I've told you about how I've got a chance to finish my college degree at the University of Pennsylvania. That's a fantastic development for me, offering a chance to put a fitting closure on a chapter of my life which has haunted me for several decades.
But the Penn degree is not my ultimate goal — it would only give me a greater chance to advance as part of a bigger picture.
So what is the bigger picture?
I think of my father when I consider that question.
"Do what it takes to develop," my father had directed me on many occasions. "You already know everything you need to know."
I remembered those words when I landed in Skid Row.
One of the byproducts of substance abuse is a lack of confidence. It is one of the terrifying truths that addicts realize after we thaw out from anesthetizing ourselves. We train ourselves to be undisciplined, a contradiction of tragic proportions.
I had more than 25 years of such training.
Self-confidence, on the other hand, is built upon discipline, constancy and consistency. It is earned, not given. I ignored that maxim along the way to a haze of crack and a hard landing in Skid Row.
I still had the benefit of the training my father provided, though. My father was an educator, and he knew what it took to develop confidence and talent. He worked diligently to develop mine. He taught me to read and write at a very early age. I learned to play chess at the age of six, figuring out how to approach problems from different angles. My father stressed the fundamentals in the many sports he coached. I grew up with tremendous confidence. I believed there was nothing I could not do. I was fearless.
Here's one of the ways I earned that self confidence:
My father was a summer camp counselor for the Crenshaw YMCA in South Los Angeles, and he often oversaw boys on back-packing expeditions in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. The outings were limited for to the 17 and 18 year olds, but I was able to go along at a much younger age thanks to my father's position as a camp supervisor.
The program was a rigorous — a five mile hike up the side of mountain in the Mammoth Lake region. Everyone carried their own supplies and sleeping bag.
On one trip, when I was 12, my father took the lead up the mountain. He had a cast on his leg from ankle to hip. Why did he climb? He loved the mountains and wanted to demonstrate that nothing should prevent me from accomplishing my goals. Though I was only twelve, he was confident I knew what to do in any situation and make sure everyone kept the pace up the hill. He ordered me to take the rear of approximately 70 teenagers.
At one point the hike became exceptionally grueling. A heat wave arrived as we hit a very steep portion of the climb. Many of the boys were not exercising discipline in managing their water — their canteens were empty with four hours more to go. A couple of 17-year-olds fell out on the side of the trail, crying that they could not take another step.
My father, with cane in hand, limped back to check on the holdup. He asked me what was going on.
"They refused to take another step dad," I barked.
My father stood for a second, figuring out what to do.
Clearly the boys could not carry their backpacks another step. We could not leave them there — but we were on a time schedule to get to the next plateau.
Suddenly my father pointed to the two boys whining on the side of the road and said: "You two get up and come with me. Leave your backpacks here."
Then he pointed to me with a no-nonsense look in his eyes: "Walter, you carry the two back-packs."
Anticipating an eruption of protest from me, he continued, "I don't care how you feel about it. Do it!!!"
He turned and walked away. I could see him smiling — he knew I was about to curse him under my breath.
I was angry and yet so proud. I knew what my father was doing. He was giving me advanced training. He also needed me to help him out of a precarious situation. I was the only person on whom he could depend. After staring at him in disbelief while he made his way back to the front of the line, I had two guys assist me in placing the two fully loaded backpacks on my shoulders, joining my own. I marched up that mountain with straps cutting into me while I baked under the relentless sun. I cursed my dad every single step of the way up that mountain.
Little did I know how much I would thank him years later.
More on that next week.
Walter Melton is a writer for the L.A. Garment & Citizen.
Visit Walter Melton's blog at www.scribeskidrow.blogspot.com.
Photo from Wikimedia Commons
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