That's My Girl

My daughter emailed me frantically, then called exactly 2 minutes later. She had been trying to write an essay for the Peace Corps for two weeks. The essay had to answer the following questions:

- What risks have you taken by using drugs and/or alcohol in the US?
- How would using drugs and alcohol in a foreign culture create risks different from those in the US?
Why is drug and alcohol behavior pertinent to the role of a Peace Corps Volunteer?

Now the reason the Corps picked on her in this particular manner is because of a little incident that happened the month after she turned 18 involving a car, a deep ditch, and a bit too much liquid courage. She has a very amusing tale about the night it happened when a woman appeared from nowhere and started screaming prayers that woke the neighborhood. She even made the cell in the county jail hysterical on retelling, especially the part about decking the prostitute who was sharing her cell when she tried to mess with my little firebrand. Well, it wasn’t so funny at the time, but looking back, you know.

Now my baby is the scientific logical type, with a brilliant mind and organizational skills second to none, plus a work ethic that even I find remarkable. She does however like to cut loose now and again, as you may already know from my previous posts. She works hard and plays hard and takes the knocks life hands her like the unconquerable woman she has become. If she had been asked to write a essay on say “Recumbent RNA as expressed in Neuromuscular Myocytes”, she would have performed brilliantly, but penitent stories are not her forte. Of course, I wrote the paper. I mean, I paid for the lawyer, the trial, and the fine. Did I mention my problems with enabling?In two hours I had 883 words of perfectly believable BS. One of my favorite words to describe this type of writing is “glamored”. I send the proof copy to her to revise if necessary. An email arrived twenty minutes later in which she tells me the piece had made her cry sitting right there in the internet café. This child did not cry in public when she broke her arm at age 7, at any point during the DUI arrest and trial, or when her fiancée was shot and killed during a robbery in Russia. What she did in private I don’t know, but she is not an overly emotional girl. So I post a reply to remind her that she shouldn’t start believing everything I write. It scares me when I rewrite history and people find it so much more palatable that the truth, especially the ones who are in the story. Fifteen minutes later I got the next email. She needs me to research the time she went for help for her eating disorder when she was 12. There is a form that the doctor she saw needs to fill out and get back in three days. Of course, I say yes, I’ll try to remember the name and get the form done.

After I sent the last email it occurred to me that I have been underestimating my daughter’s abilities at manipulation through the written word. One thing I learned on my father’s knee is there is no easier mark than a good salesman when they are confronted by one of equal merit. A smile of amusement and pride crosses over my face as I dig through the file drawer for her records. My girl will make her way.