BEHIND A FACE

The tragedy this past week in Virginia Tech uncovered a vault of my own dormant emotions, driving me to consider “what if?” Beyond death, injury and mayhem, the despair I saw in the young man’s eyes reflected what had once been in mine. It kindled a need to understand, driving me to revisit a past I’ve refused to acknowledge.
My search landed me in my fifth grade, when my happy school experience turned into a brush with hell that lasted until I left the community. For days I pondered this year, trying to pinpoint the catalyst that started me on such a course, but no single incident stands out. Three realities, however, are fallow ground.
To describe my appearance as unique is an understatement. Being clinically blind, I needed glasses, but not the ones I was forced to wear that looked like pop bottle bottoms wired together. But their oddity matched my ringlets that went out of style years earlier. On top of such a fashion statement, my teacher didn’t like me much. Cliché, I know, but true. Without a cause, ten year-olds do not lose control of their bladder because they’re terrified of a teacher.
At home I was Cinderella without her looks. Being told I was stupid, and wouldn’t amount to a thing came close to being a daily ritual. I started believing it, and set the law of rejection breeds rejection into motion, thus thrusting me into a world of torment. A world where classmates taunted me, called me names that even today make my throat ache. A world with no escape because home hurt as much as school.
I swung from trying to prove I was acceptable to resigning myself to being the lowest of the lowest. Night after night I knelt by my bed, crying, begging God to help me not hurt so much, and to make my classmates stop. Begging Him to help me be someone my parents could love.
I felt deserted and betrayed by everyone, so anger became a faithful friend. I was sure even God turned his back on me, because nothing changed. I contemplated death. Not the death of my perpetrators, but my own, because it wasn’t their fault I was what I was, but mine.
Now, when I see children cowering in corners, scared to participate in the activity going on around them, my heart breaks. I feel their sadness, and if I can, I hold them, cry with them, and tell them as often as possible, you are special. You are good, and you can accomplish whatever you choose.
I think of the young man on the news again and my throat swells. His desperation, his anger at being ostracized is so familiar, but the hatred that drove him to such lengths, I struggle to fathom. My despair sent me to my knees, begging God for help, and running away when I thought he didn’t care. But over the years, He brought people into my life who rubbed salve into those old wounds until they healed. He taught me how to forgive and trust. To love and be loved.
For that young man, I wonder where it all went wrong. If his pain was so much deeper than mine. Or if God hadn’t heard me when I was sure He hadn’t, would I be here now, wondering why I am? Wondering what is the dividing line between contemplating your own demise and planning, then carrying out a massacre. Wondering if this young man and all his victims would still be here if someone had taken the time to show him God loves you, and so do I.