When I Grow Up

Up, old, be, do.

Perhaps never in the history of humanity has a story opened with those four words.

During my pre-teen years—perhaps before my age reached double-digits, while my two brothers were off doing other things, I frequently accompanied my Mom, Carol Healy, on shopping trips to Duluth, Minnesota.

Groceries.  Clothes. Supplies. 

On one such trip, I had been watching the peculiar, repetitive interaction of rain with windshield wiper blades when she posed life’s most difficult question.  Well, at least at that time, it was.

It wasn’t about school.  It wasn’t about girls.  It wasn’t about sports.

Just a simple question. 

What do you want to be when you grow up?

My brain went into overdrive.

“Do you, Tommy Smith, solemnly swear that you will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of your ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States?” 

“I do.”

“Tommy Smith has this five-foot putt for birdie on the 72^nd hole of The Masters to break a tie with his playing partners, Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer, to win his first professional golf tournament.”

“Thank you for joining CBS News for our live coverage of the Apollo 11 mission to the moon. My name is Walter Cronkite.   What a day this has been.  Twenty minutes ago, Neil Armstrong became the first human to walk on the moon. We are now waiting for Tommy Smith to join him. We are getting a report that he is finishing a sandwich before stepping down the ladder of the LEM.”

“Goldsworthy crosses the blue line, chips a pass to J.P. Parise.  Parise to Smith.  Smith speeds around Bobby Orr, he shoots, he scores!  Tommy Smith has scored in overtime of Game 7 of the Stanley Cup playoffs to give the Minnesota North Stars their first championship!”

After a few minutes of stone-silent contemplation, my Mom asked, “Well?”

I offered the following profound response:

“I dunno’.”

That was my answer for more than 30 years.

I think astronaut was probably my first choice back in those early days.

Eat breakfast.  Put your space suit on.  Hop into the Airstream with the other astronauts for the trip to the launchpad.  Take the elevator up to the gantry.  Squeeze into the capsule. Buckle your seat belt.  Take a few laps around the Earth, looking out the window the whole time.

“Hey, there’s Lake Superior!”

Slingshot out of Earth orbit to the moon.  Walk around. Rocket liftoff from the moon.  Splashdown in the warm Pacific Ocean. Tickertape parade in New York City.

Seemed easy enough.  Where do I sign up?

Little did I know, there was a wee bit more to becoming an astronaut than eating Space Food Sticks and drinking Tang.

The beauty of childhood. Reconciliation between dreams and reality was deferred.  But for most of us, those youthful dreams were knocked down like bowling pins.  Not necessarily all at once. Perhaps they’d wobble around for a few moments—or a few years, before toppling over.

• I’m not good enough to be a professional golfer.
• I’m not good enough to be a professional hockey player.
• I’m not talented enough to become an astronaut.
• I’m not smart enough for this, no longer interested in that.

As each one fell, it was time to recalibrate yet again.  Facing those realities was hard.

What do you want to be when you grow up?  The question always felt career-oriented. I never thought to answer it with:  Be married. Be a father. Be a stepfather. Be successful.

One oddity of our society revolves around what it means to be “successful.”  A pressure-packed word that motivates and haunts so many, for much of their lifetimes.  The word can evoke elation, satisfaction and happiness yet also frustration, depression, and–where failure to achieve so-called success occurs–can lead to troubled relationships.

Almost always, “success” means one thing—how much money a person earns–as if being a good person, a good spouse, doing your best to raise a good family, serving your country, serving others, helping the community, making the best of whatever abilities you were born with, living a quiet peaceful life doesn’t warrant one to be called “successful.”

It should.

Finally, who was the mastermind behind 1970s era aptitude tests? We answered a handful of questions, then the Univac kicked-out a punch card with its recommended careers.  One career recommendation has remained unforgettable:

“Mortician.”

A noble career, indeed.  But which of my specific answers to which specific questions led to that conclusion? 

What about astronaut? 

I departed the high school counselor’s office more confused than when I arrived.