The initial version of this post was written this past summer. A writing group critiqued it and then I promptly took it home to let it sit on my laptop for months. It marinated in my brain while my life spiraled in many different directions. I couldn’t quite figure out where I wanted it to go. But now I know.
I learned there is a woman actively telling anyone that will listen that I’m crazy. Well, she doesn’t just come out and say that I’m nuts. Instead, she narrates a story that she believes wholeheartedly, which would rightfully lead the listener to think I must have a few screws loose. She finally reached a listener that knew me well enough to fact check.
My phone is always set on silent, so the information arrived as a voice message translated to text. The words didn’t make sense, but voice-to-texts never make sense – especially when deciphering Hoosier accents. I decided to call, which, with an introvert like me, implies the gravity of the situation. My friend, and teaching job-share partner from over a decade ago, answered. My “What?!” followed her, “Hello.”
The story goes: Back when I was a 2nd grade teacher, I called the lady, very concerned about her son. She claims I speculated that he was in a gang because he wore the color blue so often. He would have been about 8 years old at the time, attending a suburban school and living with both parents. To the best of my recollection, he earned above average grades.
I grew up attending inner-city public schools, living in ‘The Valley’, a not-so-nice neighborhood adjacent to Indianapolis’ White River. Still yet, I was never knowledgeable about gangs or their affiliations, or any criminal activity, really. Once, around 20 years of age, while attending the Indiana State Fair, I had a red paisley bandana tied on a belt loop. It matched the print inside the heart shape on my shirt (see picture above). I felt the bandana pulled the outfit together. A security officer stopped me, demanding I take the bandana off because it wasn’t safe. I recall being surprised as I shoved it in my purse. That was my extent of gang knowledge – red paisley was dangerous to wear around 38th Street. I didn’t even learn about Biggie and Tupac ’til years later, though I enjoyed their music.
I knew the purported phone call didn’t sound anything like me. Why would I pretend to know about a subject that I know nothing about? And, remember my introvert character trait? That’s not a new thing. I have always gone to great lengths to avoid a phone conversation. I pride myself on written words (i.e.: this website). My job-share partner was the talker; I would have emailed a concern.
The lady, a donator of supplies to schools, described as morally sound, swore on her bible – or maybe it was her grave – that the story was true. My friend tried to give her an out…maybe I was joking or talking about behavior card colors, but there was no course correction. According to her, it happened, and she spreads the word at any opportunity.
I slowed down to think through the accusation. I’ve definitely forgotten things before and dismissing anything without inspection seems arrogant or foolish. Or maybe I just knew this would be on my mind until I dissected it. I dialed in on that season of my life. I admit to existing through rough patches, in which I escaped reality through libations. (Otherwise known as drinking a shit-ton of wine on evenings and weekends.) I was going through a divorce at the time of said phone call, so I was surely more distraught and less focused than normal. I couldn’t help but wonder, though, if I had made the call, why didn’t the lady contact my job-share partner (her son’s other teacher), or the principal, to check in on my mental state instead of waiting years to gossip on the matter.
At first, this story was equally frightening and funny. Pondering all the unknown falsehoods other humans are potentially spewing out into the ethers about me was unsettling. I soon realized, though, my assumed concern over a suburban 8-year-old’s wardrobe choices/gang affiliation isn’t so bad. I currently have worse tales being told about me and I find comfort in knowing those who truly know me can tell when another’s words seem off.
As for silver linings – I’m happy to say the young man donned in blue went on to graduate high school. He is currently happy, healthy, and, I believe, proudly served in the military. If the call in question actually happened, perhaps in a parallel universe, maybe it can be credited for helping him stay on track during those impressionable years.
Life led me to decide the best direction for my story was towards the notion of grace – for others and also myself. When narrowing down the time frame of the accused call, I was forced to reflect on past versions of Me. Was this Post-Divorce #1 Me or Post-Divorce #2 Me? Happily-Employed Me or Miserably-Employed Me? I am proud of some of my seasons while I cringe at others.
Thankfully, Now Me is the best version of Me that has existed to date. I’m my most disciplined, healthy and present. Knowing this truth allows me to avoid getting too caught up in any story involving the lesser version of Me, who was still learning. And as for the lady – I can’t pretend to know what she was or is still going through. The more days I live, the more I discover others dealing with extremely heavy circumstances.
I recently read All the Way to the River, by Elizabeth Gilbert. She wrote, “The only thing anyone is ever trying to do is survive their minds, their histories, their dilemmas, their destinies, their days. And everyone struggles, and everyone flounders, and everyone deploys their very best coping strategies to relieve themselves of suffering, and we’re all doing the best we can.” And so, if telling a story about me is what helps this fellow feminine being get through any of her days, Now Me is completely okay with that.
I love this! This is definitely where grace fits in. We have to allow grace because we don’t know what others have gone through or going through. We always hear if the shoe was on the other foot. And one thing I love to tell students that we all need to treat each other the way we want to be treated. But that doesn’t always happen as children or teenagers or young adults or anytime as we’re growing up. I’ve learned that my expectations of others are way higher than should be. I realize that people are not going to treat me the way I would treat them. But that’s OK because that’s what life is. As long as I know that I’m doing my best in the moment and any other moments that come along .,, well it is all I can do.
Having faced the diagnosis of cancer and knowing what my treatment was going to bring… Losing my hair, not being able to sing like I used to and my nails. It sounds crazy, but those were the things that made me feel good. And they were all taken with the treatment. And that is the past me… And I’m looking forward to the future Me. I’ve got challenges ahead of me and I do my best to be as positive as I can.
I, like you, know that the now me is OK with not finding favor with everyone that I come across. That it’s OK for people not to like me. Because at this point, they don’t matter to me. The people who checked in on me during all of this… Those are the people that I remember. I’m not going to say that I wasn’t surprised that there were certain people that never checked in on me. People I have known for a very, very long time. But it puts it all into perspective. I’m still trying to figure out what lesson I need to be learning through all of this… But I’m not in any hurry to figure it out. I just take it day by day.
It’s a journey. And it is my journey.
That’s BadAss! Thanks for sharing! I’ve definitely found myself saying many times that you can’t please them all. And, happily, I’ve reached the age that I don’t care at all about the ones I don’t please. lol I love that you are looking forward to the future You! It feels great to know our best is in the present and in front of us.