Outstanding Performance

On Wednesday, April 18, I won a pen at the Dale Carnegie course that I am taking for work training requirement fulfillment.  The pen says “Outstanding Performance,” and was awarded to me after telling a story about a “defining moment” for me.  The award was partly for how I told the story (public speaking is one of the components of the course, and I am comfortable doing that) and partly, I think, for the courage it took for me to tell the story in front of about 25 people.

I have never told the full story to anyone but my parents, who are now gone, so telling it in front of a group was, itself, I suppose, a defining moment.  I decided to write the story and tell it here on my blog.  The story does make some people feel uncomfortable, which is why I have never spilled it in its entirety--most people would be too shocked to continue asking questions about the full sequence of events.

Let me preface this story with some background.  I have been an “outstanding performer” my entire life.  I began teaching myself to play the piano when I was 4.  I had my IQ tested when I was in first grade, and it was at that time near 150.  My Dad wanted the grade school to skip me at least 2 grades, but they would not do it, citing my lack of emotional maturity.  That was probably a smart move on the school’s part, since to this day I still consider the social graces one of my weaker points.

I was at the head of the class intellectually from then on through high school.  I was fast-tracked formally beginning in fifth grade, and was able to study higher level Spanish, math and English on my own, with minimal help from the teachers.  I rarely needed to be told to not raise my hand in class—the teachers knew that I always knew the answers, but I didn’t want to always be stealing the show or making the other kids look dumb.

As much as I made an effort to not stand out, you know how kids are—I was known as the smart girl who got all the attention from the teachers.  There was really nothing I could do to change anyone’s mind, but I began to feel increasingly separated from everyone else.  I had one or two close friends that were cool with me, and I did normal play stuff for my age.

In seventh grade, I switched to the junior high school and for the first time, encountered some teachers who were put off by my intelligence, as about this time, I began to challenge some of what was being taught, particularly in literature interpretation.  This was entertaining to me that a kid could intimidate a teacher, but I didn’t sweat it.  About this same time, I finally escaped my physical spazziness.  I still remember being able to turn my first cartwheel, and I joined the intramural girl’s basketball team and played center!  Can you believe that?  We won, and puny little me was at the center of it all!

I continued to be fast-tracked in English, Spanish and math, but sat through other classes at my grade level, even though I was typically bored.  Still, I understood the value of a broad education. 

Next, I began attending high school.  Apparently, the entire faculty hadn’t been debriefed on this smart girl and how they would need to give me special treatment unless they wanted an ugly situation on their hands.  All along to this time, Dad made sure that no teacher stood in the way of my ability to continue excelling and marching ahead of the other kids my age.  I remember being placed into freshman Spanish, and the teacher, Senor Llerandi (his son is Mike—a really good triathlete!), instantly recognizing that I was far ahead (like 4 years) of the other students.  He instantly took me under his wing and was happy to give me advanced study and allow me to tutor other students.

The same thing happened in freshman math—whatever that curriculum was!  There was a kid, Steve, that could tell I was far ahead of the class, and he must have felt intimidated because he told me he was taking Russian and German, which I guess he thought were far more difficult than Spanish, and wanted to hold that over me.  So I signed up for Russian and German, not to challenge him, but to challenge me.  Within maybe 2 weeks, the teachers for those languages could see the innate talent I had for picking up languages, and I promptly flew to the head of those classes and ended up tutoring other kids.  I recall being able to think in all 3 languages at the same time, and sometimes would mix and match what came out of my mouth!  It was fun for me, but easy—languages are structured concepts with rules and such, much like math, so it felt normal to me to study 3 at once.

I loved the studies, I loved helping the other kids along, but still this was high school, so if I had felt like I’d been singled out before for being the smart girl, it was even more apparent now.  Somewhere in the background, the faculty was made aware of me—partly because I was pretty unique in the school, and partly because I’d had 2 brothers and a sister attend the same high school ahead of me, and they were pretty smart, too, but I was going far beyond them.  I remember a few times during my first weeks of high school being asked by a teacher, “are you ’s sister?”  It was probably annoying to my brother Mike, who was 2 years older than me and in the same school while I was there.  He never told me what anyone else said to him—we weren’t very close at the time.

The one fun part of high school for me was that there was a handful of other kids who excelled in math, and we were put into classes with older kids, so at least I wasn’t alone in that area being singled out for throwing the curve on all tests!  We were geeky nerds before it became fashionable!  Math was my favorite subject.

I took Advanced Placement tests in English and math, and scored really high on them.  I had my pick of several colleges to attend, all offering me full academic scholarships, and one that offered me a combined music/math program tailored to me.  I forget to mention that I was a pretty good piano player, but I didn’t give it as much attention as I gave to my studies, and didn’t feel I was receiving adequate coaching in that area to major in it, so I concentrated on my academics instead.

I ended up choosing Northwestern University, partly because it was close to home, and my parents didn’t have money for me to be flying around the country.  I also wanted to attend a college with a student body bigger than my high school (there were about 3,000 students at the time I graduated high school) so that I could just blend into the masses and not be known as the smart girl anymore.

I had a full academic scholarship to NU the entire time I was there.  I’d saved some money up for extracurricular activities by working during high school.  Let me backtrack a bit.  I’d learned to type while in seventh grade, and it came naturally to me as I’d been playing piano since I was very young.  Within about a week in the class, I was over 80 words per minute, and I quickly got up to about 125.  My Mom was super fast at typing, but I exceeded her, and being my Mom, she couldn’t exactly be jealous of me, now could she? 

I attended summer school from seventh grade through sophomore high school because, well, I loved school!  But junior year of high school, I got my first job working at a fabric store.  I loved it, because I’d taught myself to sew when I was in seventh grade (mostly because my Mom no longer had time to make my clothes and I wanted to relieve her of that obligation), and it was fun to be immersed in a store where I could help others choose nice things and offer advice on material and patterns.  The summer before college, Mom got me a job at Allen Aircraft in Elk Grove Village as a typist.  Once again, I showed up, was the fastest typist they had ever seen, and this alienated a few other girls, as I received all sorts of attention for my talents.  And my looks.  By this time, I’d gone from dark brown hair to very light blond, and I’d slimmed down after the puberty had put some fat on me.  I won’t go into what the result of my then looks were, but let’s just say I didn’t suffer for men’s attention!

So I’d saved money from working in high school—the first thing I bought was contact lenses, and the next thing was a bicycle—a white, Italian Casati.  I liked biking here and there, and the bike I’d had since fifth grade was defunct, so I was pretty happy to have a new, really cool 10-speed!  I wanted a bike that I could easily carry up stairs.  If I recall, that bike cost like $250 at the time, and was considered fairly high end.  I gave it away about 5 years ago, as it was just collecting dust.

When I got to NU, I ended up pledging a sorority, Delta Zeta, and because I wanted to live in the house and needed to pay dues, I found a part-time job working for a genetics professor.  Initially, I was pre-med (I ended up changing to math major during junior year, and if I had done that sooner, could have had a Masters degree in 4 years--oh well!), and while I studied hard, I had decided that I wanted to have fun in college and a bit more of a social life than I’d had through high school.  My sophomore year, I was elected Social Chairman of the sorority, and my first order of business was to demand a bigger budget for parties!

Can you imagine me as a Social Chairman?  While I wasn’t particularly good at making friends, which I think was one of the drivers behind joining a sorority in the first place, since it gives you instant friends, I thought I’d challenge myself by becoming Social Chairman and seeing how I could contribute in that area.  I did a great job, but it was a lot of work in addition to my studies and my job, so I gladly passed the baton on that after a year. 

I did OK in college, but was OK not getting straight A’s.  I was one of the valedictorians in high school (there were 5 if I recall correctly), but when I got to NU, I was surrounded by people of that caliber, which was so much fun for me.  So I had successfully achieved becoming a small fish in a big pond. 

The first week I arrived at NU for new student week, I was registering for classes and was puzzled that they wouldn’t let me into sophomore math and English.  I went to the registrar, and they told me they had no record of my AP tests!  Also they said that I would need to take a foreign language, as I hadn’t taken any in high school!  WTF???

Rather than try and cut through red tape, I thought, fuck it, I will sit for your stupid placement tests.  So I did.  I sat for Spanish, math and English.  I proved handily that I knew my Spanish, and I placed into sophomore level math and English.  I ended up being bored in the math class (some bullshit calculus) and skipping most of the classes.  The professor did not like this, and called me to his office (I did show up for tests).  He said I would need to sit for a special final exam that he would make up for me.  I was like BRING IT, and had to take the exam sitting in his office.  We had 4 hours, and I was finished in an hour, and I aced it 100%.  When that same professor called me to review the test results with him, he admitted he understood that I had a special talent for math, and he asked me what I planned to do with it.  He put the seed of actuarial science into my head, I mentioned it to my Mom, and she knew a woman whose husband was an actuary, and long story short, I got a job working at Towers Perrin consultancy (now part of Watson Wyatt) while I was still in college.

Sorry I am taking twists and turns here, but the math professor that made me sit for the special calculus class was again my professor during senior year of college for the Measure Theory class, and he also taught the Probability and Statistics class for math majors, which I was also taking.  I took P&S to help with the actuarial exams, and was taking the theoretical basis for it at the same time!  The professor loved me and would often ask questions in the P&S class that he knew only I could answer.  Interesting turn of events, don’t you think?

So I was lucky to get a great paying job while I was still in college at Towers Perrin (well, it really wasn’t so much luck as seizing an opportunity), and the intent was for me to go full time upon graduation, which I did.  I couldn’t believe I had landed there at the salary they gave me just for doing stuff I liked doing!  Initially, I just went to their office to see what actuaries did, but as soon as I walked in the door, they handed me a job application, so I filled it out.  At first, they didn’t hire me because they didn’t think I’d had enough programming (I had one class in FORTRAN in college), but one man who interviewed me thought I was something special, so he arranged an interview with the owner (the company was privately held for many years).  The owner was really impressed with me, and I was hired.  The job was all math, and I learned programming there and got to work with some really super smart people, so I was in hog heaven!  I got my own apartment in Chicago near Loyola University and took the El downtown every day for work.

And now I get to the story I told last week at Dale Carnegie, although this written version will be much longer—I only had 2 minutes to speak last week.

I was 25 years old.  It was January, and I was walking home from work.  I was wearing a dress I had sewn—a one-piece made of a copper and white print.  It was my favorite dress at the time.  I was wearing a coat that I had made.  My Mom had given me a really cool coat of hers that I wore out during college, but loved the unique design, and so I took it apart and remade the coat with all new fabric.  It had an ermine collar, and I loved wearing that on it, too.

I got to the door to my apartment building and put the key in the lock.  Immediately, I felt the sharp blade of a knife on my neck, and something metal against the side of my head.  I figured it was a gun.  There were two men.  They made me walk with them, with the knife and gun on me, up to my apartment.  First they wanted all my money.  I did not carry much cash on me, but I gave it to them—I think it was $30.  They insisted I must have more in my apartment, so they began ransacking it.  One of them emptied every drawer and closet and box while the other kept the weapons on me.

Next they made me strip and they began raping me one at a time.  Over and over.  While telling me that I was the cause of all their problems, being white and rich (they were black).   While holding the gun to my head and the knife at my throat.

All I could think was 2 things: 1) I need to disassociate my body from this and stay within my mind and 2) with my mind going full force, I have to figure a way out of this.  I was raped over and over for 3 hours.  I did not cry.  I did not let myself feel what they were doing to me physically.  But I could not let my mind give up and give in to the tirades of these people.  I never once acknowledged that I was responsible for any of their situation.  I can’t remember exactly what I said to them, other than I recall steering them around to the thought that I would let them walk out of here and they would never be found.  They were both wearing stockings over their faces, and I doubted that I could identify them anyway.  I had a bigger objective in mind which was to stay alive.

It turned out that one of them was the “leader” and the other was just along for the ride.  The assistant ended up telling me that this wasn’t his idea, and that he thought that they should let me go.  Somehow I appealed to this man and convinced him that all would be OK, that they could take whatever they wanted, but to please go.  At this point, I suppose it didn’t matter whether they killed me or not.  I just wanted it to be over.  I’d already had my dignity stripped away.  I didn’t care about any of my material possessions—all I cared about was my life.  I didn’t have any of those “life flashing before your eyes” sensations—it was just one of pure survival instinct.  I also didn’t have a sense of time during this—they’d taken the watch off my hand right away, and I was being held in the living room where there were no clocks.  I was living moment to moment.  I knew that nothing could be worse than this current moment, but I had no time to engage in hatred or self-pity.  Those things would not save me.  I did not pray.  God would not save me—what would save me would have to be ME and me alone.

Near the end of the ordeal, these men took my TV and my sewing machine out the door, of course, while one was keeping watch over me.  They did not take my bike.  The only memory I have of the actual rape was at this time—the assistant had his dick in me telling me it was going to be OK.  He even told me I was pretty.  I can remember lying there looking up at this person--no doubt with a rather vacant stare--and despite my physical circumstance, knowing he was telling me the truth. A few minutes later, he got up and out of me, and left.  I waited maybe 1 minute before I got up off the floor and ran to the back door and locked it, called the police and threw some clothes on.  My apartment was in shambles.  My favorite dress was tossed on the floor, but I still had it, and the beautiful coat I had made was still there.  I was still the same person who had walked home from work that day wearing those clothes and smiling.  I called Mom and Dad.  I could barely tell them what had happened.  They met me at the hospital where I was taken by the police to be examined and cleaned up.  I was a mess.

But I was alive.  I didn’t know it right then—it took a few years—but by surviving that, I knew I was able to do anything I ever wanted to do. And nobody was ever going to beat me down or take anything from me that they did not have the right to take.  Despite having experienced true evil, I have never harbored any bigotry towards black men or any particular person.  What happened to me was two scarred people and a random act of violence.  They were never caught, but judging from how drugged up they were, I am sure they did not live very long.

But I did.  I suppose this is one of the reasons I became drawn towards endurance sports.  I try not to act jaded when someone tells me of the “suffering” they experienced during a marathon or Ironman, or even longer distance events.   I try not to roll my eyes when yet another person tells me I am crazy, or calls me a mutant, or expounds on how they would never train the way I do (even though I know they often wish they could).   I am not sure anyone would really want to have had the experience I had that would give them the mental fortitude to think of a 5-hour ride on the trainer, that I will do today, as “no big deal.”  It really isn’t.  To me. 

I no longer have that dress.  I wore the shit out of it.  Every single time I wore it, I knew I was strong.  And beautiful.  And that no external event would ever define me.  Not violence, not some race, not the pretty flowers that grow in my yard, not the beautiful bikes that I own and love to ride, not anything on the outside.  But that is what most people see and want to believe about me.  Inside me is this person who is strong and loving and compassionate.  That is how I like being viewed.

I still have the coat.  I rarely wear it, but when I do, I remember what we have gone through together.  I bought the same sewing machine to replace the one that was stolen.  I still have it!  I still sew on it, but up until this moment, it has never reminded me of what happened.  It is just a thing.  I bought the same TV to replace the one that was stolen.  It only died 5 years ago.  The same year that Dad died.  It was just a TV.  When Dad died, I felt worse than when I had been raped.  Grief is mental pain.  Mental pain is far worse than the physical pain I’d experienced. 

When 9/11/2001 happened, it was shortly after I did my first Ironman in Lake Placid. That is the only time that the remembrance of my rape and robbery came back to me full force.  I couldn't stop watching the news stories about the people on the airplanes that were crashed into the Twin Towers or onto the ground.  I knew exactly what it felt like to be faced with the ultimate senseless act of violence, but to remain strong and keep one's integrity.  There were days during that week when I just went outside and screamed at the top of my lungs, "I KNOW HOW YOU FELT" even though those people who died on those airplanes couldn't hear me.  I knew they had died remaining true to themselves and their country and their fellow man.  What those people did was heroic.  What I did was self-preservation.  

I hate it when people call someone a hero for just doing what it takes to save themselves--like lose weight, overcome an addiction, or pick themselves up after a life-changing event.  That is not an act of heroism.  That is mental fortitude.  I am surely not a hero.  I saved myself.  That's all.  But sometimes by saving yourself, you can help save others, and so I guess part of my mission on Earth is to help others save part of themselves in some small way.  The way I try and do that is by showing others what can be done.  If it comes off at times as arrogance, good genetics or luck, I don't really care.  I know where it comes from.  It comes from within, plain and simple.

I suppose it’s appropriate that during the year in which I have lofty triathlon goals that I would step up and tell this story.  It’s been 30 years since it happened, and I truly don’t think of it very often, but I feel good that I was able to tell the story in public, both in person, and now here.  Maybe you see a different side of me now.  Please don’t pity me.  Hell, I am just happy to be alive!  And if I can kick some ass at the races this year, well, that is just so much more icing on my cake!