I know I alluded to a blog about Rick Perry, and that's coming. However, a dear friend of mine at the reunion this weekend suggested I blog about this, so consider this personal reflection a little something extra.
This past weekend, I attended my class reunion. We were invited to bring our memorabilia to the event to share with everyone. Tucked away in my sophomore yearbook were several old football programs and a basketball program that I thought would be fun to share with everyone. Since it had been at least a decade since I had really looked at them, I eagerly glanced at them in order to remind myself about those days. I began to giggle as I saw the stars I had put next to the football players I thought were so cute back then. But my giggles turned to a huge gasp and utter shock when I saw that I had written “fag” next to the picture of one of the coaches. Did I write that? I don’t even remember that man. I don’t think I ever talked to that man—EVER!
Waves of shame washed over me as I quickly looked through all the programs, to exclude any that might have those references. My first reaction was that I would bury the evidence hide the hideousness that had spewed forth from my hand. Who was that girl who had written those things? The woman reading them back certainly would have disliked her intensely had they come face to face.
Waves of shame washed over me as I quickly looked through all the programs, to exclude any that might have those references. My first reaction was that I would bury the evidence hide the hideousness that had spewed forth from my hand. Who was that girl who had written those things? The woman reading them back certainly would have disliked her intensely had they come face to face.
But then I remembered the insecure teenager who would do anything to get accepted and loved. Those weren’t my words. I have a vague recollection of liking someone who was on the football team and he called the coach that name. Since I wanted to be liked and accepted, and group hatred is cheap and easy way to accomplish that goal (or so it would seem) I think I wrote the word so he (that is the guy I liked and admired so much that I defaced my football program, and yet haven’t the vaguest recollection of whom it might be) would like me. It didn’t work. Hatred never does.
And yet, I can’t help feeling that the worst part of this story is not the word, but that it wasn’t my word. It was the word of someone else which I regurgitated like a pea brained parrot, trying to get a treat. The mind that was churning and the heart that was yearning to step up and say “this is wrong,” were igniting, but insecurity was dousing them at the slightest hint of a flame. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know that picking up the cause of something that is good and right, just because it is good and right, and not because I get a direct benefit from it, is the truest and surest way to empowerment. I didn’t know the strength that this one small girl had inside of her, if only she’d try. And because I didn’t know, I must offer that truly dislikable girl an olive branch. She can’t be faulted for what she didn’t know then, because she did learn from it. And that girl and all of her mistakes would give birth to the woman I am today.
And yet, I can’t help feeling that the worst part of this story is not the word, but that it wasn’t my word. It was the word of someone else which I regurgitated like a pea brained parrot, trying to get a treat. The mind that was churning and the heart that was yearning to step up and say “this is wrong,” were igniting, but insecurity was dousing them at the slightest hint of a flame. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know that picking up the cause of something that is good and right, just because it is good and right, and not because I get a direct benefit from it, is the truest and surest way to empowerment. I didn’t know the strength that this one small girl had inside of her, if only she’d try. And because I didn’t know, I must offer that truly dislikable girl an olive branch. She can’t be faulted for what she didn’t know then, because she did learn from it. And that girl and all of her mistakes would give birth to the woman I am today.
So I gathered up those programs and took them with me to the reunion. And really, no one cared what I wrote on them. The fact is, my classmates were too thrilled by the memorabilia to be offended by the offhand comment of a 15 year-old school girl. My goal was to bring joy to my fellow alumni, and I accomplished that. I offered an apology for any offensive remarks, but I don’t think I even needed to do that. The word “fag” didn’t brandish me as a hypocrite, because even as the seasoned woman I am today, I still have much to learn. And today’s lesson is a review of the chapter “it’s not always about me.”
No comments:
Post a Comment