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BEAUTY FROM ASHES: BUTTERFINGERS |
Before I embark on sharing all my Lessons from Beauvais, I think it’s important to expand on why brokenness can be empowerment. That is the goal of this post.
We all come with “stuff.” If we can even just begin to work through our stuff (past pain, hurt, and trauma), we can overcome life’s challenges in so many other realms of our lives. My personal experience is that my past eventually made me a better human and brought me into deeper relations with others.
I want to share a very personal and still-raw illustration. While I have engaged in an internal-wrestle to share the following, my purpose is stronger than my discomfort.
I was born with deformed digits. Fingers and toes. Over decades of visits with surgeons and genetic specialists, no one has ascertained what exactly happened in vitro; I am a mystery. I grew up knowing I was one in six million. It’s something that I hid growing up, but once I was in front of a class of thirty, it was sink or swim. I chose to swim, and just allow everyone to stare until they got used to it. So I no longer held my hands behind my back; to hide my own self is simply not sustainable for a lifelong career in front of others.
G.D. At 50, I still remember his name to the exact letter of its spelling. I will call him Gord. Attached to Gord is my vivid recollection of falling from a high playground platform. I remember my arms out, and the pain of landing on my front, the impact extending throughout my ribs, into my sternum.
I was in about grade 4. Only recently did I tell my parents the story of Gord constantly calling me Butterfingers (my childhood nickname), and pushing me off that ledge due to my deformed fingers. My countless surgeries as a young girl finally ended after grade 9 when I told my plastic surgeon that there was no point in trying to do any other cosmetic improvements. I was born with webbed digits, and still deal with the physically sensitive scars due to the skin graphs from my youth.
At 14, my fast food manager told me what a fantastic job I was doing hiding my hands behind the till. As a young teacher I had images drawn of me and cruel emails written from non-affectionate students. Now into my 50’s I still deal with the fact that as soon as I exit my house, I am different. I have had bank tellers comment, “Geez, you do well with those hands”. A few years back, a Beauvais visit from a high school counsellor included the comment, after our introductory pleasantries, “Now, Suzanne…. long pause…. Before we talk about [student], what happened to your hands?”
Words that have been said to me, actions done, responses given - that continue still - due to my fingers, while they do not define me, have been defining. The history of this deformity has allowed me to determine how I am to be treated, and how I choose to walk this life not as a victim but as an empowered being. I walk out my front door with a conscious decision to not be victimized but to encounter life as a unique individual who uses her deformity to connect with youth who have encountered and endured far worse than I.
Nonetheless, my “disability” is a very visual message to my students that we are not to be taken down by the tough stuff, that we are to rise up and continue life, and that we are not stopped by adversity. When my daughter encountered vicious bullying from her peers, I could say, “I know exactly how you feel,” and she knew that I was not spouting some feel-better flippant response. My past makes me more attentive to the plight of others, as I am more connected to painful experiences and emotions. I become aware. I still speak to students about my event with Gord. Who knew all those decades ago the little girl falling off that ledge would one day use this one single defining moment to tell a tale of hope, resilience, and power to a group of young people who desperately need their own healing?
We all come with “stuff.” If we can even just begin to work through our stuff (past pain, hurt, and trauma), we can overcome life’s challenges in so many other realms of our lives. My personal experience is that my past eventually made me a better human and brought me into deeper relations with others.
I want to share a very personal and still-raw illustration. While I have engaged in an internal-wrestle to share the following, my purpose is stronger than my discomfort.
I was born with deformed digits. Fingers and toes. Over decades of visits with surgeons and genetic specialists, no one has ascertained what exactly happened in vitro; I am a mystery. I grew up knowing I was one in six million. It’s something that I hid growing up, but once I was in front of a class of thirty, it was sink or swim. I chose to swim, and just allow everyone to stare until they got used to it. So I no longer held my hands behind my back; to hide my own self is simply not sustainable for a lifelong career in front of others.
G.D. At 50, I still remember his name to the exact letter of its spelling. I will call him Gord. Attached to Gord is my vivid recollection of falling from a high playground platform. I remember my arms out, and the pain of landing on my front, the impact extending throughout my ribs, into my sternum.
I was in about grade 4. Only recently did I tell my parents the story of Gord constantly calling me Butterfingers (my childhood nickname), and pushing me off that ledge due to my deformed fingers. My countless surgeries as a young girl finally ended after grade 9 when I told my plastic surgeon that there was no point in trying to do any other cosmetic improvements. I was born with webbed digits, and still deal with the physically sensitive scars due to the skin graphs from my youth.
At 14, my fast food manager told me what a fantastic job I was doing hiding my hands behind the till. As a young teacher I had images drawn of me and cruel emails written from non-affectionate students. Now into my 50’s I still deal with the fact that as soon as I exit my house, I am different. I have had bank tellers comment, “Geez, you do well with those hands”. A few years back, a Beauvais visit from a high school counsellor included the comment, after our introductory pleasantries, “Now, Suzanne…. long pause…. Before we talk about [student], what happened to your hands?”
Words that have been said to me, actions done, responses given - that continue still - due to my fingers, while they do not define me, have been defining. The history of this deformity has allowed me to determine how I am to be treated, and how I choose to walk this life not as a victim but as an empowered being. I walk out my front door with a conscious decision to not be victimized but to encounter life as a unique individual who uses her deformity to connect with youth who have encountered and endured far worse than I.
Nonetheless, my “disability” is a very visual message to my students that we are not to be taken down by the tough stuff, that we are to rise up and continue life, and that we are not stopped by adversity. When my daughter encountered vicious bullying from her peers, I could say, “I know exactly how you feel,” and she knew that I was not spouting some feel-better flippant response. My past makes me more attentive to the plight of others, as I am more connected to painful experiences and emotions. I become aware. I still speak to students about my event with Gord. Who knew all those decades ago the little girl falling off that ledge would one day use this one single defining moment to tell a tale of hope, resilience, and power to a group of young people who desperately need their own healing?
Our past brings us to the table of human connection.
And, when we are the hurted, we are better positioned to recognize the hurt.
It is for these reasons that our past does not define us, but it is defining.
And, when we are the hurted, we are better positioned to recognize the hurt.
It is for these reasons that our past does not define us, but it is defining.