Do I make myself smaller or embrace the discomfort?

Our culture tells girls to make themselves smaller. It tells us to be less confrontational than men, to be less opinionated, and to be less intelligent. Otherwise, we are seen as too bitchy, unlikable, too much in general. It tells us this from before we can speak. We do not realize we are learning this lesson, but we all learn it.

As a child, I watched my father control my family. He controlled the food, the finances, he controlled my mother and both of my brothers. He had the final say in all things. He was bold, he was loud and he was large. My mother tells me a story about this one time when I was about two feet tall, when I was barely old enough for talking. She doesn't remember what prompted this, but she tells me that I lifted my tiny body up on the arm of the couch to make myself as big as possible before sticking my tongue out at my dad in protest.  I do not know why, but even at that age, I was fierce. 

When I was 15 years old, I ran away from home. I was still in high school. And after I left my parent's home, I went from being on academic probation to being on the honor role. I was awarded the "Most improved student" award.  

I have always been strong. I have always been independent. I have always been bold. 

And sometimes it does not serve me well. I disagree. I cite sources. I question old wives tales and unexplained beliefs. I push. I admit when I am wrong. I actually enjoy being proven wrong. But in general, still, I am often much too much. 

Now I wonder, do I embrace who I am, or do I decrease it? 

A poem about being an education assistant

This is a place with hallways and desks, classrooms, chalkboards and pens. This is a place with "sit at your desk" and reading and writing and math. Addition, subtraction, multiplication, integers and graphs. Division.

His is a world with the number one, two, and one more. Anything larger than two and one more is an outstretched hand with fingers, or arms open wide for the most, the very biggest, the whole world.

This is a place where recess and lunch are annouced by bells that interrupt a train of thought: the puzzle, the game, the inside joke as we giggle. This is a world with "five minute warning", time to start, time to stop. Timers and schedules. "Don't run in the halls".

This is a place with 300+ students. They sit at their desks and run on the grounds. They line up, they gather, they play.

This is a place with unstructured play where the rules of the game can change unannounced. One child, two children, one more. The whole world. Each has their own plan with the blocks. Up the tower goes. There is joy in being together. And down the tower crashes. The joy can crash down too. This is a place where it's "hands to yourself", "five finger breathing", "let's check your visual schedule" and "listen for the timer!"

This is a place where we read books and do puzzles, color and cut. We swing and we slide and we dance. This is a place where we sing with our hands, gestures and signs, a voice without words. This is a place with big smiles and joy.

This is a place with friends. Friends to share a secret mission, running, holding hands and laughing all the way across the field to search and dig and play.

This is a place where friends want to understand. The best friends ask questions: tap this hand for chocolate, this hand for vanilla. The answer is always chocolate. This is a place where they ask anyways. This is a place where friends understand "one more" and affirm, "yes, one more minute."

This is a place with balance beams, pocket swings, fine motor tasks and "let's ride the bike." This is a place where we rally together. This is a place where we laugh all day long. And this is a place we belong.

An open letter to the little boy

Dear Little Boy ,

You are with your parents in a coffee shop on a beautiful sunny day and you spill your drink. It splashes onto the table and onto your body, then slowly dribbles down onto the floor. I don't know how old you are, but you are small enough that your feet dangle freely from your chair. Your parents are angry. 

"I told you to sit still! I told you! You should have sat still!"

"I can't believe this. It's all over you. This is why we told you to sit still."

"Well? Are you going to clean him up, or what?"

"Look at this. It's all over your arms. Come here. I told you to sit still." 

I watched as you tried to defend yourself. 

"I was just..."

"I didn't mean to..." 

"I didn't..."

Each time you try to defend yourself, your parents silence you. I watch as you stop pleading your defense, and we both watch helplessly as your parents angrily clean up your spilled drink. There voices are loud. It is clear to everyone in the room that you had been careless and your parents are angry, ashamed, embarrassed for this mistake. They clean you and the floor with forceful wipes of the cloth, berating you as they do.

I want to make eye contact with you, to tell you with my eyes that it is okay. Everyone makes mistakes. But you are looking at your shoes, certain that the whole world feels the way your parents do. 

I want to tell your parents that it's okay too. That everyone makes mistakes. That little boys (and girls) can't always sit still. I want to tell them that adults make mistakes too. 

I want to tell them what their child is learning while staring at his shoes. 

• He is learning that mistakes are tragedies to be avoided at all cost. 
• He is learning to feel shamed. 
• He is learning that he is bad. 
• He is learning that he is alone. 

Accidents happen. Everyone makes mistakes. 

In a world where I am a braver and better person, I would have liked to come up to you, little guy. And tell you you don't need to stare at your shoes. I would smile at you. 

"Opps. Looks like an accident happened. Do you want to help me clean it up?" 

I'd hand you a cloth and I would help you wipe up the drink. I'd ask you about your day. And then I'd remind you, and your parents that everyone makes mistakes. Even adults. The world needs more compassion. It didn't have to be like this. 

You see little guy, I believe that the grown ups around you are here to teach you, and that you learn best when you are given the opportunity to learn from your mistakes and to solve problems. Your parents could have handed you the cloth the way I wanted to. They could have talked about how Mom asked you to sit still because she was really afraid of your drink spilling. You might then have agreed with her, and understood the consequences better next time. 

But you didn't learn that today. You learned that you are bad and that the whole world is against you. But I need to tell you that it's not, little buddy.  

I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough to stand up for you in Starbucks. But if I'm lucky, someone will read this and it will help them learn how to help the next time.