May 1986

It was a beautiful Spring day.   My friend Donna and I were outside of her parents’ home, sitting in her brother’s (my ex-boyfriend) parked old Cadillac.  Despite the fact he and I had broken-up, Donna and I remained quite close.  As we sat together on the leather seats that began to stick to my shorts, I watched as Donna pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  “Hey, Meg.  Wanna try one with me?”  This would have been our first time.  Donna was a year younger than I, and attended the High School across town.  Her friend at school had provided the Marlboro Lights. 

At first sight, I was intrigued by them.  Yet, I felt immediately guilty.  While I knew smoking was bad for you, I began to convince myself that perhaps it was actually okay.  After all, I was pretty sure my parents had smoked cigarettes at least at some point in their lives, but it had been years.  As I further reflected, I instantly recalled my Dad in his home “study,” smoking a dark brown pipe at least for a short period during my childhood.  Unlike the smell of a cigarette, I loved the blend of what seemed like vanilla and smokey flavors when I would get a full whiff of my dad’s lit pipe. 

I turned and looked at Donna.  She was really pretty, and flashed a somewhat mischievous grin in my direction.  Before I could formally respond, she offered the now-opened pack for me to select my choice smoke.   As I tried my first puff, my first thought was actually, “This is kind of interesting.”  In that moment, I couldn’t help but remember  the first time I tried bubble gum cigarettes as a pre-teen.   Each pack was designed to look like a real pack of cigarettes, and when you blew on the candy cigarette, powder would come out that looked like smoke.

But unlike blowing on candy as a kid, this was real.  And so, with only an initial, slight hesitation, I took my first real puff….and then coughed.   Before I could try again, I noticed Donna taking a similar drag, and felt mightily impressed.  It wasn’t what she was doing but rather, how she looked doing it.  Donna held the cigarette seamlessly–almost elegantly.  Yet, somehow she also seemed sort of edgy as the cigarette rested perfectly between her two fingers.   As I began to wrap my right finger around the white, thin object, I caught a quick glance of myself in the rearview mirror of the car.  

In a word, I looked utterly stupid. 

I suppose somehow I imagined myself looking like Donna as she held her own cigarette so divinely, so cool.  But instead, with my one finger holding the cigarette rather awkwardly at best, reality struck quickly, and I looked merely like an awkward idiot.   As it turned out, my first attempt at smoking was my last…..thanks to my hands.

Lately I have been thinking about how grateful I am for so many things.  My family, my health, my job, this awesome “Don’t Hide It Flaunt It” community.    But, I started thinking that to the outside world, strangers might take one look at me and let’s face it, take pity.  Or even if not, they wouldn’t want to trade in whatever their challenges are for mine.  Given the fact that, when I was a child, homeless people in the Middle East used to beg my parents for money until they would see me and run away, it is not surprising that someone’s pity at the mere site of me is a practical reality.

But there have been so many experiences in my life where my very differently-shaped hands have actually served me incredibly well.  And so, it is time once again for me to provide you all with another list of Top 10 Reasons I think it is simply amazing to have two fingers.  As I come to think of it, Letterman might be on his way out, but my Top Ten List will live on.

TOP TEN REASONS IT’S AMAZING TO HAVE TWO FINGERS

10.  You will be the one everyone always remembers at a reunion—no dorky old school photo from the past necessary;

9.   Wherever you go, people who see you for the first time throw loads of smiles your way (usually because they are unsure of what else to say);

8.  If you decide to post an inspirational quote, you have instant credibility;

7.  When you visit your kids at school or camp, and they also have your condition, you don’t have to sign-in anywhere.  Everyone takes your word that they’re your kids;

6.  You are the go-to person anytime something falls in between the seats of a car and it’s nearly impossible for anyone else to reach into the long, narrow space to retrieve it;

5. You learned quick addition and subtraction without counting on your fingers;

4.  You can type wicked fast.  With no other fingers to get in the way, speed is on your side;

3.  Your career as a stand-up comedian could be launched with just a fraction of the weird things people have said to you over the years;

2.  You always get an automatic callback on interviews.  Let’s face it–they want to know more; and…..

the #1 reason it is amazing to have two fingers is…………………

1. When you say, “Don’t Hide It, Flaunt It,” you don’t have to explain yourself.  

February 1982

The heat was practically unbearable.  We were a dozen thirteen-year-old girls who had been crammed together on the hot bus to Alexandria from Cairo for over two hours with sweat pouring from our skin.  There was no point in asking if the driver could turn on the air conditioner—you just knew it wasn’t in working order.   When we settled in to our temporary overnight residence, I looked around at the girls on the basketball team.  Although I was wearing the same Cairo American College (CAC) travel shirt as the others, in actuality, I wasn’t on the team.  Instead, I was the CAC team’s “manager.”  The following morning, before the big game, I sat next to our coach, Mr. Shaheen.   My sole responsibility had been to make sure all the girls arrived at the court by 8am for early pre-game practice.  My job was done.  

It’s not that I wouldn’t have loved to play—I would have.  In fact, had I tried out in the beginning of the season, I would’ve leveraged the skills I learned shooting hoops with my older brother, Peter, since I was six.   Instead, I sat watching our team crush their most formidable opponent, and  stared at our Coach.  Mr. Shaheen was a relatively dark skinned, handsome and athletic man who sported a thick mustache.  He was also our gym teacher at CAC.  From the beginning of the school year it was clear he liked me, and had offered the role of manager one day during Phys Ed unexpectedly.   But I had never even considered trying out for the CAC team.  It simply didn’t come up and I had made no indication of my desire to play.   I always assumed that Mr. Shaheen wouldn’t support me, given my physical difference.  And so, while I pretended to enjoy cheering the team on, I felt frustrated by my inability to flaunt my athletic abilities.  I wasn’t yet strong enough to speak up on my own behalf.  I lacked the confidence, I lacked the pride.

This past week I kicked off the Don’t Hide It Flaunt It PEACOCK LOGO Children’s Art Contest, where the winning sketch will become the model image for the DHIFI jewelry line being created by Jennifer Stock Designs.   As a result, I have been thinking a lot about what the peacock represents and why it is such a perfect fit as the DHIFI logo.  Simply put, peacocks are the symbol of openness and acceptance.   A beautiful bird that flaunts its feathers for all to enjoy?  The logo choice seems obvious in retrospect.

But as I was choosing the new logo, I couldn’t help but pay attention that day to all the press about NBA basketball player Jason Collins’ decision to reveal that he is gay.  Apparently, despite all of the progress we might think has occurred on that front, Collins is the first active athlete in any of America’s four major sports leagues to make this pronouncement.   In an article, Collins revealed why he finally decided to step out.  “It’s tough to live a lie. It’s really tough: I describe it as you know the sky is blue but you tell yourself its red. It’s an insane logic. It’s tough to continue to live with lies and half-truths. It weighs on you. You put on a mask, but at the end of the day, you’re not happy telling yourself a lie over and over again to the point where I am now being honest and truthful and not having to have a censor button, it’s liberating.”

What grabbed my attention most of all was not the fact that Collins is gay, but instead his comment about “living a lie” and feeling “liberated.”  I thought about that a lot.  Although my own personal difference may not be invisible, somehow I can similarly relate.  I know what it feels like to hide, and I don’t just mean concealing my hands while being photographed.   Even with my physical difference out in the open and extremely apparent, I have realized that unless and until I consciously take a stand to be clear about what I am and all my capabilities, I will find myself living a life where I am not being true to myself.

In this context, I was reminded of a lovely mother, Elisa Peacock (no joke, that really is her last name!), who recently wrote me on the DHIFI Facebook page with the following story: “Meg, while sitting in a diner on Easter, I noticed a man outside talking to his son and saw that his hand was exactly like (my daughter) Lauren’s. I was so surprised! I walked outside with Lauren and we introduced ourselves.  He had that look that said “what does this woman want with me?”!!  I said “We noticed that your hand is exactly like my daughter’s and wanted to say hello.”   He didn’t get all excited like I thought he would but was cordial. We kept it brief. But it made me rethink that maybe everyone does not want to be noticed or talked to just because have the same difference.  Any thoughts?”

To me, this story spoke volumes and reminded me once again that, invisible or not, flaunting one’s difference takes effort and it is not inevitable.   It also reminded me how our every interaction with people, even strangers, can represent a missed opportunity if we have not reached the position of being proud of who we are.  I have learned so much by learning to love myself, not despite of, but even because of my difference.    And when you finally have the courage to flaunt, it is amazing the positive impact it can have on those around you.  Just this week Ethan came home from school and informed me that he now regards his very differently-looking hands as his, “pride and joy!”  I melted.

And so, if the peacock symbolizes the path to liberation (a worthwhile goal for any of us), then we need to find a way to turn our differences into that source of pride and self-confidence that will let us, not someone else, decide how we’re defined.  No more living lies to accommodate someone else’s expectations of us.    As Collins himself put it, “there is nothing more beautiful.”

September 2007

At first, my fears from my own childhood were only about myself.  Would they stare?  Would they care?  Would they whisper?  Would they point?   Would they laugh?  Would they be scared?  Would they shout aloud their questions about me for all to hear?  But most importantly, would they get the fact that the most noticeable thing about me was actually the least important thing that I otherwise cared about?

But now I was an adult and it was no longer about me.  As Ethan and I waited for the kids in his Kindergarten class to line up for his first day, I took in the panoramic scene.  There was a flood of mothers and also some fathers standing with their own five-year-old children.  It was clear that some had older siblings already enrolled, since those mothers seemed grouped together, comfortably chatting away with their friends while their kids stood close-by.  For the rest, this was a new experience, but the excitement of a new school year was without question in the air.  Some kids appeared to know one another from nursery school, and so they too filled the air with audible chatter and laughs.  “Finding Nemo” had been a hit film with this crowd and so, at one point, a group of girls belted out a loud and solid, “First day of school!  First Day of school!” 

Although Ethan had one friend from nursery school in his class, for the most part he knew no one.   As the kids lined up per class, I looked over at our eldest son, his blue eyes glinting back at me.   “Have a wonderful day, E!” I shouted out.    “Bye Mommy!  See you after school!”  He said with a wave of his one finger.   To say that my stomach was in knots was an understatement.   I froze with fear.  I had purposefully kept my hands largely in my pockets while waiting for the teachers to come, to ensure that my very differently-shaped hands would not cause a distraction on his first day.   But I knew that was simply a temporary deferral.  What would happen when he walked through those solid wood doors?   Would they stare?  Would they care?  Would they whisper?  Would they point?   Would they laugh?  Would they be scared?  Would they shout aloud their questions about him for all to hear?  But most importantly, would they get the fact that the most noticeable thing about Ethan was actually the least important thing that either of us otherwise cared about?

Lately it has been nearly impossible to not think about the concept of fear.  Of course, most recently the alarming events in Boston come to mind.  But let’s face it—there are countless reasons, both domestically and internationally to make one want to cower at home and never leave the yard.    Even when I tried to escape watching the horror of real-life, television drama was there to pinch-hit.   On a recent episode of “Glee” (FOX), (typically a mindless guilty pleasure,) students were crouching behind a locked door praying to not alert an uninvited perpetrator to their presence.  Watching, I could not help but think of the children being hidden by their teachers in the closets of their classrooms in Newtown, CT this past December.   I don’t doubt  that was intentional on the part of the show’s writers.  But most times, thankfully, our fears are not created from horrific and unexpected events.  Rather, they are actually quite personal and happen during every-day experiences.

As I sat and drank my coffee recently, I opened up the paper and read an article quoting Franklin D. Roosevelt from his 1^st Inaugural address in 1932.  Of course, the most memorable line was what was quoted: “The only thing to fear is fear itself.”   Many don’t know that the phrase was actually not in the original draft of Roosevelt’s speech.   It was added at the last-minute and its impact was powerful, for it represented a rejection of being paralyzed.   Given FDR’s own private battle with Polio, he might just as likely have been speaking about his own fears and not just about the country’s battle with the Great Depression.

Thinking further from my vantage about the concept of fear, I couldn’t help but consider that the only thing more difficult than having the world judge you based on your physical difference is to have to stand by and watch your children be the objects of judgment and scrutiny– simply for being themselves.  To me, that is what has been the scariest.    To feel utterly helpless and frozen with fear.

And although FDR’s phrasing was catchy and motivating,  in truth, I am not sure actually whether I have ever feared “fear” itself.  Simply put, I think what I have feared more is the fact that I cannot control cruelty lurking around the corner.   Although those events have been extremely rare, like terrorist attacks themselves, when they hit they penetrate deeply.  For example, just the other day I saw a nasty comment written on a young blogger named Caitlin’s site (she also has a limb difference and blogs at www.streamofcaitlinness.com.)  The comment to Caitlin said, “It’s not about being shallow or open minded.  People with deformities are just weird.  If we make fun of you, deal with it.  God’s little mistakes.”

As long as there are new people to meet, it is inevitable that my children (and I) will continue to be the objects of questions, stares and even fear.  Those things are hard but ultimately manageable.  However, feeling that your child might be the object of cruelty and mockery is what has been my greatest fear to overcome.   So is it possible to overcome this level of fear?  The answer is a resounding yes.  I was reminded of it by Caitlin’s response.  She swift replied, “Thank you.  [Expletive] You.” And then matter-of-factly shared it on Facebook as an example of someone being cruel.   It seems Caitlin has discovered her own strength and uses it to repel jerks and their commentary.  This is one girl who is not afraid.

And so for me, I think I’ll respectfully disagree with FDR.  The only thing to fear is not fear, but the failure to believe in yourself and to teach your kids the same lesson.

October 2008

I had never been to Las Vegas, nor had I actually cared to visit, at least not for any type of vacation.  But it was my older brother Peter’s birthday, and he had convinced me (and my husband John) to go with him and his wife.  While John did not bat an eye, I could not imagine spending time in smoke-filled rooms gambling the night away.  “C’mon, Meg!” my brother pleaded.  “You’ll love it.  You don’t have to gamble at all.  You can see shows, eat great food, and our hotel even has an incredible gym and spa!” 

And that is how I found myself in a hot, small multi-mirrored room at the Venetian hotel, Las Vegas, surrounded by about eleven other people, all in the same, “Eagle Pose.”  Although we had signed up for a completely different abs strength training class, somehow the schedule was switched last minute, and a medium level yoga class was being offered in its place.  While mentally I knew the class would prove to be a disaster given my inability to balance well on one (extremely small) foot baring only one toe, I decided to try it anyway.  “Shift your weight onto your left leg,” I heard the instructor say aloud as she began to expertly demonstrate the pose. “Now, cross your right thigh over your….” And then, everyone turned in my direction after hearing a rather loud thud; I had fallen completely over, even off my mat, onto the hardwood floor.  I felt a room full of stares, but then everyone quickly averted their eyes, continued with their own pose, pretending not to notice.   “Are you okay?”  My sister-in-law mouthed in my direction.  I nodded with a half-smile.  In my effort to balance, my left foot had failed both me and my effort to look like an Eagle.   After a while, I completely gave up and began to do sit-ups in the back, figuring I would have the abs work-out after-all. 

No, yoga was not meant for the likes of me.

February 2011

“Hey, Meg.”  It was my friend Beth calling.  “Want to join me at my awesome spinning class? I’ll pick you up and you can be my guest!”  An avid lover of biking (outdoors), I thought… “Why not?” 

And that is how I found myself in a hot, small, multi-mirrored room at a local Fitness Center’s spin class, surrounded by about eleven others.  The instructor was an extremely fit and attractive woman, who immediately filled the room with blaring, yet appealing music.  As we all began our spin cycle, I felt grateful for the invitation, and a quick sense of relief.  This was not only not fun, but arguably easy for me.  I pedaled faster, grinning at my friend.  Yes, it was true that I couldn’t really cycle and simultaneously reach for my water bottle like everyone else in the room, but I didn’t mind.  This felt invigorating!  I was more than thrilled…..until I wasn’t.  After about ten minutes, the instructor chimed through her small microphone headset, “Okay, now everyone!  It’s time to really see you sweat!”  In that moment, as a new song blasted through the surround sound, the entire class began to stand up on their bikes and pedal simultaneously.  “Cool!” I thought.  But in that moment, as I attempted to stand and pedal, my tiny feet failed me.  I had to immediately sit back down.  It was clear that I didn’t have enough length in my foot to balance my body.  And so, notwithstanding the class methodically following the lead of the instructor (up and down, up and down, as they pedaled to the loud music), I simply pedaled for the remainder of the class with my rear attached to the seat. 

No, spinning was not meant for the likes of me.

A few weeks ago a close friend called me up on a Sunday morning, asking me if I wanted to join her in a class at our local YMCA called, “Shabam.”  The gesture in itself instantly made me feel warm and appreciative, but I waffled, unsure if I wanted to once again subject myself to something I might not be physically capable of doing.  And, not to mention, the name “Shabam” reminded me of something Super Heroes might scream out after accomplishing something courageous.  “Hmmm, I am not sure,” I began to drift into a comfortable world of excuses.  After all, I didn’t need these classes.  Years ago we built a gym in our basement.  I love the machines we have and treasure the time catching up on all my favorite pre-recorded shows as I work out.   “Meg, it’s so much fun.  Just cheesy dance moves with fun music.”  Knowing me extremely well, she continued, “I know what you are thinking, that you can’t do everything.  But I think you can and it will be fun!”  I thanked her, but declined, at least initially.

To be clear—I have reached a point (or, as I like to call it, “dignity ladder level”) that I really don’t care if I went to a class and fell flat on my butt in front of everyone else.   I wouldn’t feel humiliated in the least.  Rather, the issue is more that I love to exercise and in particular to dance.  The thought of trying something I absolutely adore and then learning it is beyond me physically can be, well, somewhat depressing.  By not going to the class, I can skip the possibility of having that post-class “down feeling,” where everyone else is capable of doing things beyond my abilities.    “It is just a fact of my life that I have to accept,” I said aloud to my friend.

“Meg, I need to remind you that it isn’t just you–we all have our challenges.  I know yours are visible but I think you should realize how many people fall into the camp of feeling trapped by their bodies, even their minds.  I totally understand, but I really would love for you to go to Shabam class with me.   Not only do I think it is something you can do, I think we’ll have a blast.”

And that is how I found myself recently in a hot, small, multi-mirrored room at a local YMCA class, surrounded by about eleven others.  There were two attractive female instructors who immediately filled the room with blaring, yet appealing music.  As I began to follow (or at least try to keep up with) the moves, I began to feel like this was actually something I could in fact manage.  From the days of doing ballet as a little girl in Pakistan with my Mom as our class instructor, I had always been able to keep-up on the dance floor. 

To my relief, there was hardly any balancing as we “shabammed” (is that even a verb?), and I was overjoyed.  I glanceded over and saw my friend beaming at me.  “Are you having a good time?”  I was, indeed.  And in that instant, I noted a woman in our class struggling to keep up, who clearly had no natural sense of beat.  When the class moved to the left, she moved to the right.  When the music began to transition to a new song, we all ran to grab our water bottles waiting for us in the back of the room.  The woman looked at me.  “Isn’t this fun?  I know I have no sense of rhythm and I am probably embarrassing myself, but I always wanted do something like this, even if it is something I really can’t do well.”

And with that, as if someone slapped me on the face really hard, I was provided with a necessary reminder.  As much as I often think I am one of the small percentage of people struggling with what is possible, I am actually not that unique after all.   As I find myself consumed with my own lines to cross, I often forget that people otherwise physically “normal” are similarly walking their own lined path.  What can I say, other than,“SHABAM!”  I had achieved my own heroic accomplishment it seemed.

Postscript

Sometime in the middle of the Shabam class, the music changed to Meatloaf’s “Paradise By the Dashboard Light.”  As the girl sang the lyrics, “Before we go any further, do you love me?  Will you love me forever….”  the instructor began to make a heart-shape with her hands put together as she danced and everyone followed her lead.    For a moment I hesitated–it was the one “move” I was physically incapable of doing.   But as I watched the same rhythm-less woman dance in the wrong direction making the heart with her hands, I smiled as I simply danced and patted my hands on my heart—my own personal adaptation for the move.  In that moment I realized it didn’t matter that I couldn’t make a heart with my very differently-shaped hands.  After all, and most importantly, with this experience I had already found the heart to try new things.  I didn’t need my hands. 

May 1979

I waited inside as my brother Peter’s friend from school, Tim, rang the doorbell.  I had already seen Tim walking across our grass from the circle we lived on in Urbana, IL.  I needed to act fast, so quickly dashed to the door before my brother noticed.  “Hi, Meg.  Is Pete home?” he asked.  “No.  You can’t come in, Tim.”  “There, that wasn’t exactly a lie,” I attempted to convince myself.   “Okay,” he replied as he walked away.  “Let him know when he gets home that I stopped by.”  I shut the door without a response.  As I walked back into our house, my older brother by only fifteen months appeared at the foot of the stairs.  “Meg, who was that?”  “Oh, no one, Peter.  Just a neighbor looking for Dad,” I replied, trying to not reveal the fact that I was literally lying through my teeth.

In reality, there was absolutely no reason that Tim shouldn’t have been allowed in to our house….other than the fact that I viewed him as a social outcast.  He was a total nerd.  Unlike me, Peter did not focus on what other people thought of him.  He could have just as easily been friends with the biggest jock in our grade school or the ugliest dweeb.  I, on the other hand, was consumed about what other people thought about me all the time.   My anxiety over what people thought  was in fact so acute I managed to transfer it even to what people might think of my sibling if he were to hang out with dorks.  Not only was I unwilling to be seen with anyone with any type of overt difference, I did not want to be associated with anyone that was considered, “less than,” in any way.  Not that I was necessarily the most popular girl in the school anyway.  But that didn’t matter; my goal was to assimilate.  To never stand out in a crowd (even though I did without even trying given my physical difference).  This was critical.  And so, by extension, I couldn’t fathom having someone like Tim come to visit my brother.  What if someone…anyone…. saw him at our house?  I shuddered at the thought.

Although outwardly I was social and had friends, I was, in a word, pathetic.

Recently John and I took our family on a trip to Texas.  Although I know this is going to sound corny, the time spent together was simply magical.   As we began to climb down the fascinating interior of the Caverns near San Antonio, I looked down at my three children.  Ethan had been holding his finger in Charlie’s two-fingered hand to offer his younger brother stability down the wet, slippery ground.  Meanwhile, Savanna held my own one finger on my right hand tightly as John followed us all closely, camera in hand, taking fabulous shots of the scenery.   In that moment, I felt what can be best described as pure bliss; my skin began to rise covered in goose bumps from the feeling of being incredibly blessed.   Only a few minutes before I had noticed a little girl around Savanna’s age perhaps staring at us, or likely me and our boys.  It didn’t matter in those glorious minutes….. but it used to.

My greatest fear used to be that I would have children born with my condition.   But what was I so afraid of?  Thinking about all of my capabilities and accomplishments, it’s not like my road traveled has been a disaster or anything.  So what was I really afraid of?   The answer had much less to do with my condition itself, and instead more about how I might be perceived.   Recently, I read a New York Post article called, “The Gifts We’d Lose,” by Kyle Smith that was completely on-topic.  The article was about a mother named Britt Sady who loves her child Noah, a three-year-old born with Down Syndrome (“DS”).   Although the article focused on state legislation that might prevent people from terminating a pregnancy once a severe abnormality is discovered, I was taken with a related subject also covered.  “When does it get hard?” Sady asked a friend raising an older child with DS.  The response penetrated.  “If you don’t care too much what other people think….it’s all easy.”   In the article, Smith provided a staggering statistic: 92% of expectant mothers who obtain a certain DS statistic choose to abort.   He continued, providing the following rationale, which resonated. “Children are a status symbol that we love to boast about, and we fear that raising a DS child lowers our status, makes us pitiable.”

This was my “aha” moment in the article.  Considering that I was the kid that was consumed by the opinions of others, this behavior would one day translate into my becoming an adult with a mentality of wanting the “perfect” child.    This outcome was essential to my belonging to “the right pack.”   But my desires and fortune were not destined to match, and Ethan arrived, one finger on each hand, two toes on each foot.   He was the epitome of imperfection in the eyes of anyone.  Yet finally, through the unconditional love I had for our son, I could see he was just as he was meant to be; he was in fact perfect.   After having him, I no longer could worry about what others thought of me, for it was no longer me, it was us.   Nothing and no one else mattered.  And so while I have been humbled by multiple messages from expectant mothers who have read my articles and blog posts, and decided to forego an alternative option in favor of keeping their unborn child predicted to be born with varying types of abnormalities, the irony of my impact on their decision does not elude me, given my own past struggles.

I used to think that my having ectrodactly was the reason I was so worried about how others perceived me.  But it turns out, that our lives living with such a blatant physical difference don’t set us as apart as I used to think.  Given the statistic quoted in the New York Post article, I am reminded that a significant majority are concerned with how they are judged based on the offspring they have, fingers or not.   Most importantly for me, I have learned that although I may have passed on my genetic condition to Ethan, that doesn’t mean he inherited my every trait.  I have not only noticed, but even applaud that as Ethan grows, he doesn’t seem to be consumed with the judgment of others….at all.  Although he has friends that he loves to play sports with that are “popular,” he is also the kid that will happily have the short kid, the nerdy kid, and even the kid with any type of mental or physical difference by his side.  Unlike many of his peers consumed with how many Instagram followers they may have, he remains unconcerned by the social implications of who he chooses to spend time with.  

Before having our kids, everything was all about me, and how my total package was perceived.   Was I hanging with the “right” crowd?  Involved in the “right” activities?  It all mattered.   It is worth remembering that when we have a child with difference, or even if they are born seemingly “normal,” it is time to finally let go of having to have everything go so right.  Instead, it is time to take their lead.  After all, if we think about it, they never think twice about the package we offer them, anyway (okay, at least not until they are teenagers).

Rather, they simply love us for us.  Mission accomplished.

January 2010

I was so relaxed.  There was nothing like the feeling of getting a facial.  Not that I get a chance to bask in this type of joy so frequently, but usually around my birthday I make a point of it.  I love every bit of it: the creams, the steam, the special lavender or vanilla scents.  Not to mention how nice it is to simply lie back let someone else completely focus on just you and enhancing your (skin’s) appearance, at least for the hour.  On this particular day of indulgence, the woman that typically gave me a facial was away, and so for the first time I was trying out someone new, yet still highly recommended.

Somewhere about half-way through the facial, the esthetician grabbed my hands, carefully and intently massaging from the base of my small hand right up to the end of each fingertip.   She then began to move each hand into a pre-heated “glove” to allow the special creams to further silken and soften the skin on my hands.   Quickly, I sat up from the warm bed.  “Wow, did you just get these?  I’ve never had a hand massage or experienced these awesome heated gloves before!” I said excitedly.  “Really?” she remarked quizzically.  “We have had them for years.  All our clients have always been treated to a hand massage when getting a facial since we opened fifteen years ago.” 

“All but one,” I thought to myself.

Recently I took my close friend Johanna for a facial for her birthday.   We hadn’t seen one another for a long time so some time alone spent treating ourselves felt especially luxurious.  We ran into some traffic on the way, and rushed in through the doors.  “Sorry we were a few minutes late,” I apologized to the man behind the counter.  “No problem.  You should still get most of your one hour facial in!” he offered with a smile.  “Just quickly fill out this paperwork and you both can get started with your facials!”  As we walked down the small corridor, we were immediately introduced to our estheticians.  “Hi, I’m Jennifer!” an attractive young woman said in my direction.  Once I was lying on the warm, comfortable bed, I thought briefly about leaving my hands inside the covers.  But, reminding myself of how important it is to flaunt my difference, I kept them out, noting as she walked in the time was already 4:15.    As Jennifer focused on my face, I noted that at one point she began massaging my shoulders and upper arms.   However, not once did she touch my forearms or hands.  “Okay, we’re done!”  I looked at the clock, it was 4:51.  “Wow, I thought this was supposed to be an hour facial?”  “Well, you were late, and I have to run to my next appointment.  I am sorry about that.”  Jennifer had not even looked up at me.  And so, I went outside, paid for our facials and walked across the street to get both of us some coffee, texting Johanna to let her know where I was.

When she arrived about twenty minutes later, she looked radiant.  “How was it?”  “Awesome!  Thanks so much, Meg.  I wonder why your person didn’t give you a full hour?”   I nodded with frustration.  “I guess she had another appointment.”  While I was tickled to have treated her, I needed to press her on something.  “Hey, did your esthetician give you a hand massage?”  “Yes, it was fantastic—I loved it!”

I wasn’t shocked.    It was clear that, at worst, Jennifer was so repulsed by my very differently-shaped hands and arms that touching me was a non-starter.  Or at best, she wasn’t sure whether I would enjoy a massage in the same way people born with a fully developed hand would.   She might have even feared hurting me unintentionally.  I would like to give her the benefit of the doubt and believe that her intentions were more than good.  But regardless, there was a better way for her to have acted, if only she understood.

A few days later I was in a grocery store, after returning from our awesome trip to Texas.   I reached to grab the final item in my cart (a pack of gum) to put on my conveyer belt.  A woman who worked for the store said, “I know you probably don’t need it, but can I help you unload that item onto the belt?”  I took a breath, smiled, and said “No thanks.”  After that, I posted the incident to my DHIFI Facebook page, interested to hear other opinions.  Should I have said something that definitively made her realize that I, in fact, did not need the help?  Could I use this to educate her so that she wouldn’t jump to conclusions about what people that look different may or may not be able to do?  The overwhelming majority of commenters agreed that I did the right thing by smiling and appreciating her offer to help.  I noted the comments were remarkably consistent:  “You should respond with grace like you did.  You know what you are capable of, she does not.”   Others chimed in that she was trying to be thoughtful, and still others continued how it is best to give people the benefit of the doubt.  Another thoughtful comment was, “I ask people if they need help all the time; and it’s not because I think they can’t do it on their own but to show there are still kind people in this world.”  All of these comments resonated with me, and I appreciated being reminded of why people always want to offer so much help, with the best of intentions.

But then one person wrote something that took me aback.  She interpreted my description of receiving unneeded help as something that makes me angry.  I thought about this for quite some time.   In fact, so much that it inspired me to write this new post.   Anger?  If I am really honest with myself (and therefore all of you), I suppose I really have felt angry, at least in the past.  But I have grown from that, though.  And still, I think what lingers more than anything when people react to my difference is the sense of feeling “less-than.”  When you walk in my shoes, and people (for whatever their reasons) are afraid or at least unwilling to even touch you in their normal course of business, it is tempting to shout, “Hey, world!”  “I am actually not so different than all of you than you perceive.  Yes, I may look different.  But I would love to just go through the day without people reacting to my difference.”  While my anger is basically gone, I’ll admit sometimes it still hurts.

By sharing my recent experiences I hope I can provide insight into what it is like to be treated differently, even when there was the very best of intentions.  And trust me, I understand that people usually mean well.

The point, however, is to help people understand the impact of their actions, even well-intentioned ones.  As one grandparent weighed in about her grandson during our vibrant Facebook exchange, “He is very independent and loves to be able to do for himself.  We rob him of that “self-worth” if we try to do too much for him.

Another suggestion that I loved even more was the following: “It would be great if you had a quick, humorous, yet educating comeback for situations like these.  It would give the ‘help-offeror’ something to think about and you the ability to just keep moving forward.  With smiles left behind.”  I thought that sounded great, even if I didn’t know what to do with it.

Then, the next day, our daughter Savanna handed me the answer.  After spending the morning opening water bottles, tying shoelaces and just generally helping my kids out as they prepared to rush off to school while simultaneously preparing myself to head to work, I said, “Have a great day, cutie pies.”  Savanna, who had watched me do it all, replied, “Fingers Schmingers, Mommy.  I love you.”

THAT’S IT!

The next time someone decides, presumes, assumes…fill in the blank…. that I may need help when I don’t, I will simply smile and say, “No, thanks.  I can do it myself.”  And then I’ll follow up my reply with a genuine and heartfelt, “Fingers Schmingers!”

Feel free to use it.

June 1998

I was completely pumped.  It was my first day, and I was so happy to be starting my new job.  The reputation of the company was stellar and the road to get the competitive position hadn’t been easy.   Someone in my new group walked me around, from office to office, introducing me to various legal and compliance officers in the department.  “C’mon, Meg! Let’s meet Sabrina!  You’ll love her.”   As we walked into her office, I saw a striking woman with straight, dark hair who appeared to me about five years my senior.  Sabrina saw us in the entryway to her office, and offered a warm smile and wave of her hand.  “Hi!  Welcome to the Firm. Please, come in.”  I smiled, gratefully, and as Sabrina extended her hand to shake mine, I thrust my one-fingered hand confidently in her direction.  In that moment she let out an audible gasp and jumped back confused.  “Nice to meet you,” I responded awkwardly.

February 1999

I was completely pumped.  John’s firm was having a special, black-tie event.  Only spouses were invited but because I was his fiancé, John had them make an exception so I could come along.  Although I loved my gorgeous red dress, and made sure that my make-up was applied picture perfect, I knew my shoes hardly matched my outfit.  But somehow, as I entered the room holding John’s hand, the music both charged and distracted me from my fashion limitations.  “There he is.”  I looked over and knew from past descriptions that it was Michael, someone very senior in John’s office.  “Hi there,” I smiled warmly at Mike and the woman next to him that I assumed was his wife.   He replied, “Nice to finally meet you, Meg.”  As Mike stuck out his hand to shake mine, he continued, “We have heard so many wonderful things about you from John.”  I blushed and extended my hand.  “Oh!” he blurted out, as his hand touched mine and pulled back swiftly.  The reddish hue on his face had instantly matched mine.  “Nice to meet you,” I responded awkwardly.

A few years after Sabrina jumped back at the sight and touch of my hand, I was happy to hear that she had gotten pregnant.  But when her first-born baby boy arrived, I had heard from colleagues at our Firm that he had been born with webbed fingers and toes.  As a result, Sabrina was out of work for months beyond her maternity leave, as she and her husband had flown to a special hospital that could operate to separate his fingers and toes where possible.  I have to admit something.  It’s going to sound pretty horrible.  In my mind at the time, I actually had a fleeting thought.  I wondered whether Sabrina’s son’s birth difference was a form of karma related to her reaction to me?    I momentarily speculated that perhaps the sting of her reaction to me had come back to bite her.

I am not proud of that little mental diversion, nor did it last for more than an instant, but I think it provides insight into how a stranger’s extreme reaction to my very differently-shaped hands had impacted me so significantly and emotionally at the time.  Let’s face it.  Someone jumping back at the very look or feel of you can feel incredibly humiliating.  Of course, people’s reactions may vary. But the real question is not whether someone deserves karmic revenge.  They of course don’t.  To me the question is whether when someone (an adult) jumps back at something unexpected, is it is a reflection of their own personal insecurities and unease with themselves?  Conversely, is it fair to say that those adults that unexpectedly grab my hand and shake it warmly, as if to overtly state that a one-fingered person to them is just as normal as anyone else, are reflecting a strong inner contentment and joy?

I raised this on my Don’t Hide It Flaunt It Facebook page, and within minutes, the comments lit up my page like the Fourth of July.  As expected, the reactions varied. For example, one person wrote, “I don’t think it has anything to do with being appalled or disgusted.  I believe it is the unexpected that startles, that’s all!” Another thought another person’s jumping back reflected insecurity.  Yet another described that on the first handshake, she would be more concerned about maneuvering a proper handshake with someone born like me.  “You know your hand better than me…I need to try it once, and then I’ll know I got it right and comfortable for both of us.  Autopilot after that!”

So what do I think?  Weirdly enough, I think my answer comes more from my own past when I could actually relate to the people jolted by difference.  Before I was out flaunting, I was hiding–hiding my hands in my pockets, in photos, etc., but that was the least of it.  I was the woman who would never date anyone that was not physically perfect.  After all, to associate myself with imperfection could only serve to reflect back on my own.  I was the woman who greatly feared having children born with ectrodactyly, my condition.  What would one day turn out to be my greatest gift was initially, the biggest shock of my life.  When I saw that first sonogram of my unborn child, I imagine I jumped back.   And so, how did I relate to difference in others back then?  Not well.

Although I can only draw upon my own experience, I actually do think there just might be some validity to my assumption that if someone jumps back at a mere handshake, it may be more of a reflection of them and their own insecurities than really having anything to do with me. If there is some truth to my opinion, then for those of us who live our lives looking blatantly different than the majority, the best way forward is to flaunt who we are, and manage these extreme reactions but not absorb them.  My favorite comments on my DHIFI Facebook page were when people provided stories of putting that shocked person at ease, despite their reaction.  It’s better to be a teacher than a victim.

The other conclusion that seems self-evident and ironic is that no matter our exterior, no matter our own personal experience, on the inside we’re all traveling the same long road to self-acceptance anyway.

Preface

October, 1997

John and his immediate family were in the car on the way home from his Aunt Marcia’s house.   He had just met me briefly the night before in synagogue, and then again earlier in the evening.  “Let’s take a vote!” One by one, John’s family voted on whether I was a potential “keeper” and if he should pursue me.  John sat there bemused by his family’s typical mode of humor and frankness. 

It was the end of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Holy Day of Atonement, and my friend Beth had invited me to join her family and John’s to “Break the Fast.”   Through Beth, I had actually met John’s parents and younger brother, Mat, a few years earlier.  Until recently, John has been living in Washington, D.C., coming up only for holidays. There, at his Aunt Marcia’s, John and I conversed for the first time in front of all of his nearest and dearest.  He made me feel at ease, as if we had known each other for years.     He also made me laugh…a lot.  At one point we moved from the crowded, loud dining room to the kitchen to talk in private.  However, this effort became pointless, as different family members kept intruding with business (real or contrived) in the kitchen.    

For years, I have heard the story of the “legendary vote.”  Never once did it occur to me that the vote had anything to do with my physical (deformed) body.  Never once did I believe that it was prompted by anything but the Zucker family’s sometimes fun, yet twisted sense of humor.   And my hunch was right.  In fact, “the vote” was nothing more than a playful jabbing at my husband-to-be from a family that could tell he seemed already smitten.   But I wondered just why they were so instantly accepting of me, two fingers, two toes and all?  I have written in past blog posts that the families of several boyfriends before John had instantly rejected even the notion of welcoming me into their family due to my having ectrodactly.  How was this family not deterred, even for a moment, by my physical disfigurement?  

Upon reflection, sometimes I wonder if John’s brother, Mat, unknowingly did me a huge favor.  A few years earlier, Mat had taken the courageous step to let his family know that he was gay.   Upon hearing the news, John’s parents were instantly supportive and expressed that they loved their son unconditionally.  In that moment, their vision of their family had forever changed. Not for the bad in any way—just a different life outcome than they had expected.  Now I actually wondered whether Mat’s coming out to his family, and their experience of embracing the unexpected, had paved the way for me?   

In the end, the vote was all in favor….and John and I would be engaged in nine months time. 

Of course there has been a lot of news this week relating to the Supreme Court and the subject of gay marriage.  But something on the television news last week, on topic, had already caught my attention.  A Senator, who had previously been opposed, came out publically to endorse same-sex marriage.   For this Senator’s entire public career, he had been on record holding the exact opposite position.  In his words, “[This] isn’t how I always felt.  As a Congressman, and more recently as a Senator, I opposed marriage for same-sex couples.  Then, something happened that led me to think through my position in a much deeper way.”   It’s not the politics or the actual issue of gay rights that interested me about this story, but rather it was the Senator’s change of heart.    As soon as I heard the backstory, I got it.  Apparently, the Senator’s only son came out to his family which prompted the change in attitude and posture of his well-known father.

This news got me thinking a lot.  I write all the time about how important it is for people to avoid pitying or judging one another.  It’s the mantra I put in huge font on the cover page of my Don’t Hide It Flaunt It site.   But being preachy about it will not win many converts.

In some respects, it feels like people fall into two categories or sides of the fence.  On the one, there are those that have hardly, if ever, been directly impacted by any type of difference.  They have their opinions, and judging something that hasn’t hit home for them may be no more than an intellectual exercise of what they believe is right or wrong.  One the other side, there are those of us who are walking the walk, experiencing difference on a deep and personal level.  Perhaps we were born with our difference, maybe gave birth to or married it.  It might even be invisible or have appeared unexpectedly.  Speaking for the latter “side”, I confess to feeling tickled when I see someone who previously appeared unaffected, finding himself crossing the line to my side, finally having been touched by difference.

But I know also that nothing is that black and white.  We all know people who are open and embracing of other people’s differences, even if they have never known such differences themselves.  Having now known John’s family for almost two decades, I believe that their acceptance of me would have been complete given their inherent positive reaction and support from the start, even without Mat blazing a trail (though he probably helped).

From what I’ve learned, encountering the differences we’ve talked about is almost a certainty for every one of us.  Some will have to deal from birth, others will come to naturally accept the facts of life, and some, will be forced to confront their discomfort.  I frankly don’t care how someone gets here, in the camp of acceptance. But for those like me that walk this earth feeling judged simply for being who we are, we rejoice when they arrive. 

Postscript

When I shared this post by e-mail last week before publishing, in the spirit of the Zucker-humor tradition, Mat replied, “By the way, I voted for you because I liked your outfits.” But all kidding aside, he ended his note with something beautiful:  “After all, Meg.  The more we are accepting of people’s love, the more we can be accepting of more people we love.”  

Preface 

March 1980

I looked up at the clock….only fifteen more minutes until it was time to leave the Urbana Public Library.  Every Sunday afternoon after lunch, my dad took my two brothers and me to spend time reading at the town library.  The bribe to get us there each week was first a visit to McDonalds.  Although I readily accepted the quarter-pounder with fries, I didn’t actually need convincing to go to the library.  By age eleven I just loved books.  I was particularly drawn to strong female figures.  And so, on library Sundays I would read biographies about female historical role models, like Helen Keller, Eleanor Roosevelt and Amelia Earhart.  They were always the topics of my book reports. 

While I admired Roosevelt, and Earhart captivated me early on, with her fearless determination to become the first woman and second person to fly solo across the Atlantic, the woman I felt the closest affinity with was Helen Keller.  Unlike me, Helen Keller was not born with her physical challenges.  At 19 months old she contracted an illness that was later believed to be a form of scarlet fever or meningitis. The illness did not last long, but it left Helen deaf and blind.  When I began to read about her, I was simply in awe.  Despite her significant physical limitations, Helen Keller’s accomplishments were almost impossible to comprehend.  But Helen’s story would not be as amazing without her equally remarkable mentor, Anne Sullivan.  Not only did Sullivan help Keller figure out how to read and write, she transformed her from being the “hopeless wild child” to the strong woman that would ultimately become a successful author, political activist and lecturer.  Most importantly, Sullivan’s teachings went beyond helping Keller overcome her disabilities–she helped Helen Keller to realize that her mind and her beliefs were her most powerful asset. No one could take those away from her, unless she let them.

Later as an adult, Helen described Sullivan in this way: “By nature she was a conceiver, a trail-blazer, a pilgrim of life’s wholeness. So day by day, month after month, year in and year out, she labored to provide me with a diction and a voice.”

“Meg, Dad’s here, let’s get going.”  It was my older brother Peter, jolting me back to reality.  “I just want to check this one out—meet you all outside.”  As I stood on line waiting for my turn, I opened my book on Helen Keller, and read a quote from her.  I may have been too young to fully appreciate its meaning and personal relevance, but it stuck with me:  “I am only one, but still I am one.  I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.”

As I have been thinking more about the Kids Flaunt essays all due early next month, and last week’s notion that many kids without a blatant difference might be struggling to identify that which makes them unique, I couldn’t help but to think that even if I was born with all my fingers and toes intact, I would still walk this earth with another kind of challenge – the cultural “disability” of being a woman.

Lately there have been a lot of strong and powerful females making the headlines, one way or the other.  Of course there was Marissa Mayer, and her recent decision to not allow employees in her company (Yahoo) to work remotely.  Her announcement set off a wave of criticism with people fervently airing their opinions on both side of the debate.  There was also Danica Patrick, the pre-eminent female driver in IndyCar and a NASCAR Sprint Cup Pole winner.  Then there’s the power duo of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler who rocked the Golden Globes earlier this year and who, like Ellen DeGeneres, unwittingly serve as role models simply by making us laugh.

But the woman who has impacted me the most of late, is Sheryl Sandberg, the Chief Operating Officer of Facebook.  In Sandberg’s book, “Lean In: Women, Work and the Will to Lead,” she offered stories about what is holding women back in their careers and lives, and ways to address them.  I mostly was taken with her sharing her greatest career advice from former Google CEO, Eric Schmidt: “Sheryl, your biggest problem is that you are trying to please everyone all the time…..you don’t make change in the world; you don’t have impact in the world unless you are willing to say things that not everyone will like.”

With that advice to Sandberg in mind, I remembered a recent experience when I spoke on a panel at a professional webinar.  Later that evening after the telephone presentation, I received the results of a participant survey about my performance.  While the feedback was mainly positive, I got hung up on one person’s comment that (anonymously) read, “Meg tends to stammer and ramble a bit…and I disagreed with one of her comments….”  I was crushed, especially since I had heard positive feedback from the organizers right after the presentation.  How was it possible that I could have been perceived like this?  Wasn’t everyone pleased with my performance?   I couldn’t get past it.  I concluded that I had let the organizers down and actually sent an apology to them and the other people on the panel.  I just felt embarrassed.  In fact, from this one negative comment, I went from feeling confident in my abilities to feeling at least temporarily depressed.  In response to my apology, one of the senior organizers (a male), responded, “Meg: You didn’t stutter or ramble.  It was very good.  I find that some folks just like to be critical and even make things up. …”  He continued, “I was once even told on a conference evaluation that my hair was too long!”   That evening on my way home, I was thinking how much I wish I could be like the organizer – not allowing the opinions of others to so swiftly penetrate.

The irony is that I have spent years learning to “flaunt” and embrace my physical imperfections, and I make tremendous efforts to teach my children the same. Yet, somehow, as strong and proud as I have become on that front, it seems I haven’t transferred my flaunting technique beyond the physical, at least not consistently.  Instead, I find  that in my professional life I sometimes succumb too quickly to how I think other’s might view me.  It is no wonder that Sandberg was getting such great media coverage for her advice—it resonates deeply for so many of us.  In fact, if women truly listen and absorb her advice in their daily lives, Sheryl Sandberg could become our modern Sullivan, and this time impacting millions instead of only one.

But carrying out advice like Sandberg’s doesn’t happen overnight. And somehow, it feels familiar that Helen Keller’s initial reaction to life-altering tutelage was to kick and scream, rather than swiftly adjust.  But just as Helen Keller eventually learned to master her body, her language and the ability to speak her mind, so too women can and must get a grip on those fears and insecurities that hold us back and surmount them.  When we stop worrying what others will think of us, our success as women becomes not a miracle, but simply inevitable.

Born with ectrodactyly, leaving me with a single finger on each hand, shortened forearms and a single toe on each foot, and with two of my three children also born with the same condition, the thought of a child being bullied and harmed hits home.  Not that this type of cruelty has happened often, thankfully, to our family.  But I immediately recalled the day in 1^st grade when our oldest son, Ethan, was surrounded on the playground by five fourth graders who taunted him about his misshapen hands.  Little did they realize his feet were just as different.  The worst part was that he simply wanted to walk away from these mean kids but couldn’t.  He was surrounded and intimidated.  Fortunately, his best friend came and grabbed Ethan by the hand and loudly declared that the bell had just rung.  He then pushed our son through the wall of older boys to safety.  When we heard that afternoon what had happened, my husband, John, and I both felt numb; the pain of feeling that your child is being mistreated just for being himself, was excruciating.

Sitting on the commuter train that morning to Manhattan, tears began to stream steadily down my cheeks as I read the article from the morning news about Bailey O’Neill, an eleven-year-old boy from Pennsylvania who had just died.  Bailey’s father, Rob, said his only child was punched during a bullying incident at recess at school on January 10, 2013.  He said Bailey, a 6th grader, suffered a fractured nose, a concussion and seizures from the attack. Two weeks after the incident, he was placed in a medically induced coma.  Bailey’s parents wanted him to see his 12th birthday, but as hope of his recovery faded, they  took him off life support.  “Honestly, I just miss sitting with him on the couch,” said O’Neill, 39. “I won’t hear ‘Daddy’ anymore. That’s tough.”  During the interview, O’Neill said his son told him that one boy pushed him into another boy who punched him. His son didn’t want to fight, he said.  “He wanted to walk away and couldn’t,” he said. “If someone wants to walk away, let them walk away.”

The report turned to the valiant efforts of  Senator Bob Casey (D-PA) and  Senator Mark Kirk (R-IL) to pass the Safe Schools Improvement Act.  Said Casey, the bill, “will require school districts that receive federal funding to develop codes of conduct that specifically ban bullying and harassment.  This includes cyber-bullying and bullying based on a student’s actual or perceived race, color, national origin, sex, disability, sexual orientation, gender identity or religion. Putting an end to bullying will require a consistent message from adults, including lawmakers, that young people can make a real difference in their lives and the lives of others when they speak up about bullying and harassment.”

As I thought about the Act and its potential impact, I recalled a recent exchange in our car between Ethan and one of his friends.  “Ethan, are you going to play baseball this year?”  Although his younger brother Charlie, born with two fingers on each of his more-developed hands is now playing for the first time this season, Ethan had considered the challenges of using a glove and self-selected himself out of the sport.    “Nah, I think I will stick with tennis and basketball”, he replied.  I later learned that his friend felt badly for seeming insensitive on the baseball subject.   In reality, Ethan was unfazed by the conversation and never thought of it again.  In speaking with the boy’s mother, I expressed my appreciation for the fact that her son had simply forgotten about Ethan’s difference which is why he assumed baseball was an option.  I explained that I enjoy the same moment when friends casually suggest that I join them at the nail salon, forgetting that with only two fingers, it wouldn’t be much of a treat for me.    The fact is, when you are exposed to other people’s differences on a real and personal level, on a daily basis, they become the new normal for you.   The subject becomes a non-subject.  A challenge arises, however, because not everyone has the benefit of having their kids grow from a friendship that can teach about difference, without parental or governmental intervention.

That is why I began a “”Kids Flaunt” writing competition this Spring on my “Don’t Hide it, Flaunt it” site, with the theme, “The Things That Make Me Different, Make Me, Me.”  The winning essays to be published on my website.  Ethan and I have even kicked off the competition personally in some participating schools.  As interest grew in the competition, I was really pumped up, immediately assuming that all children could identify one aspect or trait about themselves that makes them unique.  They would all find something they could not only write about, but even celebrate.  But yesterday I heard something that makes me feel all the more strongly that this type of direct effort to engage our children is not only useful, but necessary if we are going to reach them in a way that develops their character.  It was from a parent whose child was participating in the Kids Flaunt writing competition.  “Meg, this is such a great idea, but it has been interesting.  There are many kids that are struggling with this, because they don’t consider themselves as even having a difference, challenged to figure out what to write about in the first place.”  From her comment I understood that most children equate difference with something negative.  Standing out for being different can have an unwelcome social cost and so having a difference is not something they wish to celebrate.   In its worst form, kids with an aversion to appearing different, and those intent on deflecting attention from their differences, can actually be the bullies.  They mete out the punishment to anyone deviating from their comfort zone and the general norm.  So what is to be done?

For one thing, I am hoping that the Safe Schools Improvement Act will inspire practical engagement with children, helping them to embrace their differences, and perhaps even learn from, rather than harming one another.  But there is so much more to do on a personal level.  Last week, Ethan came home and showed me his own Kids Flaunt essay submission.

Here was Ethan’s last paragraph of his essay.

“My mom has a saying that I think is very important: “The Things That Make Me Different Are the Things That Make Me Me.” That phrase means that differences contribute a lot to who you are. You must learn to overcome the obstacles that your difference may have brought with it. Everybody has some kind of difference—even if I can’t see it on other people like they can see it on me. Even those kids behind the tree that bullied me for having one finger that day in 1st grade must have had some sort of difference. I just could not see it. In my case, I may have had to learn early on about how to accept myself because of my difference, but even if some believe it has been the “hard way,” I think it will be ultimately the best way.”

While I am personally grateful for Casey and Kirk’s efforts and will rejoice if the Act is passed, the reality is that even if a school has the right policy, edict or code of conduct, success will not come from the wave of a banner in a school hallway.  It’s not about what children are told they should not do.   It’s about having them feel that difference is a relatable subject, and that although most kids are not the victims of a bully or even the bully themselves, they are the bystanders that don’t believe it could ever happen to them, as long as they fit in.