I was so proud of my curls. Shirley Temple, that’s who all the adults said I looked like. I didn’t know who she was, but they always seemed impressed when they said it, so she must be beautiful. Mommy told me she was a movie star. My name meant bright and famous, she said, maybe I’d grow up to be a movie star too. It seemed like everywhere we went, someone always talked about my sweet smile, round cheeks, sapphire blue eyes. I knew what sapphire was, it was a gem stone. Gem stones are bright, rare, and beautiful. Some people said my eyes looked like the ocean; I always thanked them politely like you’re supposed to, but I didn’t like that as much. Gem stones were rarer than the dumb old ocean, it was all over the world!
My older sister, Jeni, was beautiful too; everyone said she looked just like Mommy. Sometimes this made me sad, like their similar reflections were a bond that existed between them that I would never know. But even if Jeni was lucky enough to look like Mommy, I looked like a movie star; that was almost as special. I didn’t know where my chubby cheeks and auburn curls came from; I didn’t look like anyone in the family. Still, I loved my curls and sapphires. And Mommy’s friends said my high cheek bones and round face meant I would age gracefully. When I asked Mommy, she said that meant I was a timeless beauty. I didn’t really understand that either, but I didn’t ask anything else because those words made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. Timeless beauty.
When Mommy and I signed Jeni up for school, there was a nice man in a colorful room who sat at a table with Jeni and played games. The nice man said I could play with any of the toys in the room while they were working, and there were toys everywhere! But before we came, Mommy had told me that the games were so Jeni could show how smart she was so she could get into the school, and I had to be really quiet during them, so instead of going to the mat and slide in the corner, I went to the other corner, full of pillows and books. Several books later, they were done, and I could get up from the green fluffy pillow, which I had found was by far the best.
I went over to the table where the man was still sitting. He was so tall; even though he was sitting, he was still taller than I was. I asked him, very politely as you always should when speaking to adults, if I could play the games too. He smiled at me and my mother. “I don’t see why not. Have a seat.” I sat in the chair my sister had gotten up from and swung my feet proudly. The man told me that he had some blocks and pictures to show me, and my job was to make the blocks look like the pictures. I couldn’t do it just right, because the blocks were bigger than the ones in the pictures, but I put all the colors and shapes in the right place. He asked me to read to him and write my name, and we played a few more games. When we were done, he stood up and shook my hand. His hand was so big and strong; it hurt a little, but I didn’t tell him that. He and Mommy started talking; he told her I was smart and “precocious.” That was a funny word, but it must be good because he and Mommy were both smiling.
“So, can I go to school, too?” I asked the nice man. But Mommy was the one who answered.
“Honey, you’re not old enough.”
Immediately, I felt the tears come to my eyes. I was polite and kind, like Mommy had told Jeni to be to “make a good impression.” I did really good on all the tests.
Mommy looked at the man, obviously embarrassed, and leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Always be tough, never let anybody see you cry.” And then, standing back up, she asked Jeni to take me into the hall for a moment so the adults could talk. Jeni took my hand and led me out the door, away from the colorful toys into the sterile hallway, trying to comfort me, but it didn’t help. In fact, I was angry at her. She wasn’t smarter than I was, she didn’t make a better impression, and she was only one year older. It wasn’t fair. I focused on the anger and was able to stop the tears before Mommy joined us.
When Jeni went to school sometimes, I went to the babysitter, who had a huge room with nothing in it but toys, and sometimes I got to go with my mommy to work. We had to walk to work and the babysitter a lot because the car sometimes made noises and smelled funny. Even though work was further away, I liked it better, and Mommy would carry me if I my legs got too tired. Sometimes, I would pretend to be tired just so Mommy would carry me. But even if I was really tired and my legs hurt, I couldn’t cry because then Mommy wouldn’t carry me; she’d just remind me that we were in public, saying, “Always be tough, never let anybody see you cry.” When Mommy carried me, I’d put my small face on her shoulder, breathing in the combination of cinnamon, dirt from the garden, and the faint odor of tobacco: the smell of Mommy. When we got to work, I’d sit on the red shiny booth, sliding around, hearing the bell ring each time a customer came in, and Mommy would bring me cut up watermelon sprinkled with salt. All day I’d read books and talk to Mommy’s customers. When they were at the register, almost every person I had spoken to told Mommy how sweet or smart or beautiful I was.
I loved those days at work with Mommy, but I was so excited when it was finally my turn to go to school. From the first day, I loved everything about school, but picture day at school was one of my favorite days. That morning Mommy woke me up extra early so we could make my ringlets sit just right. I put on the pretty red plaid dress that was just like the shirt my favorite Raggedy Andy doll wore. My tights were bright white, instead of blue like his pants, but Mommy said that wouldn’t really match so people couldn’t dress like that, only dolls. When we had bought the tights and I first found out that people don’t dress in clothes that don’t match like dolls, I cried a little, but Mommy reminded, “Always be tough, never let anybody see you cry.” Tears were for home; stores were for being tough.
Mommy pinned part of my curls back. I slipped on the shiny red shoes that showed my funny shaped reflection and went to school. All the teachers told me how pretty I looked, and when I struck my pose, the camera man told me I was going to grow up to be a model. I told him he was wrong; I was going to grow up to be Shirley Temple.
I got on the bus to go home feeling, as I usually felt, beautiful and happy. On the way up the tall bus stairs, the shiny red shoes slipped, and I fell on the hard, dirty steps. As I pushed myself up off the floor, I heard everyone laughing. I looked up at the bus driver who asked me if I was okay, but even he was grinning. I told him I was fine and headed for an empty seat, a little embarrassed and white tights dirty, but unhurt.
I was approaching my seat and the laughter was starting to die down when a boy yelled out, “No wonder she can’t walk, look how fat she is!” The laughter rose again. The boy, having received the response he was looking for, continued and others joined in. “She waddles! Can’t waddle up the stairs!” another boy called. I sat quietly and put my head down; my curls, which had come undone, fell forward to cover my face. I didn’t move them; for the first time in my life I wanted to hide my face and my wild curls were helping. “Look at her hair! She doesn’t know how to brush it!”
It seemed like every time the laughter started to quiet, one of the boys would say something else. I sat there quietly, trying to pretend it didn’t bother me, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry, hoping the bus would go faster. I repeated Mommy’s words in my head like a mantra, “Always be tough, never let anybody see you cry. Always be tough, never let anybody see you cry.”
They didn’t have any reason to be mean to me; I had never been mean to them. So what they’re saying must be true. They have no reason to lie, but adults do. Once when my little brother was scared of the dark, Mommy checked his room for monsters. When she came back to the living room and sat next to me on the scratchy old brown couch, I told her how stupid my little brother was and asked why she would look for monsters that she knew weren’t there. She told me that sometimes adults have to pretend a little when talking to children to help them feel better. That must be it, I wasn’t beautiful; all these adults were just lying to make me feel good. I wasn’t beautiful; I was fat, I was ugly. Six years of being told all the time how special I was, of feeling beautiful every day, forgotten in an instant.
When the bus reached my house, I ran down the aisle and steps, tripping again but not falling this time. It was enough though that the laughter that had finally quieted filled the bus, the street, my head again as everyone laughed at me. I ran through the yard and into the house to find Mommy waiting on the scratchy couch.
“Hi, Honey, how did picture day go?”
I stood in front of her, looked up at her, and saw her expression change into one of concern as she realized something was wrong. “You’d be so proud of me, Mommy.” Even though I was home now, I tried to keep being tough, but my tiny heart could no longer contain the hurt. The floodgates opened as I said through the sobs, “I didn’t let anyone see me cry.”
Many years later, after I had children of my own, my mother told me that she had felt so guilty that day; she had tried to instill values that would make me a strong, independent woman, but after that day, she worried she had unintentionally taught me to be ashamed of my emotions. She never again said, “Always be tough, never let anybody see you cry,” to me. However, she continued promoting hiding my pain in other ways. She praised me excessively when I was strong and didn’t cry, and though she didn’t verbalize disapproval, I always noticed the disappointed looks I received whenever I cried. She was a loving mom, and dirty looks weren’t her style; I’m sure she wasn’t even aware of them. When watching a sad movie, if a few tears managed to escape, she would laugh, not to be mean, but as I realized later because tears made her uncomfortable. But to me, at that time, each chuckle was an insult, an insinuation that I wasn’t strong enough. I started watching only horror movies, as they rarely gave anyone a reason to cry. As time passed, I learned to hide my tears not just from the public, but from everyone, including my family.
One day when I was about eleven, my family was at the lake, which was a favorite pastime of everyone but me. I tried to enjoy the day, but before long, I became unable to tolerate the unrelenting sun and annoyingly loud shouts of the other children. Suffering from sensory overload, I retreated to the car, impatiently waiting for the time to return to the air-conditioned comfort of my room. Though the car protected me from the sun’s rays, and the open doors allowed a light breeze to pass through, it was still extremely hot within the car, and I was relieved as I saw my family approaching. After all the ice chests and other lake gear were loaded into the car, my little brother, in an attempt to be helpful, slammed my car door shut, not realizing that my hand was resting on the roof. The door closed on my hand just below my fingers, and excruciating pain immediately shot down my arm. I fought back the urge to scream, took a moment to compose myself, and then said, as calmly as I could manage, “You closed the door on my hand.”
My brother had already run around to the other side of the car before I managed to speak, so my mother was the closest, and she opened the door, freeing my hand. She looked at my hand, made me wiggle my fingers, and announced nothing was broken. All the way home, she praised me repeatedly. I had handled that so well. I had shown I was a big girl. She was so impressed, so proud. I listened, nodded, smiled politely when she glanced my way, and fought back the tears until we were home, where I could release them in the safe privacy of my bedroom.
As my mother wished for me, I am a strong, independent woman. I can control my emotions in any situation, no matter how devastating. When I was at work and got the call informing me that one of my friends had died of injuries sustained in a head-on collision, I continued working, holding the tears in until I was home, where they could safely be released. None of my co-workers even suspected that a part of myself died that day. This ability has served me well. However, sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to be too strong. Because my ability to contain my emotions eventually developed into an inability to display vulnerable emotions, even when appropriate to do so.
One of the most physically painful days of my life was the day I had an IUD inserted. The doctor assured me it was a five minute procedure, there would be some discomfort, but nothing unmanageable. At first, the procedure was slightly more painful than a regular pelvic exam, but after ten minutes in the stirrups, it was clear things weren’t going as planned. The doctor and nurse were speaking hurriedly in hushed voices amongst themselves; they mentioned several kinds of clamps and dilating, and at one point the nurse rushed out of the room to get something in such a hurry that she left the exam room door open, but I couldn’t really focus on them. I didn’t know what the doctor was doing, but it felt like my insides were being ripped apart. I wanted to ask her what was happening, but I knew if I opened my mouth, I would scream. I remembered an article which I had read claiming that listening to music provided natural pain relief, so in my head I tried to sing a song. Ironically, the only song I could think of was Dear Agony by Breaking Benjamin. For what felt like an eternity I fought the urge to cry, to scream, to jump up and flee the room, and repeated the lyrics in my head. Dear Agony, please let go of me…
When the torture was finally over, and I was getting dressed, the doctor told me, “I usually don’t do that to patients when they’re conscious, but you were tolerating the pain so well.” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that; to her, the fact that I didn’t cry, didn’t scream, apparently meant that I didn’t feel the pain. I felt an overwhelming urge to hit this woman. What part of that agonizing procedure did she usually decide not to subject conscious patients to? Shouldn’t she have asked, even once, how the pain was? Or was it my fault, for not screaming and crying as every fiber of my being had wanted me to do?
This inability to display emotions has also wreaked havoc on my romantic relationships. It didn’t really bother me when I was leaving my husband, and he accused me of being heartless. He and I had married far too young. We were eager to grow up, get married, and get away from our families, so we rushed into marriage, but we were not yet mature enough to fully consider what makes a good match. We had grown apart years ago, and as I no longer loved him, nothing he said could hurt me. But several years later, when a man I loved made the same accusation, when he told me that I couldn’t love him, because I had no feelings, it stung. Throughout our time together, several of our arguments were related to him feeling as though I wouldn’t open up to him. While I would have thought that males, who stereotypically don’t like to talk about feelings, would appreciate this trait, it really bothered him. I tried a few times, but every time I tried talking about something emotional and would feel tears building up, I would flee or quickly change the subject. My supposedly nonexistent heart broke as he walked out the door saying, “See, you say you love me, but I’m leaving you, and you don’t even care.” Even then, the tears would not come until the door closed, and I heard his car pull out of the driveway.
I don’t blame my mother for my inability to show weakness. I have no doubt she was completely oblivious to all the looks, actions, and words that prompted me to feel like I had to hide my vulnerabilities from everyone, including her. I know this, because not long ago my daughter walked into our kitchen with blood pouring down her leg, her white socks forever stained a bright red, and a small part of a tree branch protruding from just below her knee. I watched her face as she told me what happened; she had been trying to catch a chicken. The chicken turned fast as they approached a tree, but she collided with the tree, and a large portion of the branch became lodged in her leg. She broke off the largest part, in order to free herself from the tree, and somehow managed to walk almost an acre from the chicken pen and up the stairs to our house as the smaller remaining portion of the branch still remained in her leg. I continued watching her as I attempted to clean around the wound, changed her into some dry socks and shoes, and during the drive to the hospital. I repeatedly asked her how she was, and her response every time was, “I’m fine.”
As the ER doctor dug in the wound removing tiny tree fragments and one solitary tear escaped her sapphire blue eye, which she quickly wiped away. I looked at her beautiful face, the mirror image of me at her age minus the Shirley Temple ringlets, and my heart broke because I recognized that look. Although I had never spoken the words to her, that look clearly said, “Never let anybody see you cry.”