Edited (Sample)

One day, I let part of this sentiment slip into my attitude about chores. I was in charge of mopping the hardwood kitchen floor. When my dad came to me later and asked me why it was done so poorly, I shrugged and said, “I did it. That’s all I can do,” implying a subpar mopping job was the extent of my ability. (Let me let you in on a secret. I never said “that's the best I can do” when it came to doing anything I wanted to do–and my Dad knew it.) He proceeded to lecture me for 45 minutes as he watched me mop the floor again, three more times, until I passed (and it felt more like seven times). His speech could be summarized like this: “Remember, George Washington Carver got the opportunity to study because he worked doing laundry and on a farm. You’re privileged these days. I used to be a janitor when I was in college, and I took great pride in my work.” And finally, the sentence that got me thinking, “everything you do is linked to your good name.” 

 As I looked down, sweaty now, at the gleaming kitchen floor, something clicked. I had forgotten the source of my apathy toward subpar results. His final point reminded me. My Dad was sharing with me a philosophy he lived by. Doing everything with thoroughness, focus, and to his best ability, because his actions directly shaped his life, his character, and his “good name”. His Dad had also said similar things that my Dad distilled for himself, like “you had better not embarrass the good Coleman name.” And what I heard was, if everything I do can add or detract from my name, then the meaning alone doesn’t matter much. 

In my favorite books, my favorite characters were considered Plain or weird by their family or peers. Think Anne, from Anne of Green Gables, and Josephine, Jo,  from Little Women. I liked them because, despite what they were told, and despite what people around them wanted for them or didn’t want for them, they advocated for themselves until they got what they wanted.