Becoming a Counselor. Samuel T. Gladding
social issues did you observe as an adolescent that you wanted to change? What have you done about these issues since you have become an adult?
3 How has your family’s history made an impact on you for better or worse? How does your family’s history still have an impact on you today?
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Section 3
Becoming as a Young Adult
Bittersweet
In the cool grey dawn of early September,I place the final suitcase into my Mustangand silently say “good-bye”to the quiet green beauty of North Carolina.Hesitantly, I head forthe blue ocean-lined coast of Connecticutbound for a new position and the unknown.Traveling with me are a Sheltie named Eliand the still fresh memories of yesterday.…Moving in life is bittersweetlike giving up friends and fears.The taste is like smooth, orange, fall persimmons,deceptively delicious but tart.
© 1982, Samuel T. Gladding
Young adulthood is a time of establishing an identity. It is a time of finding what you want to do as an adult. Sometimes the choices are obvious, such as choosing a musical career if your talents lie in music. At other times, deciding what to do as an adult is much harder, and young adults agonize about choices and what to do next. In such cases they may take a gap year, join the military, seek out an apprenticeship, or simply drift. Choosing something permanent to do with one’s life is not easy, for once an individual starts a journey into the future, it is hard to change it, and the impact on personal well-being grows exponentially with each year that passes.
The vignettes in this section are about decisions, such as going to college, being involved in activities, accepting decisions, making amends, and starting something new. The choices of young adulthood are about coming of age and maturing.
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Chapter 30 Greeks, Geeks, Freaks, and Misfits: I Wish There Had Been Romans!
I did not start college at Wake Forest University, where I finished my undergraduate degree. Rather, I started at Stetson University and then transferred there. I went to Stetson because it was a small Baptist college and I planned to be a minister. I had not visited, but the pictures looked good. However, I soon learned that the pictures did not tell the story.
Instead of being vibrant and dynamic, campus life at Stetson in the early 1960s was as placid as a lake. Besides the campus flicks on Friday or Saturday nights, there was not a lot to do as a first-year student if you were not in a fraternity or sorority. Realizing this fact, I decided I would go Greek. However, the Greeks decided otherwise. I had been popular in high school, so I had some confidence when I went out to rush. There were eight fraternities with about 40 to 50 guys in each. Thus, I thought, “No problem.” I should have thought again.
The first time I rushed was in the fall semester of my first year. I did not receive an invitation back to any of the houses, let alone a bid to join one of the groups. I was amazed, shocked, and more than disappointed. Determined, I rushed two more times: once in the spring semester of my first year and then again in the fall semester of my sophomore year. History repeated itself. Ouch! I did not understand why.
It did not occur to me until years later that I may have lacked “packaging,” that is, height. At 5 feet 2 inches, I was not of average height, and for men in fraternities then being of average height was the first step in having your ticket punched to join. Thus, my stature ruled me out from being a part of the Greek system. The pictures of the groups in the yearbooks of the time seem to back up my hypothesis . . . although let’s face it, maybe I had bad breath!
I realize through the experience how important an environment is in thriving. Although Greeks, geeks, and even a few freaks did well at Stetson, misfits did not, and I was a misfit. I blamed myself initially but carried on in my family’s tradition of keeping a stiff upper lip. I made my grades, wrote for the student newspaper, and worked on a committee of the Student Union. Outside of these activities, I had a less than exciting and desirable college life. I was in a social desert. Thus, I decided to transfer because it was too painful being in such an atmosphere. I had an opportunity to move on.
Diversity and openness matter. They create options. I wish for the place and time I began college that there had been Romans!
Chapter 31 A June Night in December
When I was 18, as is true with many male adolescents, I was infatuated with a young woman and yet scared to death to ask her for a date. Her name was June and she was 16 (going on 17). I found her warm name and personality inviting. Best of all, she lived just a couple blocks from my parents’ house. When I went off to college, we exchanged letters and she took the initiative and asked me to the Snow Ball, a wonderfully exciting dance in December that was completely misnamed because we lived in Georgia. I enthusiastically accepted.
On the night of the grand occasion, I picked her up, and after chatting with her folks for a few minutes we made our way to the car. I could tell that romance, rather than any frozen precipitation, was in the air. Her eyes were as dilated as mine, which was probably the reason for what happened next.
I opened the car door for June, and after she slipped in gracefully I closed the door behind her with a flare and quickly, yet lightly, walked around to my side of the car (knowing I was on the street where she lived). After getting in, I looked over at her, expecting romantic glances and maybe even a kiss, but to my astonishment she was crying.
“Oh no,” I thought. Like any 18-year-old boy I did not know what to do when a girl cried. I had been assured by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons on the radio that “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” and I thought June was a big girl. However, I had sense enough to ask what was wrong, as her tears had sobered me up enough to realize that this enchanted evening just might be different from what I had planned.
“Why are you crying?” I asked. “Are you filled with emotion and riveted with thoughts of you and me?”
“No,” she sobbed.
“Did you just think of something unpleasant?” I queried.
“No,” she insisted.
“What is it then?” I finally said in an open and inquiring manner.
“You just slammed the car door on my hand!” she blurted out.
Sure enough, to my dismay, as I looked up I realized that not only had I slammed her hand in the car door but it was still caught there. Thus, like an Olympic sprinter, I was out of my seat, on my feet, and around to try to relieve the pressure faster than you could say “emergency room,” which is where we ended up that night.
As embarrassing as this night was, it was not the end of my relationship with June. When she got the bandages off I visited and wrote her a sappy poem. She liked the attention and her hand finally healed. I still occasionally encounter her, but she keeps her distance, as if I might handle the occasion in the wrong way again. The faux pas of that night lives on.
I look back occasionally in reflection on that time—a hard night that still gives me chills. It is a memory of teenage awkwardness and growth. June is a reminder that the way to a young woman’s heart is not through her hand! However, events that go wrong can turn out better in the long run than they appear at first. That goes for mistakes we make in counseling as well as blunders we make in life. Time and attention to aspects of our lives that are hurt or shattered can do much to make them better.
Chapter 32 The Lakes of Wake
After transferring to Wake Forest, I quickly became involved in a number of activities.