A Memory
The trophy case, prominently displayed in the heart of the library, housed several silver tributes to student achievement. Academic success, merit awards, and athletic triumphs winked at me for a couple of years whenever I checked out a book with Mrs. Wingate, my elementary school librarian.
Beginning at ten-years-old, I yearned to have my name engraved on one of the largest trophies that read “Best Girl Athlete”. Besides my own pony, I didn’t want anything more. The trophy symbolized significance. Distinction. Athletic merit. Maybe someone would see me again. After my two-year-old baby brother went to heaven, I felt invisible and abandoned. I’ve written about this before and I understand now: how could my parents answer my questions when they couldn’t even answer their own? How could they make me understand what their own brains could barely comprehend?
“When a child dies, siblings are often referred to as the “forgotten mourners.” They are left to grieve their sibling while also experiencing what feels like the loss of their parents as they mourn. Siblings may experience a wide range of emotions, varying from sadness to anger and even seeming indifference.” Erin Bowen, MD
Also, as previously written, the impact of Van’s short life on my family and me is nothing short of profound. While shattered at the time, through self-reflection and self-determination, I have healed the majority of the wounds from Van’s death, even had the opportunity to reunite with his spirit on a few occasions – experiences that underscore how important it is for me to live now, in joy, with joy. He exists in a transcendent place and is the one who brought me to God. Believe me when I write that tears of jubilance stream down my face as I type these sentences. How grateful am I to know, to truly understand that the other dimensions, where our flesh doesn’t matter, prevail. His life was a gift and his spirit an everlasting blessing.
But I digress.
I couldn’t begin to comprehend much, if any, of this when I was a child. Children, like adults, grieve differently. Did I cry much? Was I withdrawn? Perhaps I was horrible to my parents. It really doesn’t matter now. I don’t remember too much about my life between ten and twelve, except that to erase my pain, I dove into athletics and being outside in nature as much as possible. As my final year of elementary school approached, I set my sights on that big silver trophy.
In the many rooms of my mansion of memories, I think this was the first time I believed I could manifest something, although I didn’t know that was what I was doing. It wasn’t going to be easy.
I had competition.
While I was athletic from spending the majority of my non-school hours climbing trees, riding bikes in our neighborhood, playing capture the flag or some version of tag, riding lessons, cleaning the barn once a week, and competitive swimming, I was by no means the best girl athlete. I could fail, yes, but that failure could never compare to the pain I had from losing Van. I really had nothing to lose. And a trophy with my name on it to gain.
Something changed in me after my brother died. A longing to prove that I was someone since I hadn’t been able to save my brother. I set my sights on that big, silver “Best Girl Athlete” prize. At my elementary school, Calvert School, every year in the spring was Field Day. Field Day occurred in order to showcase the well-roundness of the curriculum via sports competition – for the girls: relay races, sprints, hitting targets with softballs, and broad jumps. Blue, red, and yellow ribbons were awarded to the top three finishers. Participation awards weren’t a thing back then.
Additionally, when I was in elementary school during the seventies and early eighties, kids across the country also competed for the coveted Presidential Physical Fitness award. In order to win the badge, a circular royal blue embroidered emblem, you had to place in the 85th percentile performing pull-ups, sit-ups, a 50-yard dash, standing broad jump, softball throw, shuttle run, and 600-yard run. Plus, a student had to be in good standing and recommended by the head of the school. There was a higher badge if you made the 95th percentile.
Piece of cake.
Landing in the 85th percentile of my class came easily. Winning the big trophy, crowned number one, well, that was a horse of a different color. In my small class of twenty-three girls, there were four other girls who ran faster than I did. In order to win the trophy, not only would I have to be in the 95th percentile for the Presidential Physical Fitness award, but also, I would have to have at least four out of five blue ribbons from Field Day.
I wanted my name on that trophy.
vintage ad campaign for Presidential Physical Fitness award
More than anything, I think I wanted to show my parents that I was worth having around. As a parent now, I know nothing could be further from the truth. My parents definitely wanted me around, but it was the early 1980s and grief was more stigmatized. My middle brother and I didn’t go to counseling. I was given a pony to console me. I never blamed my parents. I blamed myself and if I could prove to everyone that I was the “best girl athlete” then maybe I would stop blaming me.
And so, I manifested it. For months I trained. Sprints, dashes, tosses, pullups on tree branches. Nothing stopped me. I won the trophy. I got four out of five blue ribbons. I reached the 95th percentile in the Presidential Physical Fitness awards when I was twelve years old.
Here’s the thing, while there is a trophy encased somewhere at the Calvert School in Baltimore, Maryland with my name “Tori Dukehart” engraved on it, the high of reaching the pinnacle was short lived. The trophy didn’t heal me. It was a bandaid on gaping hole in my heart. That identity of “Best Girl Athlete” didn’t much matter after June because I switched schools and had to start all over again. That identity was fleeting. A new Tori had to be realized. And I’m fairly certain that no one in my life, minus my mom and dad, know or even care about that mountain I climbed. My legacy isn’t going to be the silver trophy. It’s going to be how I make people feel while tending to my own soul’s purpose — which is not an award.
What is important is that that experience taught me about the journey, not the pinnacle. Perseverance comes from within us. The rush we feel when we win the trophy, make the team, land a huge bonus, or cross the finish line first are extraordinary but also temporary. It is the small, everyday positive moments that must also be noteworthy. When we experience our lives, the everyday activities using our heart, we experience our values, our emotional truths and falsehoods, our relationships and connections, and the meaning of life.
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