An Autobiography of Sheryl Gladstone
by Sheryl Aronson
George would always challenge me to basketball games because I would beat him every time.
“Come On Sheryl, let’s play today,” and I would have to comply since I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
This afternoon we were at it again and I was hot – hitting the basket 15 feet out. George looked mad, but then again he always had that expression when he was losing. As I drove towards the basket, his elbow smashed me in the jaw and ….
Images spun around me. Where was I?
I was a little girl dressed in dungarees and a t-shirt. My father and I were playing catch with a baseball. He whipped the ball at me and I caught it confidently, then threw it hard back to him.
“Thatta girl. You’ll be a star one day,” he yelled.
Suddenly, I was sitting at my desk in school and thinking about what I wanted to do when I grew up. My fifth grade teacher asked us to write about our goals in life. I wrote: I want to be the first female baseball player and I want to be a writer. That sounded good to me.
“You’re in high school now. You must study hard and study even harder,” I heard my mother’s voice.
“You must read, read, and read. That’s how you’ll learn to write,” my English teacher hounded me.
“Hop on the sport’s merry-go-round. In the Fall play volleyball, and in the Winter play basketball, and in the Spring play softball,” urged my coach.
“Do it all, and do it well. You want to go to college, don’t you?” My inner voice pushed me forward.
“Congratulations on your graduation from Valhalla High School, and you did it all well,” said the principal.
“And what’s your major here at Boston University?” asked the handsome, young professor.
“English. I’m going to be a writer.”
He looked amused. “Another one. Let’s see what you can do. You’ve read Beowulf, haven’t you?”
“Wasn’t it two years ago you said you wanted to be an English major?” asked the handsome, young professor. “What have you learned?”
“That to be a writer is grueling, but I will keep at it.”
“And now what for the rest of your college studies?”
“I think I’ll try my hand at television and film.”
He looked sad. “You won’t forget us in the English Department now that you’re in the School of Communications?”
“Of course not. I always need a minor.”
“Personal expression is very important in this assignment. You must create a video piece in which you write, direct and produce,” the professor said.
I thought of the composition, Butterfly. It was a jazz piece by Herbie Hancock. The music was floating and floating. And there was Herbie Hancock sitting at the piano, his fingers touching the keys with mastery, developing different moods, and the music talked to me, and awakened new feelings, new ideas. As I listened, I imagined a butterfly breaking out of a cocoon and taking flight. How could I do this on camera? Begin with a close up of a dancer, as if an imaginary cocoon – take to camera 2 as she bursts out – super impose slides as she flies over the earth.
“This piece is excellent,” said the director of WNAC television. We all sat around the classroom as he critiqued each student’s work.
“So you want to be a writer?” I nodded my head, yes. “Here’s your first assignment,” said the World Tribune editor. “We need to show our readership what type of cultural center Boston is. The people in California should experience through your article what it’s like to live here. Your assignment – The Boston Pops.”
“You fancy yourself a writer, huh?” asked the West Coast Editor of Essence Magazine. Show me what you can do. Terri Lyne Carrington – jazz drummer – 12 years old – interesting. I’ll mentor you so this article will get published.
“Guess what? Soul Teen Magazine just wrote me and said they were interested in Terri’s article, ” I told my new colleague.
Can I make a living as a writer? But what about my passion for jazz? What about playing sports? These voices battled in my mind until the volume was so loud that I felt I would burst.
“All!” I’ll do all of them,” I screamed out into the Universe. ” I”ll write about jazz music and the artists that play the music. I’ll play sports until I can’t play anymore and maybe I’ll write articles about sports’ players too. So voices please stop.”
Silence.
“Sheryl, are you all right?” I recognized George’s voice. As I opened my eyes, he towered over me.
“Yes. I’m great.”
He helped me to my feet.
“You’re sure? You were out of it for a few minutes and seemed to be dreaming about something.”
I was now adjusting to being back on the basketball court and I felt a bit dizzy. However, as an athlete I shook it off so the game could continue. “Yes, I’m fine. Now where were we? I think I’m up 7-3.
He looked relieved. “Good, we can continue now because I feel I’m going to beat you this time.” He handed me the ball. “You haven’t won yet.”
Good ol George, I thought. He never lets me off the court without a challenge. Of course I won, 21-15. About being a writer? Let’s see what the future holds.
