Terry Wardle - Identity Matters: Discovering Who You Are in Christ

I remember what happened as though it were yesterday. Even half a century later,I am amazed at how formative the experience was on my sense of self. It accentuateda message I was struggling with, accelerating an already present tendency to believe,if not be convinced, that being me was simply not enough.

I was ten years old and my mother finally allowed me to ride my bike to my grandmothershouse about six miles away. When I say my bike, that is really only half true.It had been my older sisters bike. A big, blue, girls Schwinn bike. Bonny now waslearning to drive a car, so the bicycle got passed down to me. A big, blue, girlsSchwinn bike. Its embarrassing even to write this!

In an attempt to redeem a bit of my masculinity, my step-grandfather drilled a holeat the top of the back fender and attached a pair of saddlebags. He knew I wantedto be a cowboy (in fact, I still do!). The saddlebags were a welcome and needed addition.I found a set of streamers at the five-and-dime to fit into each grip on the handlebars.It was still a big, blue, girls bike, but these few touches made it mine. I wasfinally allowed to ride forth on my first great adventure.

I lived in a post-WWII housing development in the small southwestern Pennsylvaniatown of Finleyville. The housing development, known by everyone in town as the RobertsPlan, was large, and it was spilling over with children my age. I had lots of playmatesand we had countless adventures, especially in the woods that bordered the west sideof our neighborhood. For some time I had been allowed to ride my bike on the roadsnear our home. I was not, however, allowed to venture beyond the Roberts Plan.

When I was ten years old, Mom gave in, and I set out on my first long-distance ride... alone. I went down the long hill in front of our home, all the way to the mainstreet, Washington Avenue. I turned right and rode the sidewalk about a quarter ofa mile, until I turned up the alley by Garrys Funeral Home and hit the back streetthrough Finleyville. I made my way behind the Presbyterian church, past CapriosRestaurant. Just below Dubbs Market I turned back onto the main street that wouldlead past the lumberyard on the way toward Rankintown.

I was filled with confidence as I rode out of town, and frankly, I felt older. Ihad broken free of the constraints of my little neighborhood, and now I was on myown to experience a grand adventure. It was a rite of passage: I was peddling myway past childhood and into adolescence. I felt like a somebody, even on a big, blue,girls Schwinn bike. With saddlebags!

As I passed the Finleyville Lumberyard at the edge of town, I crossed the railroadtracks and then rumbled over a small creek on a single-lane bridge. The bridge, madeof wood and steel, was no big deal. It would take seconds to cross on my bike, ablink of an eye in an automobile. But on that day long ago and yet ever-present tome, it became a bridge too far.

As I began to cross, four teenage boys stepped onto the far side of the bridge. Ididnt know them, but, being the brave young man that I was, I intended to smile,maybe say hi, and pass on by. However, they had other things in mind. As I came closeto them, one of the boys grabbed my handlebars and spun my bike to an abrupt stop.Hey, where do you think youre goin? he snarled, as another boy chimed in, Yeah,kid, where ya goin?

Instantly I knew they had no interest in the real answer to those questions, butI said anyway, To my grandmothers. Laughter broke out among them, and they mockedme as only adolescent boys do. One boy knocked me off my bike, and another got onit and started riding it back and forth over the bridge. The fact that it was a big,blue, girls Schwinn bike did not go unnoticed, even with the saddlebag accessory.It instigated more ridicule, and they piled on the harassment.

I tried to get my bike back, but that only made them dial up the abuse. Soon, onethug grabbed the front of my shirt with his fist and said that they were going totake my bike, but not before they beat me up. I had been told that horses can smellfear. Every horse for two counties around must have had a good whiff of me rightthen. I was petrified. I couldnt fight or break free to run, so I stood there frozen.

About the time the beating was to begin and my bike was making its way out of sight,one of the bullies asked, Whats your name? I answered him in a high-pitched preadolescent,quivering voice, Terry Wardle. The three remaining teenagers got a bit silent andlooked at one another nervously. Are you related to Tom Wardle?

Tom was a much older cousin, who happened to play defensive end on the high schoolfootball team. I knew him, because the Wardle clan was close in our small town. ButI had my doubts as to whether Tom knew me.

My three assailants backed off a bit as they waited. I hesitated, trying to comeup with the answer that would best preserve my hide. I thought it over and then said,Yeah, Tom is my brother.

I lied. Straight out, bold-faced, as untrue as any statement I had made to date.But I had high hopes that this lie might be a bodyguard of sorts and get me out ofthis harassment. And it did.

The three teenagers looked at each other very carefully, then one said to another,Go get his bike, which set him off on a dead run calling for their fourth thievingfriend to come back, and fast.

One of the boys straightened out my shirt, and started saying, Hey, we were justfunning you. No harm. Youre a great kid, and... if anyone ever gives you anytrouble, you tell us and well take care of you. Putting my bike back in my hands,they took off running across the bridge the way they came. I stood there, still afraid,alone, shaking all over.

I turned my bike around and headed back through town toward home. I never told mymom or dad what happened. I simply said I changed my mind about going to Grandmas.I was too ashamed to tell them what really took place, and I didnt want them tothink I wasnt big enough to venture beyond the Roberts Plan. But it took some timefor me to face that journey again, and when I did, I was far less attentive to thepassing scenery. My eyes always were looking ahead for any possible trouble comingmy way.

That was a formative day for me in more ways than one. I learned, quite existentially,that simply being me was not enough. Being Terry Wardle was not enough to be respected,accepted, and safe. Had I not claimed a connection to Tom Wardle, my bike would havebeen stolen and I would have been beaten up. It took Toms name and reputation toget me a bit of respect. I had to attach my existence to his. In the panic of themoment, when the cry for safety was loudest, I lied. Lying was not something I didmuch. I never handled well the residue of guilt that remained. But in this case,I told a whopper and had no regrets.

That night I was glad to be home safe. I didnt feel like talking to anyone, so Iwent off to my room to be alone. I was caught in an uncomfortable in-between. Onthe one hand, everything did turn out okay. My bike was in the garage, and I hadno cuts and bruises. On the other hand, I now saw myself as they did, weak and insignificant.I had to pretend to be something I was not or they would have roughed me up. Thatpainful in-between became a familiar landscape for me for decades to come.

Any resolve or decisions I made as a result of that event were more subconsciousthan conscious. I was a ten-year-old boy then, and my thoughts and perceived needswere primitive at best. But even from the distance of five decades, I see that whatoccurred that day impacted how I viewed my place in the world. It was one of manysuch events through childhood, adolescence, and beyond that reinforced not only myperception that this is an unsafe and ungenerous world, but that attaining any degreeof success in life would demand much more than simply being me.