There’s something about moving into a new living space that inspires me to take inventory of my worldly possessions and have an honest conversation with myself about whether I really need to hold on to the t-shirts from band camp or plastic storage containers permanently tomato soup-stained. There’s also something about growing older that has me giving hard looks at what I’ve done with the gift of time, and what detritus taking up valuable real estate between my ears should be evicted. On the eve of birthday 52 as I spent the morning organizing and cleaning, I came across my fifth-grade school picture. A source of embarrassment to me for many years, it’s now one of my favorite pictures of myself and it reminds me of the person I was and the person I’ve returned to being after a 40-year absence.
Fifth-grade school picture Sam was living her best life. She was wearing her fashion-forward golf shirt with a fancy fox logo, her mama had forced her curls into submission that morning, she was fresh from recess where she’d spent 20 minutes playing kickball, and waiting in her Snoopy lunchbox was a Little Debbie Swiss Roll snack cake. Don’t even try to tell me anyone was having a better day than that! But at some point between that glorious day and the day picture proofs were sent home, I developed a self-awareness that allowed me to see what I never had before: a thick, freckle-faced, hopelessly awkward kid that had no business being so audacious. I couldn’t wait for a new school year to bring a new photo opportunity so that picture could take its place in an album stored in the back of a cabinet.
The last year of elementary school for me was the first year of many that I worried I was not enough or that I was too much, that I had the right clothes, hairstyle, personality. Was people’s reaction to me more “who does she think she is?” or “who in the world is that, anyway?” For decades I didn’t eat when I was hungry, I didn’t speak when I had something to say, and I worked endlessly to look as though life was effortless. Constantly looking at one’s self through the eyes of others can wear a person out!
Growing older has been miraculous. As my hair has started to gray a bit, and the laugh lines remain even when I’m not laughing, I’ve found myself not caring who likes my shoes or if people think my hobbies are strange. I don’t act like I enjoy certain music, food, movies, or people for fear of judgement. The more I’ve felt I have nothing to prove or earn, the more people enter or remain in my life who would never need me to prove my worth or earn their acceptance. The diverse people who are so dear to my almost 52-year-old self are my kind of weird, and in their presence, I thrive. My friend of 35 years recently shared her love of the book Subpar Parks, which is a collection of reviews that visitors to national parks left to express their utter disappointment in the experience. Of Yellowstone National Park, for example, one unimpressed guest wrote “I’ve seen better.” My friend said that she purchased Subpar Parks as a kind of talisman to remind her that something can be a breathtaking, perfect creation and someone somewhere will likely still find fault. For my 52nd birthday, she gifted me with my own Subpar Parks and I hope it will protect me from moments of weakness when I feel I need to try harder to be acceptable to people whose opinions ultimately should not matter.
In 30 years of working with young people, it makes my heart gladdest when I see the ones who refuse to deny their individuality or question their innate awesomeness just because it doesn’t look like everyone else’s. To endure youth with that spark unextinguished is the greatest accomplishment. In honor of those fellow odd birds, I believe I might just celebrate my birthday tomorrow with an exuberant game of kickball and a celebratory Little Debbie Swiss Roll cake!
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