two for the price of one

there was a man who came into the store yesterday who i cannot stop thinking about. he had this large portwine birthmark covering the left side of his face.

he was tall but kept his head bent. and right away my heart just ached for him. whenever i see people with a visible 'impairment' (wrong word, but whatever) it's like they just tunnel into the softest part of my heart.

my c.p. is mild. i've spent enough time with it, and learned to compensate enough with my good side that it is rarely noticeable, at first. when i was a kid, though, it was a different story. there are all these pictures of me holding my left arm against my side as though it was a broken wing, but at the same time, i hadn't learned enough to be self-conscious about it - that was the most natural position for it to be in.

but kids can be cruel. they never teased me about my disability (not that i can remember, anyways) - that was off-limits, but my thick glasses, shyness, and awkwardness were all fair game. by the end of grade school i just wanted to be like everybody else.

i saw that in the man who came into the store yesterday. right away something in me needed to connect with him, needed him to see that i saw the birthmark, accepted it, and treated him normally, but he couldn't look into my eyes. he brought his milk to the counter, and i did all the normal things a cashier does, and his eyes darted to my face, then down, to the side, back up.

and my heart just broke. i saw the young boy he must have been, at the corner of the playground, before he knew that there was something 'wrong' with him. looking at the other kids with such hope and eagerness and laughter. and getting that hope and eagerness punished out of him. getting laughed at. maybe a girl refused to go on a date with him. kids probably refused to be friends with him because it was 'social suicide'. so he learned; he learned not to look anybody in the eye, because then he wouldn't have to witness people's rejection of him.

in the glimpses i got of him, through his eyes, i saw someone incredibly sensitive. his eyes were brown and soft. and incredibly, incredibly apologetic. and that made me angry. angry that someone would be taught that he needed to apologize for something as literally superficial as a birthmark. angry that someone's self worth was damaged that much for something that shallow.

it started me thinking. about the stories we all own - the stories that make us who we are, that shape, colour, and shade us in. the stories that give us flesh and shadow. each of us has one - that's the fascinating part to me. the grumpy old woman at the bus stop, the cashier at the supermarket, the housewife, the 3m businessman, the lawyer, the homeless person - some people's are easier to guess at, but every one has a his/herstory that needs to be given space, that needs to be honoured.

(thanks very much to kerry...i was thinking about writing this post and then her post absolutely convinced me i should. she is truly inspirational, and if you haven't, you should visit her.)