6 minute read
Godsmack Kathy Polich
I love it when I get gobsmacked or what I like to call
GODSMACK
By Kathy Polich
This week I ran face-first into a moment of gratitude. The event leads back to one of the most beneficial Rules of the Mind you can implement: Reject criticism and let in praise. It’s been a few months since I shared any of the Rules of the Mind. These concepts aren’t new to you but packaged with a different spin. Throughout my studies of Rapid Transformational Therapy and becoming a certified hypnotist, I enjoyed this take on some of the classic lessons learned during your life. Download the Gallup Journey App and check my earlier articles for a recap.
Now, back to rejecting criticism. Make sure to distinguish this from the inability to be corrected if you are wrong. I’m speaking of the harsh, hurtful words that sting our core. The most common form of delivery for detrimental comments is through self-criticism. If you remember from an earlier article, our mind believes everything we tell it; good or bad, right or wrong, true or untrue. The most important thing is to tell yourself good things. That starts with self-praise.
I was born in Gallup. My Polich side came from Croatia over 100 years ago, with deep roots that blew in on coal dust from the Gibson Mine and planted at McGaffey along with potatoes. My siblings went to GHS, just like my parents before them. I always thought I would be a Bengal too. In the ‘80s, most kids in this town thought that was a given. The railroad had other plans and transferred my dad during my 8th-grade year. I was uprooted and transplanted to the valley by the Rio Grande and started my first year as a Belen Eagle. The transition took work. I was homesick for my friends and family in Gallup. Life went on, and soon, I had traded in my family legacy of orange and black for maroon and yellow. Back home, I enjoyed school. Great teachers and coaches molded and influenced me. Once we moved, that was only sometimes the case. I had a few standout teachers in high school. Notable being Mrs. Turley, who was also
a railroad transplant from Gallup. I learned to love storytelling from her. If she reads this, I’m getting a thrashing. She is a stickler for grammar and punctuation. I have adopted a less formal approach. I’m sorry, Bev, you are still the master! I hope that makes up for it! I only connected with some of the teachers and coaches I came across at BHS. I had one in particular, that made me cringe sometimes.
Basketball was second place in my life only to rodeo. I struggled to navigate when I got a standoffish and stern coach who shared none of her personality. Sometimes she said mean and critical things that did not drive improvement on the court. I recall one memory that left me less than inspired. During a game hosted by one of our district rivals, I sat on the bench next to her. We must have been ahead, or I would have been on the court. The detail of the memory faded years ago, but I can recall clearly the smile on her face as she made fun of me.
My mom originally came from Texas. A slight twang has remained throughout her 65-year tenure here. A bit of the drawl rubbed off on me and was more noticeable around my predominately Hispanic basketball team. As I sat next to her, cheering my team on, she looked at me and repeated what I had said in her best hick accent. It wasn’t in a fun, joking way. I remember it just seemed mean. I was a tough kid, but that hurt my feelings. I can’t say she was horrible to me; she wasn’t. Looking back, I allowed her criticism on and off the court to seep in. I started to tell myself some of the complaints she spewed. Previous to her, I had had coaches I would have followed off a cliff. She would have had to push me off! I have not thought about her in years. Well, not until last Friday.
I woke up at 4:30 am with her on my brain. I was reworking the past through the lens of an adult. How many students and athletes have I inadvertently shut down over the last 25 years as a coach and educator? I hope only a few. I’m not cocky enough to claim perfection. To those that slipped by, I’m sorry. Later that afternoon, I chuckled as I traveled from Gallup to Belen to watch my son play football for Miyamura. When I walked across that football field to get my diploma over thirty years ago, I would have never been able to think up this scenario. I was following a big purple and silver bus covered in stars and stripes loaded with a football team from Gallup that wasn’t the Bengals. I was headed to my old stomping grounds to cheer against the Eagles; GO PATRIOTS!
Fast forward to the game. My dad still lives in Belen. I picked him up, and we headed to the field. As we walked through the gate and headed over to the visitor’s bleachers, I had one of those moments where multiple memories hit me. The school band played, and the home team ran off the field and back to the locker room. They were so close I could smell the sweat and maybe a bit of fear. Caught up in brief glimpses of long ago, I waited for the team to pass. And that’s when I got the smack. I had to walk near a small set of bleachers in front of the concession stand to access the visitor’s area. Two people were sitting and having a conversation. I was close enough to touch them when a lady turned around. I hoped she didn’t see the look on my face as she looked me in the eyes before she turned her back on me. Yep, out of all the gin joints, it was that coach! She didn’t recognize me. For a split second, I almost stopped and greeted her. Instead, I ducked my head and hurried on. She looked the same, with a few bonus pounds and some wrinkles. Her trademark, long curly hair was still free flowing. With the sunset lighting and my gut reaction to flee, I could not tell you if chemicals or time were in charge of its color.
She sat there throughout the game. I speculated that she was cheering on a grandkid. I thought about giving her a piece of my mind or just being extra sugary sweet while channeling my internal hick accent. But in the end, I had a revelation. I bet she had never woken up at 4:30 am thinking about me. I decided right then and there she was not worth my time. I gave myself a little pep talk and some self-praise. It was a personal conversation, but along the lines of; You’re a good teacher, you care about the kids, you go the extra mile for them, etc. It made me very grateful for the mentors I have had in my life that showed me through example both how to treat people and how not to. She taught me some valuable lessons! In the end, I wish her well and I am glad to know she’s doing ok.
After the game, I took a picture with my son in the endzone. He taught me how to make the winning hand sign all the kids flash now in pictures. I’ve traded in my maroon and yellow for purple and silver! Go, Patriots!
