How does one write about one’s most embarrassing moment? The thing you did that you bury deep, hide, don’t even tell yourself because you can’t believe you ever did it? Today while writing in my morning journal, I felt sadness in my chest, buried deep there, hidden. But it was asking to be felt.
What are you? I asked.
I am sadness that you allowed me to do something that was demeaning—that teachers, parents, and coaches, didn’t say, “No, this isn’t an appropriate role for you.”
As a sophomore at a prep school in New England, I was required to participate in a spring sport. To fulfill this requirement, it was also possible to volunteer as a water girl for the boys’ varsity lacrosse team. A friend of mine and I signed up thinking we had beat the system—we didn’t have to exercise and we could watch cute boys play lacrosse. All we had to do was take ice bags to practice and run water out during timeouts and half time. Sometimes I even had the job of tabulating shots on goals, completed passes and other game statistics—but usually I was in charge of making certain the water bottles were kept full.
In retrospect, I was much like our lab. Buddy sits every morning beside the breakfast table and waits. He watches as we eat our toast. Each bite, each gesture, from plate to mouth, mouth to plate. He keeps his own statistics. I am certain he knows better than I how many times a piece of toast journeys from plate to lips—until that last moment, the moment he waits for all morning—when one of us, possibly tosses him the last bit of crust. Sometimes he gets it because it’s burned or because he sat patiently. And he gobbles it up in one snap, his jaws like a crocodile—far more powerful and hungry than a tiny piece of toast crust warrants. But there are other times when lost in thought, I forget and eat the last bit of toast and only later notice the dog who has a stunned, hurt look on his face, “Wow, you ate it all and forgot me. Bummer.”
This was who I was at 16. I waited, on the sidelines, on the bus traveling to away games. I waited for a smile—a look of acknowledgement from a cute senior boy—as if somehow his smile meant I was worthy. I waited in the trainer’s room, where athletes soaked injuries and got body rubs while I filled ice bags in case someone got hurt. I was invisible in the trainer’s room. The boys walked around in towels, talked dirty to each other. They laughed about some girl’s tits, another girl’s ass. I shrank deeper into myself, eyes down, get the plastic bags, go to the icemaker, find the scooper, fill bags with ice, tie each off. And then I would walk to the playing field carrying jugs of water and bags of ice as varsity athletes ran past me. No one offered to help.
Some days, I’d walk back to my dorm, “He smiled at me,” I’d say to myself. “He smiled at me.” Other days I’d walk more quietly. “Wow, I carried all that water and ice, kept track of all the statistics and no one said thank you. No one saw me. Bummer.”
Today in my home, we have a new toaster oven. It toasts bread on both sides. We don’t really remember when the last toaster oven started to give out. We limped along as a family with it barely working for—oh we debated it last night—some say it was weeks, others say months and then there’s one family member who insists it’s been years since the toaster oven worked properly.
How long do we go accepting something that’s broken? A toaster oven? A way of treating some people as les than? We get used to it. We compensate and we don’t even know we are. The problem becomes invisible by our habitual action. We cope until finally the toaster is truly only toasting one side of bread and not doing that well.
And only when we correct it, do we see. We were only toasting one side of a slice of bread for years. Now we all stand and marvel at the toaster– all of us watching– it’s remarkable, to put bread in, turn the knob and have it come out evenly toasted on both sides.
What would happen? What would happen, if I said, “I will no longer beg for toast crumbs. I am already delicious and I will continue to seek warmth and energy, hoping to transform, to fulfill my own dreams and inner longings.”
The family member who knew it had been years since the toaster over worked properly was the dog.
So where do I go from here? I tell myself, “I am sorry. I am sorry I didn’t value you enough to say, “Serve yourself water girl. Serve yourself.””