What impressed her most was that she got to sit in the front seat. She loved being front and center; indeed, to this very day, if there’s an event of interest to her, she will be front and center. Once, in 2002, at a very crowded event, she worried that her husband, arriving later, would not be able to find her. When he located her immediately, she asked, “How did you find me?”
He chuckled, “I knew you would be in the front row; if you could sit on the stage, you would.”
“Oh,” she replied, suddenly recognizing this truth.
On this day, the first day of second grade in 1965, she was in the front seat of the only row of second graders. There were not enough students to fill each grade, so classes were combined. First and second graders were together, and while there was only one row of second graders, there were two rows of first graders. Two more rows were on the other side of the room, with what seemed to be a great divide in between. Those were the third and fourth graders—the big kids.
As fate would have it, there was another little girl named Jeannie among this small cadre of students. The teacher decided that for them to know who was being called upon, one would begin to be known as Jean. The other Jeannie had been at the school the previous year, and everyone was already accustomed to calling her Jeannie. Since she was the new kid, the teacher decided that her name would be Jean from now on.
What?” she thought. “You don’t get to decide my name — my name is Jeannie!” The prospect swirled through her mind, gathering speed like a tornado, until it erupted in a pout, crossed arms, and a defiant “NO! I’m not changing my name! Make her change her name. I’ve had my name as long as she’s had hers. It’s unfair that you make me change my name just because I wasn’t here last year.”
The teacher pulled her outside to talk.
“You know,” the teacher said gently, “Jean is a name for a grown-up girl — someone who is capable, smart, and ready to take on the world. Jeannie is a name for babies. I chose you because you’re ready for a name as strong as Jean.”
“Well, she had a point,” Jeannie silently agreed. She pondered the idea as it slowly drifted over her like a feather on a fresh breeze. A spark of excitement ignited as she turned it over, spreading warmth through her chest. The thought was thrilling—almost intoxicating. She could be capable, intelligent, and ready to take on the world. “I am Jean,” she said, her inner voice steady and sure, as if the name had been waiting all along for her to claim it. She couldn’t yet define this new feeling—a mix of confidence, determination, and promise—but she knew it was hers now, hers to keep.
“You are right,” she stated firmly, her words carrying the weight of a decision made. “I am Jean.” This was more than a name; it was a declaration of who she was becoming—a girl stepping boldly into a new sense of self, ready to conquer her world.
With that settled, they returned to the classroom, but Jean wasn’t the same as before. The name wasn’t just a change in how others would address her; it was a reminder of what she believed she could be. Every movement she made felt charged with purpose, as if to prove—to herself and the world—that she was ready to take on the challenge. As the teacher passed out the mimeographed math papers, Jean took one, handed the rest to the student behind her, and dove in with determination.
Jean’s hand shot up before the last student even received their paper. “I’m done!” she exclaimed, eager for what would come next.
This was how her school years would go: always searching for the next challenge, always finishing her work with lightning speed. By the end of the first week of second grade, Jean was moved to third grade—all the way across the great divide to the side of the room with the big kids.
Jean’s teachers often remarked on her curiosity and determination, traits that propelled her to the front of the class—not just physically but intellectually. Jean thrived on the thrill of discovery and the satisfaction of solving problems. It wasn’t just about being first; it was about pushing boundaries and proving—to herself and others—that she was capable of more. This drive followed her from grade to grade, through every subject and every classroom. However, not every environment was designed for someone like Jean.
In 1974, after her mom abandoned them and later tried to reconcile, Jean and Mimi were uprooted and brought to California. Jean’s new high school required a reading proficiency test to determine what English class she would be assigned. The test, meant to gauge her abilities, would instead reveal the limits of labels and assumptions.
Jean was given a story to read and forced to look through a little window, revealing only a few words at a time and automatically advancing at a preset pace. They were supposed to advance at “the normal” reading pace expected for her age.
It… was… painfully… slow.
It advanced so slowly that she could read the words fifteen times before the remaining ones appeared. The pace was so maddeningly slow that her mind wandered between words. It crawled along, making it impossible to make sense of the text, leaving her utterly unable to comprehend the story.
Bobbi laughed when told Jean was being assigned to remedial reading classes.
“No,” the administrator insisted, “look at the results.”
Bobbi was adamant that something was wrong. Though she wasn’t always physically present, Jean never doubted that Bobbi believed in her. While Bobbi struggled to see potential in herself, she instilled in Jean the unwavering belief that Jean could achieve anything. And when she was there, Bobbi never hesitated to fight for Jean.
On this day, Bobbi’s determination was on full display. Her sharp instincts and steadfast confidence in Jean’s abilities drove her to question the test results relentlessly. She didn’t just advocate for her daughter; she refused to let labels define her.
The administrators reluctantly agreed to retest Jean, again setting the same painstakingly slow pace—and again, she failed. As tensions mounted, Bobbi held firm, insisting the problem lay with the test, not Jean. The administrators, equally insistent that the issue was with Jean, refused to budge. The two sides were at a standstill until, finally, someone thought to ask Jean a simple question: “Why are you failing?
“It’s too slow,” Jean said.
“Okay, we will speed it up.” The administrator increased the pace slightly.
“Still too slow,” Jean said.
They increased it again.
“Still too slow,” Jean replied.
This process was repeated several times, almost to the point of being ridiculous. When Jean finally nodded yes, the administrator looked at her disapprovingly. “Surely this is not correct,” she said.
“It is,” Jean insisted. They gave her the test at the suspect speed, and Jean could finally comprehend the story as she was allowed to read it at a pace that suited her. The pendulum had swung wildly — from remedial to gifted. Silly labels.
Throughout her school years, the consistent theme was, “What can I do next?” Her love for learning was insatiable.
When Jean returned home that first day, Bobbi had a snack waiting for her. Mimi greeted her, saying, “I want some, Jeannie.”
Jean paused, the weight of the day settling in. She had crossed more than just the rows of desks in her classroom. She had stepped into something more resolute, more grown-up. With a mouthful of peanut butter and crackers, she looked at Mimi and stated, “Do not call me Jeannie. I am Jean. Jeannie is for babies. And I am no baby.”
At that moment, a name wasn’t just a name. It was a declaration. A line drawn. A girl who knew where she belonged—and where she was headed.
And from then on, whether it was the front seat, the front row, or the front of the class, Jean was ready to lead. For Jean, being front and center wasn’t just a preference. It wasn’t just a place she chose. Front and center wasn’t just where she sat—it was who she was.
