How the Gift of Compassion Changed My Life

Difficult childhoods can engender emotional and mental strengths in those who endure them, though some carry their childhood wounds throughout their lives, never quite able to live fully. I survived a very troubled childhood as the only child of a schizophrenic single mother. My ability to persevere is due in large part to an immeasurable gift of compassion by a grammar school teacher, Mr. Wester, whose intervention made a world of difference in my life.

My mother, Catherine, was born in a small Mississippi town in 1940. When she was in grammar school, the family moved north to Chicago to escape Jim Crow laws and hoping to find greater opportunities. Life in the North went

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smoothly until my mother was in her last year of high school; that was when the first signs of trouble surfaced. My grandmother rarely talked about it, but when she did, there were stories of extreme mood swings prompting violent, erratic behavior.

These early signs were ignored and only whispered about in later years. My mother struggled with her illness to some degree through much of her life and although everyone in the family was reluctant to acknowledge my mother’s illness, she did get treated periodically—usually when some extreme event warranted intervention. Suicide attempts and, in one instance, shooting at my father were among the events that triggered hospitalizations.

There were rare periods of normality when some combination of prescription drugs produced calm, but these were always short-lived and the combination of her illness and alcohol abuse made maintaining the medication regimen impossible. I’d hear extended family members say she just needed to “get herself together” as if the madness was under her control and she could, in the blink of an eye, be better. I spent my childhood wondering who was crazy: my mother or my extended family. It didn’t make sense to me that she so obviously needed more help than she got and the sane people in her midst offered little.

I grew up in the shadows as my mother battled schizophrenia and the abuse and neglect it spawned seemed to go unnoticed. A punch, a kick, or a slap was never far off and it was impossible to feel safe when alone with my mother. Anytime she cooked my level of fear increased because I might have to dodge a hot skillet or another dangerous object. Simple, everyday tasks were nightmarish and many things were beyond my mother’s ability. Things like grocery shopping could turn into fist fights with clerks if she didn’t have enough money to pay for the items she wanted.

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My problems were not limited to home; I was picked on and teased mercilessly by the neighborhood kids. I faced fights on an almost daily basis, just trying to get home from school. To face my mother’s erratic behavior daily after the battles at school or enroute to home was overwhelming. All this brought a lingering sadness to my life, a personal cloud that went with me everywhere. This was my daily life growing up on the West Side of Chicago in the years immediately after the riots prompted by the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., when large swaths of the city burned.

What sort of chance would a scared little black girl with a schizophrenic mother and an absent father really have? I would not interact with the other kids at school unless I had to, and I was very quiet at home, doing everything I could not to anger or irritate my volatile mother. I had no real friends and I didn’t dare ask teachers or counselors for help even though I thought my mother and I needed it. I went to great lengths just to stay “under the radar” and out of everyone’s way.

Unbeknownst to me, someone was aware of my quiet distress and of the difficult conditions I was living in at home. One fateful day, my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Wester, called on me to read aloud a passage in class; I declined.

Mr. Wester later took me aside, fearing that I might not be able to read and asked me again to read the passage. I was happy to read it just to him. I did not dare read aloud in class because the kids teased me mercilessly, saying I spoke “like white folks.” I found it easier to say little in class.

After a few more questions about my mother, my family, and life at home, we returned to class. I didn’t think anything of this—what nine-year-old would have—but years later I found out that Mr. Wester made further inquiries, speaking with a school counselor who knew about my mother’s illness and our life at home.

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Mr. Wester took an active interest in my education, becoming a guardian angel of sorts, as he gave me books and nurtured a love of reading that lives on to this day. This was especially important for me because, aside from the Bible, we didn’t own any books. For the first time, I became aware that there were bookstores, where you could actually buy books and keep them. I felt privileged to go to the library, so this was really special. He helped me learn things I can’t imagine I could have learned otherwise; new doors were opened to me.

He occasionally treated me to a meal in a sit-down restaurant a huge treat to a poor kid—where we discussed what I was learning and the books I was reading. Mr. Wester also helped me with math, which was especially important, as it was never my best subject.

As my fourth-grade school year came to a close, Mr. Wester was preparing to leave to take another job and he did not believe I could succeed if I remained in my neighborhood school. He acted out of kindness, concern, and from a sense that I would succumb to the environment and the weight of my mother’s illness without an intervention.

Mr. Wester contacted my grandparents, who met him with suspicion and who weren’t initially open to his suggestion to move me to another school—a private school—where I could get attention and help. I’d also be removed from a neighborhood that “devoured” so many kids into a life of crime, drug abuse, gang violence, joblessness, or welfare dependence. Mr. Wester was able to convince my grandparents that my future hinged on a good education. After a lot of discussions, my grandparents met with school counselors, visited the proposed school, and finally agreed. Mr. Wester was able to convince my grandparents that my future depended on a better education than I’d get where I was and he paid my tuition, fees, and book expenses every year I attended private

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school.

At St. Mel’s Catholic School, I was surrounded by the children of middle class black families; I studied with kids whose parents were doctors, lawyers, executives, and architects. When my classmates’ parents came to school to talk about their careers, lives, and travels, their stories amazed me. Many of my classmates had both parents and their fathers were involved in their lives—I had only seen my father a couple of times!

The exposure to this allowed me to fantasize about a future where I could be like my classmates’ parents. I was able to see possibilities I could have never imagined without this experience. It had a lasting impression, even effecting the classes—particularly architectural drafting and debate—that I took in high school.

This small but critical intervention—the gift of compassion—opened the door to a very different world than the one I lived in with my mother. I saw what a middle class life could look like—and while at times it caused some sadness and jealousy given my family’s poverty, it also served as the fuel that propelled me forward. Every day presented me with a view of another world; it did not seem like an impossible leap to see myself in that world as an adult.

Now at 46 years old, I can clearly see the impact Mr. Wester’s kindness has had on my life. I attained a bachelor’s degree in philosophy. I have held leadership roles in financial services and now run a business of my own. Mr. Wester’s gift of compassion made the life I have today possible; as a result, I help others whenever and however I can. I understand how profoundly Mr. Wester’s kindness impacted my life; giving to others is my tribute to him. I’m a testament to the difference a gift of compassion can make.

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