Scars and Justice

He walked into the room and sighed loud and long, his little way of reminding me that he was here and waiting to be noticed.

Turning from making the bed, I acknowledged him.

“Hey, Chasey-bear, what’s up?”

With hands at his sides and head lowered, he spoke the words, “Today on the bus.”

I waited for a second and when nothing followed, I bent into his pattern, pieces of a sentence stated, pieces of a sentence repeated. This is his way.  “Today on the bus?”

“Yes. Ian and Aden.”

“Ian and Aden?”

They said I was short and they made fun of me for being so tiny.”

I stopped still. 

How do you react when you want to be justice for your children and it’s already too late?

The words were already said and heard. “Oh sweet boy . . . what did you do? What did you say?

He hung his head, but his voice was steady. “I did not yell and I did not scream.”

“Not even a bit?” I tried to see his face.

“Nope. No screaming.” He put a hand to his chest. “But my heart.”

“Your heart?”

His dropped again. The single word burning as he spoke: “Hurts.”

Some days the truth is not spoken lovingly, but hurled like a weapon and it stings.

How do you prepare a child to stand strong when all that makes him beautiful stands out differently from the children around him? 

It will take a great deal of strength to meet these thrown words with grace.  And he will need to do it often, I’m sure.  I’ve seen how the other children look at him on the playground, and I hear them ask simple and honest “Why doesn’t he have hair like us?” They cannot know that their simplicity is painful because it’s complicated for us.

It’s funny how we want to be proud of our scars, but we’re still keenly aware of their unique quality and it bothers us. It’s too easy to compare, come up short, and sometimes even lash out as we feel our own differences.

This day, Chase succeeded.  He did not scream – a huge victory for my small boy, I know. There will be times to speak up, but this day, it was better to be quiet.  

And at the end of it, I don’t care how far off the ground his head stands; he can hold it high because he did the right thing.

Moment by moment.

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Do You Know What Part You Sing?

“Do you know what part you sing?”

The conductor’s baton was leveled at me with a smug superiority; the voice was full of condescension as it assumed ignorance.

Nothing had been resolved with the question of the music intern and now, as I attended my first Christmas concert rehearsal in over a year, I was feeling rather self-conscious.  And I was not-a-little annoyed as he proceeded to single me out. What I wanted to do was stand up and say, “Listen here, Choir Boy, I’ve been in multiple choirs and have over a decade of music training to my name, but yes, I clearly need you to tell me where ‘middle C’ is!” But I swallowed what I wanted to say and just nodded.  His behavior only confirmed my perception of professional artists: condescending, snide, aloof.*

My sole (and disastrous) relationship had been with a concert pianist, and I was done (DONE!) with musicians.  As far as I was concerned, they were all terribly high-maintenance and not worth the trouble.

6 weeks later… “Facebook?  What’s Facebook?” At the sound of my question, my youngest sister Carrie snorted and replied, “What?  It’s, like, this ridiculous MySpace-thing, but it’s supposedly for college kids.  Why?  How did you hear about it?” The emphasis on the word “you” had the intended affect of making me feel every one of my 80 years. (at least, I’m pretty sure that’s how old my baby sister thinks I am) I stared back at the computer screen, again reading the Facebook invitation sent to me by Bob, the music intern.  (because his name was Bob, and I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that in this story line before)  Initiating contact, even over the Internet, made me slightly nervous.  What was he up to?  But I was also curious.  Had he taken my e-mail off the choir list? Why?

2 weeks after that… having emailed each other several times (and having a newly established Facebook profile), I was coming around to the idea of Bob.  He was nicer than anticipated, and not as high-maintenance as I’d assumed.  We even had a lot in common!  I was happy to have made a new friend.

He was genuinely a nice guy, and he would undoubtedly make some nice girl a good husband at some point…


 

*Bob is always my editor on these life posts, and in reading this one, he would like me to specifically indicate to the reading audience that he feels he was not condescending or aloof in ANY way.