I have wanted to edit parts of my story, create a reality where parts aren’t true, or spin them in a certain light so as to make them more palatable. So, when my friend Karthi, said to me years ago, “I’m learning to love my own story”, it arrested my imagination. Being a whole person means that we are not fragmented or compartmentalized. It means that we have observed, recognized and received all that is true; we notice without judgement. And as we work towards wholeness, we become compassionate witnesses to our own stories.
I was standing in the lunch line at my middle school. I was in 7th grade. It was a public school, but a very high end public school. People were flocking to the district to make sure their kids could go to this particular school. It’s the equivalent of Brentwood Middle or Grassland Middle here in Franklin, TN. It was where the money was and where the white kids were attending. There might have been the occasional Asian student from a family of doctors. I don’t remember ANY African Americans or Latino students. Somehow, I was among that population of students. But I didn’t belong, and I knew it, and they knew it.
We all got an allotment of lunch tokens for the week. My lunch token was always red. Everyone else had blue tokens. I remember that day, standing in the lunch line, wearing a brand new outfit that I was really excited about. Burgundy flats with little bows that were supposed to look like leather. I didn’t know the difference. But my classmates did. The shoes were paired with a burgundy plaid skirt and a gold turtleneck. It must have been 1982 or 1983. My mom took me to the local Kmart the weekend before to give me a rare treat of new clothes AND the Kmart brand of crayons. Kmart or not, crayons were the best!
A kid named John, who I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged words with before, must have noticed my different colored token and my fake leather shoes. He began to tease me about my mother being on welfare. Not understanding how he could possibly know that, I just stayed silent as he prodded and teased.
This is part of my story. I haven’t seen my father since I was five and my mother raised myself and my two brothers by herself without help from my father. She worked her ass off, being a nurse’s assistant on the psychiatric floor and later a lab assistant. Even though she had a full-time job, it was still not enough to take care of herself and three children. She sought outside aide through the government. We collected housing assistance and food stamps. We also qualified for free school lunches. That’s why my token was a different color. We lived in a spacious three bedroom apartment in a top notch school district. My brothers got the whole basement to themselves. They did complain that they had to share a bedroom. Me and mom were upstairs and each got our own room. We had a community swimming pool in the complex. I spent hours and hours in that pool. My mom used to tell me I was going to turn into a fish. I knew I was already a mermaid;)
My mom eventually married and we moved from there. And I don’t know how long we received government assistance. I imagine it was a few years. I don’t know what would’ve happened had we not received that assistance. In my mother’s case, the aide she received was supplemental to help until she was independent enough to make ends meet on her own. And for us, it worked. For me, that access to help made the difference between diminishing or flourishing.
I have a college degree. My mother doesn’t. Her mother doesn’t. Her mother didn’t. I come from a family of farmers who scratched a living off the land. I’m going to change my family tree. I’m going to take some of my mother’s courage and claim it for my own.
There’s a voice inside my head that becomes louder as I enter into my studio. “How dare you! Who do you think you are? Painting is for the rich. Painting is a luxury you cannot afford. All you can afford is to clean toilets and scrub floors. You will never do anything so noble as to change a woeful situation for someone else. Man your station.”
Then, the voice, the empathic voice comes in, the Voice that is the Core Voice. And I believe it. I trust this inner most voice of being. It says, “Come. Stay a while. You belong here. Let’s see what we can do today”.