved into less productive fantasies about boys. As an adult, I would definitely prefer my daughter to spend her time and my money in a skating rink than necking with a horny young man at a football game. Of course, some athletes abandon their sports during the high school years if their commitment is not secure or they have become frustrated by lack of success. At fourteen years old, I realized that without the support of my family, continued dedication to skating constituted an exercise in futility. I lost hope. The dream was over. I stopped practicing my back camel and leaping ignorantly into the air expecting to land an axel.

As a grown woman, I have the type of relationship with my father that I had as an adolescent on those Fridays. This is not because I understand now that I am old and wise or because I have completely forgiven. In their unhappy marriage, my father was as much a victim as I was. My mother was a domineering woman who yelled and screamed wickedly when she wanted to win a battle, and she probably never lost one. According to my father, she had definitive ideas about what she wanted us to become. Deviations based on our own interests were unacceptable. Carole is the object of my mother’s pride. She became a medical doctor. My mother enjoys nothing more than telling someone her child is a doctor. I finally realized what my mother planned for our futures. She wanted us to attain prestigious positions as career women, an opportunity she never had. My father was obviously aware of this when he told me I could not take roller skating lessons because he explained the money was best saved for college. As it happened, my mother wanted us to go to college and earn impressive degrees, but she had no intention of making sacrifices for that either. Doctor Carole is now in phenomenal medical school debt.

The saddest aspect of my mother’s personality is that she believes she is incapable of error. Rather than respecting our individuality, she tried to force us down paths she wished she had chosen for herself. Carole walked that path readily. Superficially, I did too as I pursued graduate education. However, I still longed to skate and never felt fulfilled without it. I have witnessed the opposite situation in ice arenas during crowded Saturday morning freestyle sessions when parents shout at their children over the barriers and demand that they get their double axel. Living vicariously through one’s children is probably not an uncommon circumstance. Too many people regret what they never tried and believe it is too late to begin anew. Even at fourteen it was probably too late to become a world class skater, but it was not too late for my parents to acknowledge my individuality and respect my development into a self-aware young woman. I probably would have gone to the nearby state college anyway and earned a graduate degree, but I would have also taken great pleasure in my parent’s support. That was my mother’s grave mistake. She did not support me when I needed her the most.

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