The Choice

analyses interesting complements to his favorite subject: history.
Maybe because Béla occasionally expressed some resentment for the
time I gave to school, or because in the interest of my own health he
sometimes cautioned me to slow down, the notion took root and grew
in me that if I wanted to progress in my life, it would have to be on my
own. I was so hungry, so tired of discounting myself.
I remember traveling with Audrey to a swim meet in San Angelo in
1967, when she was thirteen. e other parent chaperones got
together in the hotel in the evening and drank and caroused. If Béla
had been there, I realized, we would have been at the center of the
activity, not because either of us liked to be around heavy drinking,
but because Béla was a natural charmer—he saw a room of people and
he couldn’t stay away. Any room that he occupied became a social
sphere, people drawn into convivial relationship because of the
atmosphere he created. I admired this about him, and I resented it,
too, resented the ways I became silent so that his voice could ring. Just
like in my family growing up, there was room for one star. At our
weekly prime rib and dancing dates with friends in El Paso, I got to
share the light when everyone made room for Béla and me on the
dance Ęoor. Together, we were sensational, our friends said, it was
hard to look away. We were admired as a couple—but there wasn’t
space for just me. at night in San Angelo, I found the noise and
drunkenness of the other parents unpleasant, and I was about to
retreat to my room. I was lonely, feeling a little sorry for myself. Then I
Ęashed on Frankl’s book. On my freedom to choose my own response
to any situation.
I did something I had never done before. I knocked on the door of
Audrey’s hotel room. She was surprised to see me, but she invited me
in. She and her friends were playing cards, watching TV. “When I was
your age,” I said, “I was an athlete too.” Audrey’s eyes opened wide.
“You girls are so lucky and beautiful. You know what it is to have a