Fitting In When You Feel Different

I dropped my son off at school the other day and encountered a woman I have met only in passing. We are polite and friendly, so I smiled and asked how she was doing. She told me her day was going to be rough because someone was giving her daughter a hard time in class.
While I know kids are being bullied, it's in the news a lot these days, I was shocked. Her daughter looks very well put together, friendly, outgoing and from what I know, smart. The only reason someone would pick on her, I figure, is because she's mixed race. Like my children.
I encouraged this woman to listen close to her momma-bear instincts and take care of her child. When I climbed into my car, I began reflecting on how miserable my miserable days in elementary school were.

I grew up in small town Ontario, my parents were white. They adopted me, a little Jamaican girl, in infancy. I never knew any different and that was just the way it should be. By the time I got to grade school, I was to face a brutal onslaught of bullying and misdirected racism. (The kid most responsible for my depression was half black himself). Kids made fun of me and made me feel less than I was daily.

Amanda and Stephanie, two pretty Italian girls in my class were perfect. I wanted to be like them. Smart, with pretty hair and nice clothes. They knew the right answers and had beautiful printing. I was a stuttering, sloppy handed girl with frizzy hair. Polar opposite.

These days, Dove has a great campaign to bring awareness to the fact that girls are under more pressure than ever to fit in, be smart, be good, be pretty.

Now I am the mother of a 8yo girl who has thick tight curls, creamy brown skin and thinks she's a fashionista. I see the pressure she is under and have done my best to instill pride and confidence in her. We watched The Greatest Showman the other night, and Keala Settle's song, "This is Me" along with Rachel Platten's "Fight Song" will be our anthem as we navigate the coming years. I will use this for my son as well, as the tween/teen years are no small feat.

I sincerely hope the mom I encountered on that morning can do the same for her little girl.

What I learned about Responding to Grief

Image by @silviapecota (artist)

I'm loving all the photos of the hockey sticks on porches, the gorgeous heartfelt drawings too. It is a little thing, but I've given this whole thing some thought and have come to a conclusion. When we post that we are thinking of the victims and that we are praying for their families, in any tragedy (I mean there are so many awful things that happen), we are really saying this:

"I see you are hurting. I see you are sometimes caught in a memory that rips your heart open again and that it's a struggle to even breathe sometimes. I see your eyes searching for a face you'll never see again. I see your fingers twitch to hold a hand or stroke a cheek that will never feel your touch again.You will need a few more minutes, an extra smile or a bit more space. I am thinking of your pain and trying to be aware of that when I am interacting with people today."

That's no small thing. In the days after my father passed, I moved through my days as though wrapped in layers of wool. I couldn't feel the same, hear the same or think the same. I was slower, sadder, more detached. Some folks responded with sharp words and scornful looks. I would have been lifted a bit more if more people had been aware of my wounded heart. If more people could see. It's a pledge to be aware of others and act with kindness. We don't know what someone is grappling with. It could be a bad night of crying babies or a stressful presentation at school or the vertigo-inducing gut punch of losing a loved one.

#humdboltstrong