Sad thing... how little we really know the people around us. How we assume who they are by what we see. Judge them before they even open their mouth. Put them on trial before we even discover their own private history. We don't know their pain. Their suffering. Their childhood. The failed relationships. The loneliness or isolation. We know nothing about what sorrows they have known. And yet in a single glance, they are seen, weighed and declared unfit with our own reckless discrimination.
If I am overweight, I'm never given a chance. Some people only see "obese." They take one second to see me and immediately sum me up on the scales inside their head, and I am simply a lump of fat unable to utter a single syllable in my defense. And already I'm on the chopping block. They look at me and say "she's lazy."
I think it's unfair to not even get to know me, leaving my history unread like a dusty book on a shelf that nobody ever believes is interesting enough to pick up and read. The old saying about not judging a book by its cover... yeah… maybe that's me.
I've faced a lot of fear in my life… fear of people. People can be cruel, even when you're a kid. Especially when you are poor. Even more when you are kind of awkward… or if you have to move to another place and face a whole new school and you come to a bigger city from a small town with a funny name. And then sprinkle some shame in there like your dad being in prison, and your mom has to work all the time and you are so broke your mom doesn't even have lunch money so you're eating weird things like a cold corn dog in your lunch box or a boiled egg and a cherry tomato or maybe another jelly sandwich 'cause the peanut butter is gone…Or maybe you eat nothing but the heels of the bread because the jelly and peanut butter are both gone… Or maybe you don't even have bread, so you just go in there and wish you had a lunch while everyone stares at you and asks questions… It was easier when the school campuses were open at lunchtime... at least I could pretend to go home and eat. Nothing quite so embarrassing as having to explain why you aren't eating.
Not to mention the clothes... sneakers bought a size or two too big, that way I could wear them even longer. I think my least favorite ones were that horrid green kind of avocado color… whatever it was called. I must have worn those shoes a long time. It seemed like forever… funny now when I look back. Tragic, and yet a funny twist… the ugly shoes matched my wretched coat (ugly green with big gold buttons; big and fuzzy like a teddy bear). I must have looked like a small furry monster child. Green shoes and horrible big, green, fuzzy coat.
I recall the pain and shame I felt sitting at the baby-sitter's house being taunted and made fun of relentlessly by a brat of a kid and his older sister. She was two grades older than me. The both of them set to dancing around as I sat in the chair in the middle of their living room. They were singing a made up song about my ugly coat and him hitting me repeatedly on the head with my own flimsy notebook while I ducked and tried to cover my head with my hands, tears streaming down my face, which was red with shame.
I felt so helpless. There I was, supposedly being cared for in their house, and while I was being tormented, their mother was not even aware how evil her kids were. Pure evil. They lived for nothing if not to torment and hurt anyone smaller or more helpless than themselves, like wild dogs preying on the young, the wounded, the hurting or anyone different from themselves. I cried and that only seemed to encourage them even more
I don't recall much else after I snapped. I was so angry. My sister just sat there and let them do it. I somehow knew she was helpless and that she could not stop them, but I was angry for that… her not protecting me… I was left to the wolves. There was nobody to offer me protection.
I exploded. I stood up and yelled at them,
"I HATE YOU!!!!"
I don't know if I even took my notebook, but I opened the door and took off running. I ran and ran… up and out of that awful place leaving the demons behind me. As I ran, I screamed I never wanted to see them again, and cried just and ran and ran. I ran all the way to my little poor home down the street. It was empty… hardly even furniture in our cold little place… not much to eat. Still crying, I made myself a piece of bread with sugar sprinkled in it, locked up the front door and went out the back. I went up the road and down to the storm drain gutter behind a neighbor's house. I crouched down there, wiping my eyes with my furry green coat sleeve, feeling very alone...
I never wanted to go back again. I was cold, hurting and angry… crying and trying to eat that stupid sugar sandwich that stuck in my throat and wouldn't go down past the lump there.
I felt so betrayed. So humiliated. So wronged. An eight year old child out of place in the world, moved to a new city, strange and unkind. Out of my little home town with the funny name, away from everything familiar. No friends. No family that could help me. Alone in the world.
Daddy was in jail. I could not grasp what he had done back then... I must have blocked it out after being told, or else I did not understand what I had heard. It's kind of common for children to ask "what?" when they don't understand what they've heard. And then after they’re told again in a louder voice, they will simply say "Oh" even though they do not really understand. I think it may have been like that for me. At any rate, there were no rescuers. No one to stand up for me, and I felt it down deep. I knew then I was an outcast. An outsider. A continual victim. And then and there, I took it to heart.
Maybe the only thing that brought me comfort that day had been the little sugar sandwich. Maybe that is what sparked my relationship with food in an unhealthy way. After that, food became what felt good, or what made me feel a little better... It was associated with happiness, and even comfort.
Every birthday party meant ice cream and cake and all kinds of goodies. Every Christmas meant fudge, divinity, pies, cakes and candy. Every camp-out meant hot dogs, hamburgers, barbecue and marshmallows. Every Sunday meant some kind of snack in class. Every weekend meant cooking out. Every Thanksgiving meant turkey and dressing. Every Halloween meant plenty of candy. Every county fair meant candied apples and cotton candy. Every holiday at school meant cupcakes, punch, coke parties, pizza parties or candy.
And love for me came in candy coated goodness, plates full of happiness and joy, wrapped up in tin-foil inside a pie plate, or wafting through in the air around me as pots and pan simmered on the stove and something delicious baked in the oven… close my eyes and breathe in the smells of heaven on earth. Family get-togethers with warm pumpkin bread and cakes and pies lined up in rows… everyone happy and talking and eating… A smile on the faces of everyone. Maybe the only time I felt liked was when we were all eating. For eating and happiness went hand in hand… Love and acceptance and feeling good ...all of that was tied forever with food.
My sister came and found me at last on that terrible, awful day. I wasn't really all that good at running or hiding anyhow... probably my stupid green shoes and coat that gave me away...anyway, I was made to come back to where the two demon children were then forced to apologize. It seems the angry father giant had awakened and he had punished the two with a pretty good spanking (which was really the only reason they were saying sorry). I heard their words and saw the tears in their eyes, but knew the tears were only anger at their dad. They secretly hated me because I had caused it, and I knew they would try to hurt me again if ever I slipped up enough to give them the chance (and I never did again).
I knew I should probably feel bad for them for getting the spanking from the angry big man, but I felt only hurt and alone even though they got spanked... At least they had a dad there to spank them. Mine was locked away and I was stuck wearing ugly shoes and matching coat and at least they could wear something better, so I had no pity.
Selfish of me... but at 8 years old, maybe grace and forgiveness was not so easily understood, or… maybe it was only then that I would really begin to understand what it might cost... When you are so young and vulnerable and helpless, and you are taken advantage of... perhaps only then, when it cuts so deep and affects your life afterward, molding and shaping you into who and what you are and will forever remember, maybe, that is when you can know best… how horribly hard it is to forgive.
I had done no wrong to cause it. I was innocent. The only crime that day was wearing ugly clothes through no fault of my own. I was poor. I wore what had been handed down to me...And then I was wronged Discriminated against. Made fun of. I was made an outcast for sport.
Forgiveness?
I knew right and wrong then, and I knew I had been wronged... It hurt and I could not defend myself, well… not without being beat up by those brats… Ask me to forgive them then and there?...and then what? Would they have continued with the hitting and dancing? Would they have slapped me and kicked me? Would they have pulled me off the chair? Pulled my hair out and choked me? Would their whole family have joined in and killed me? I was so afraid... these thoughts filled my head.
So I stood there, as they cried alligator tears, and listened to the apology. "Sorry!" one blurted out among her angry crying. Looking down, I just said in a very small voice, "It's ok." The other one was made to be polite even more. "I'm VERY sorry." he lied. "That's ok," I whispered, still looking down. And they were then forced to their rooms.
But even though I said it… it was not ok.
I don't know what happened afterward very clearly. I can remember their mother having to explain to my mom I can remember my sister being really mad at me. I think she was embarrassed at the whole situation... Maybe she was mad because I made her look stupid. I don't know. I know sometime after that (I'm not sure how long) we were given a key and told to go straight home and that my sister was in charge and I needed to mind her. We became latch-key kids.
I was never so happy Free from the demons. No more useless baby-sitters. No more of anyone laughing at my strange attire No more waiting for mom in a stranger’s house ...even when she had to work late. But home in my familiar living room with mom's sewing machine, the old wooden rocking chair and that black couch. Home, with my stupid sugar sandwiches, and a newfound obsession with food that would follow me for a long, long time.
Thinking about it now... I think the demons' mom was cooking dinner. She was probably having to scramble to make it happen… No way to watch wild children and do household chores too... And the giant angry man, her husband, turned out to be an alcoholic...who was very angry and looking for an excuse to punish his kids. Maybe they needed the extra money watching us, or maybe she thought her kids could use some friends (or targets for practice) and maybe her hands were full with the abusive husband, and ill-fated kids. Maybe she was just trying to be nice to my mom who had no husband and had to work all the time.
I wonder about them a lot now...
Years later, one of her sons would die in an accident. Their family suffered a tragic loss. I found out about it and immediately I was taken back in thought to that scared eight year old me cringing in the chair, hiding my head inside that coat with my knees drawn up to my chest, wishing it would all end... and I pitied them... but still felt the shame and anger inside.
Later, I found out they had bought a little diner where my grandfather used to take me when he would visit us. Sadly, I determined never to go there, it's image tarnished somehow by the events of so long ago. Even now when I drive past, too many thoughts swirl through my head. Can't bring myself to even drive past now, so I avoid it and go blocks out of the way to keep it from my view. Out of sight and out of mind.
I've come to terms with my feelings now… Somewhat... I do forgive them now for all that happened... I was hurt... but maybe they were hurting too at the time and afraid to allow anyone else to be happy when they were so miserable themselves. They had to act tough to mask the fact their father was a drunk and abusive to them… that their mother could not protect them and ending up putting her kids into that situation. I do not blame anyone...
Fear makes us do strange things, reckless and wild... appearing tough as nails to keep anyone from seeing the real you, small and afraid, eight years old, and wishing to be normal… whatever that may be.
Maybe all we really want is acceptance.
To be loved no matter how ugly our coat and shoes are. To be a part of a family where everyone is friend and no one is foe, flaws are overlooked, fears are overcome together… where peace reigns at last and there is no need to eat a sugar sandwich to feel good.
Sadly, we only find short glimpses of that ideal place while we are here in this world made of dust which is laid in the lap of our enemy. We struggle to fit in when fitting in does not fit us here, for we are not home yet. We search for Eden and find it unobtainable. We eat everything unknowingly searching for the fruit from the Tree of Life... never realizing it is not to be found in this place. And we struggle to drink the living water for it requires death of our hidden selves, change, the unfamiliar…so we run away, crying and saying I hate you, with a sugar sandwich in our pocket and a lump in our throat, hurting like little children, which we all are inside.
We are wishing to be found and taken home to that place where we are held in the embrace of love and acceptance and peace of those who love us unconditionally... forever...
...and nobody has to eat a sugar sandwich to find it.
