Holding On

I was a graduate school student enrolled in an outing club. One of our favorite activities was rock
climbing. Usually, I was paired with another woman or a small man but one day, a friend was
visiting me and he insisted we pair up. I protested. “You’re about a foot taller and around 100
pounds heavier than me. How am I supposed to save you if you fall?”

Will laughed at my protests. “You’re strong. You can manage,” he retorted, echoing what my
father said to me throughout my life, even when it was pretty clear I couldn’t.

“This is ridiculous. We need to be more evenly matched.” My words were ignored as more than
one person pointed out everyone else was paired up. If he thought I was strong enough to belay
him (stop his fall) then what was my problem?

“Enough talk,” said the group leader, “let’s rope up and get going.”

I glared at Will. He grinned. “Nancy, if I think you’re strong enough why are you acting as if
you’re a weak woman?” He knew me well enough to know how I’d react.

“Fine! If you want to die falling down rocks because of your stupidity, fine! Let’s go” He
laughed. His obvious lack of concern did nothing to assuage my worries.

He climbed up. I climbed up. We drank water. Enjoyed the gorgeous fall afternoon. I tried not to
think about his going down with me at the top holding the rope that could save him from death.

“I’ll start,” he said. I nodded, shivering despite wearing a warm canvas jacket, sweatshirt, and
camisole.

Even though I wasn’t holding his weight, I couldn’t stop shaking so I found a bit of rock
embedded in the base rock and put my shoes against it for better balance. I took deep breaths
trying to ease my worry.

Suddenly I heard a cry. “Falling!” The rope jerked in my hand. I held on as tight as I could,
hoping the bit of rock would hold my feet. The rope slipped in my sweaty hands despite my
gripping it as tightly as I could. “Falling!!” I heard again.

Using every bit of strength and will and hope and energy I managed to stop the rope from
slipping though my hands. I couldn’t see what was happening unless I moved and I was too
afraid to move.

After an interminable amount of time I heard him yell, “I’m good. You did it.” The rope was
slack in my hand.

When I looked, Will was safely on the ground, grinning. The rope had slashed through my
jacket, sweatshirt, and camisole, tore the strap of my bra, and left a burn mark on my skin.
Feeling relief, pride, fury, and frustration at not being listened to, I made my way down.

“I told you you could do it,” he crowed.

I wanted to punch him. Scream how close he’d come to falling against the rocks. Yell at his
refusal to pair up with someone his size. I couldn’t. His words were echoed by the group who
were quick to congratulate me. That the rope had burned through my clothes and skin made no
difference. I’d saved him. According to the group this was all that mattered.

How do you define strength?